This morning Mr. H and I signed the lease to our new place. Our very nice landlord, who looks like Moby, handed over the keys even before the check cleared. Now that’s small town livin’.
The place looks like this:
We have the second floor. The turret room is for the cat, or visiting crazy relatives. I could go on and on, but the kitchen is uncarpeted, and that’s good enough for me. Party invites to go out as soon as we rescue our stuff from storage!
-xxoo
Last night I went to the towniest bar on the entire planet with my sister-in-law. We watched a cover band, and overweight women throwing bras. I can’t even make this funny. I get uncomfortable around people with bad hair.
We’ve given the heave-ho to the evil, deceitful apartment people. They are refunding our money, but hemming and hawing about reimbursing us for the storage fee for our crap for the month we stupidly waited. I am thinking of calling the local paper and asking for the Bone To Pick Department. Now it’s off to look at ten or twenty apartments this afternoon. I am totally opening all the medicine cabinets and checking for water pressure.
Oh, confidential to Mr. Baby’s parental units: I am sure you get lots of parenting advice, and maybe you’ve already done this, but don’t you think it’s time to photograph him in a roasting pan or a soup tureen? I mean before he gets too big. I can’t tell you how often I fondly look back on my “kitten in the microwave” series and wish I’d thought to pose her in the toaster oven too. Now she’s just plain huge.
-xxoo
Now I bring you garish tidings of the Valentine’s Day candy retailing season. Vomitola loves you.
In other news, the Golden Globes were on last night! I think some people won some stuff. I was too busy eating my weight in cheese fries at the Outback, like a good American. Or as Mr. H said, “a good Australian.” Lambchop obviously didn’t catch the awards fever either, she was watching Das Boot and brandishing a trident. In the two seconds that I did see, Sofia Coppola accepted an award wearing flat shoes. Kudos.
I hope Nicole Kidman did not win anything for that wretched Cold Mountain. Mr. H has taken to mortifying me in public by repeating that clip where she says “I marry you, I marry you, I marry you,” replete with bad falsetto southern accent. He doesn’t understand why they keep showing that particular clip.
His take: “Is this movie about a retarded hot chick? Jude Law is thinking ‘This hot chick is retarded! I am going to score!'”
I guess it’s no more annoying than when the DeBeers ads are on around the holidays and he feels the need to hoot “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!” in parking lots.
-xxoo
Never you mind my earlier ramblings! I’ve gained purchase, a new lease on life. After my nightly Nyquil swig that allows me to breathe, I looked up cough syrup addiction because Crazy John told me that teens the world over guzzle tussin because the active ingredient causes hallucinations. I found all sorts of vile cocktail recipes involving tussin. Most of those were up there with the “Listo [Listerine] and OJ” and “Listo and Pepsi” favored by some of the homeless population. Apparently you have to drink a good six ounces, so I think I don’t have to worry.
Then I found this paean to tussin addiction, set way back in 1997. A proto blog. It involves goths, Charlottesville, VA, and the charming effect of hyperlinking every other word. Why, there’s even a glossary! This site should be laminated. Even the links are poetic: “Amy-“Gothic Amy”; we slept together once.” And there’s a photo gallery. Ah, the internet, fresh with dew.
-xxoo
I thought it was Wednesday, I had to check! Being a woman of leisure is not all it’s cracked up to be. First, I haven’t encountered any actual leisure yet. Instead, I’m mired somewhere else entirely. Oh right, Dracut, Massachusetts. I keep telling myself it would be better if a) I weren’t working on a million piddly, stressful freelance jobs, and b) I weren’t living out of suitcases (more like off piles on the floor), and c) I weren’t still secreting ghee in my lungs. Also, since I “work at home,” everyone assumes I am doing nothing all day. So I scrabble around and prepare dinner for four, like a proper hausfrau. My revenge? Lots of roughage. My poor victims run from the table, groaning, filled to the gills with brown rice and broccoli.
Also, I now know that I definitely couldn’t stay home with a baby, although I suppose a baby would be more interactive than the cat. Even the cat is depressed; she deposits herself in the chair closest to the radiator and lolls there all day, not moving a muscle, not even for mousie.
So my question is: at what point do I give up and take off for the Mexican Riviera? Do advise.
-xxoo
This is just to say…I would like to be done coughing, I would like it if my clothes were not housed in trash bags on the floor, and I am a big fan of the serial comma. David rightly spits upon the AP.
Pop Culture round up: certain readers found The Story of Nicholas inappropriate fodder for MLK day. No offense was intended to Dr. King’s legacy, and I thought the story spoke for itself. I guess just wait until February; we’ll surely have a treatise on how all Black people look alike for Black History Month.
John Kerry, huh. I love it when the media gets things all wrong.
American Idol is starting again. Paula Abdul’s eyes seem to be migrating to opposite sides of her face. The effect made me yell out “Oh my God, she’s wearing a Halle Berry mask!”
The Apprentice is a good show if you’ve ever worked with marketing goons who are into “teambuilding.” I believe it is on Wednesday nights. I totally fire people the same way as Donald Trump. “This has been a really hard decision…no it hasn’t, you’re fired!”
-xxoo
It is a terrible story. The Story of Nicholas. (as told by Mr. H and his parents)
Mother: One day the boys came home, and they asked if their friend Nicholas could come over and play. I said “who the hell is Nicholas?”
Mr. H: So we pointed out the window, at the kid in the yard.
Mother: I said “Isn’t that Johnny? His name is Johnny. Why are you calling him Nicholas?”
Mr. H: We said “we don’t know.”
Mother: Then I realized– and I said “Don’t call him that anymore, his name is Johnny, call him that.”
Me: I don’t get it.
Mother: He was the only black kid in Acton!
Father: sotto voce, in loud restaurant: Nigga lips!
Me: Oh my God.
Mr. H: I wondered why I’d say “Hi Nicholas!” and he’d hit me!
Me: *snorted Chardonnay out of my nose*
Mr. H: The big kids used to tell the little kids to call him that, and we thought they were saying Nicholas.
Poor Johnny.
-xxoo
Brain sandwiches still on some menus, via Salon.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
As you can see from the image above (not the sandwich, the other one!), I have Inner Beauty, oh yes I do. But I’ve also been having a wicked case of the Mondays, and I realized last night that this is directly correlated to how long I’ve been neglecting to apply makeup! Sure, there were other traumatic events, like a half-assed moving/living situation, illness, and job loss. But honestly, it all comes down to the upward curl of my lashes, the highlight on my brow bone. I was a fool to think I had no one to impress, because in doing so I’ve failed to impress myself.
So let this serve as a warning: spackle ye cheekbones while ye may. Go get a haircut, and a real job, lest you find yourself planted on the couch wearing sweats for the next 8 months, drooling as Dr. Phil chastises you for eating the Kraft Dinner cheese packets right out of the box.
-xxoo
A flash of peripheral motion caught my eye out the window, and I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk on the ground, bending and bobbing over something. Then it swooped off, clutching the limp dangling body of a squirrel. Stupid squirrel, of course you’re going to show up against white snow. Duh. My mother used to dress my sister and I in bright colors, to avoid hunters, she said, but maybe she was trying to attract hawks.
I owe this nature hour to the backyard of Mr. H’s parents’ house, where we’re still bunking. The evil building management people say our new place will be open for business on February 1, and that the holdup is the state elevator inspection people. I wonder if they have heard the phrase “cross my palm with silver.” It seems to be indicated. I have also heard of a person called a “permit expediter.” Apparently they hand out $100 bills all day at City Hall. Maybe this doesn’t work with a state agency, although I don’t see why it wouldn’t.
Some alert and concerned readers have asked if Lambchop and I are both stark, raving mad. I would have to say we’ve both seen better days, but in many ways no more so than usual. She handles the mania, and I am in charge of ennui. You see, we are a team! We both might fancy a trip to someplace warm, involving umbrella drinks!
-xxoo
Since my lifeforce got sapped by showing up every day to a dying husk of an office to do nothing, I’ve been a bit weary. Yesterday I had a pitched 30 minute battle with myself re: whether or not I should get up to use the bathroom.
I had to get a second opinion. The person I tapped felt that I *should* definitely get up and go. He or she was scandalized to envision any sort of elimination outside of tiled surroundings. Still, I wasn’t convinced.
I started to wonder “If I sit here long enough, will I just go ahead and go, or will my bladder explode? Does toilet-training override basic biological need?” Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, maybe to go to the subway, I also think about what would happen if I just stopped moving. I’d never get home. I might eventually freeze on the street, like some sort of mythological unfortunate. What does it feel like when you just can’t push yourself any farther? How do you know when you’re licked?
Epilogue: Did I go to the bathroom? I’m not saying. Just don’t check the plants in the corner.
-xxoo