Tag Archives: baltimore

Spring: what’s with it

Give me 2 days of sunlight here in typically crappy New England, and I feel like I am on a meth bender. I am the greatest! Look at me run up and down the stairs! Sex sex sex! Oh wait, no, birds, pie! I bought an Umbrellas of Cherbourg-style trenchcoat and a chrome multi-drawer under-sink organizer! Look at that dog; see that dog?

About that dog. I saw some dogs! My favorite had to be the celebrity terrier. People on the street holler “Is that Goblin? Hi, hi, Goblin!” Goblin does not say hi. She lets her entourage handle the little people.

Many thanks to David and Rob for allowing me to stay at their lovely home. A pile of straw in the yard would have sufficed since I am barnfolk, but no, I was allowed in. Safe from Balto-zombie attacks and the chilling laughter of children. Don’t worry, I also give thanks via letterpressed notes. It’s what God and Miss Manners want.

Southwest Airlines: I did not know they were a “funny” airline before I flew. Cripes. By the time the air hostesses started singing, I was contemplating throwing myself out window. Also, they have no assigned seating. Passengers are divided into groups A, B, and C, and the A group is allowed to storm the seats first and hog the overhead bins. I was an Alpha both times by virtue of genetic superiority and a fabulous new hair cut, so I was able to pick the most avoidant seat (exit row). The Betas shuffled and muttered “I’m glad I’m not an Alpha, so much pressure.” The air hostess made a packet of peanuts race a packet of pretzels down the aisle during takeoff, and the Epsilons were truly concerned with the outcome of this contest. Pretzels won. Don’t lie, you were emotionally invested just reading this.

To celebrate my return home, we were supposed to watch a bunch of Japanese zombie movies, but Heather and I crossed our wires. So Mr. H and I went to the packy*, because we are in love, and that’s what people in love do. It was 10:45 at night, and the nearest packy closed early! So we went across the street to the next nearest packy. Also closed! So we went down a whole block to the next one, and encountered a loud woman with mall bangs slurring “Didja ever try this beef jerky? I swear, it’s the answer to yah prayahs!” She fell into a display of Tooters test tube shots on her way out. God wanted this.

*When I first moved to Boston, I thought that was a reference to a Pakistani person. It means liquor store. Who knew?

Mornin’ sunshine

Sometimes the paparazzi has a crappy week at work, and you are not wearing pants or makeup, but you say “Hey honey, I’ll hold still, and I promise not to make faces.” This means something else in other relationships. In my particular situation, it means I remain patient for twenty minutes with a flash going off in my face, or not, or maybe we change lenses. Damn people with hobbies and interests, using them as an outlet to relieve stress. That’s not how it’s done! The proper response to stress is to pull a blanket up over one’s head, or lie on the floor, kicking one’s feet in the air like a dying bug.

There are other photos where you can sort of see down my shirt, but I am saving those for when I start internet dating.

I am just kidding, I do not date the internet. I’ve also decided not to drown Mr. H after all. I guess I could have saved myself the cost of plane tickets, as I was planning to drown him in Spain since I’ve never met an elaborate scheme I didn’t like. If it involves passports, all the better. Lambchop asked me for advice the other day, and I came up with a complicated lie that may have necessitated phony blood samples and defrauding the federal government. And me impersonating a doctor. Sensible girl that she is, she opted for the truth. The truth is a coy mistress, or something. I don’t have time for the truth, or makeup, because I am on-the-go, or not getting out of bed before noon on a weekend, or most days, for that matter.

No, I am not such a creature of leisure. I really am on the go. I’m going to Baltimore again for an emergency trash-picking summit, and then I’m not drowning Mr. H in Spain. Does anyone want to watch the cat for me? I need some damn me time, with chilled golden spoons over my eyes.

Just-so story: file under famous, international

I’m back in greater Massachusetts. I saw a lot of dogs in Baltimore. That was great! I love dogs. Every other block, one could say “Look at that dog,” and mean it.

I was not discovered on the shuttle. I can’t understand why not, after all that special treatment in Baltimore, such as the car service being on time. Way to get a girl’s hopes up. It’s just as well, because my hair was a mess.

I am tired of worrying about all the usual things I worry about. This is mindblowing. I no longer make a daily “Or Else” list. If the laundry needs doing, I, you know, do it. If I feel like meeting someone for lunch, it just happens. I’ve also discovered that I don’t suffer from social anxiety. I just don’t like most people. I’m not crazy; I’m stuck-up. What a damn load off.

Saddled by cilantro

Well, holy damn. I am still in damn Baltimore. We are officially Pre-Famous! There are a lot of perks that seem to go along with Pre-Fame. Men on the street hoot and compliment our bottoms, and the person making our coffee drink asks if we want whipped cream. Can you imagine? I put the “Privacy Please” sign on like a pasha.

Despite all these positive developments, I’ve developed a rash. I hope this is not related to fame, as it is rather uncomfortable. Some have posited that I am allergic to Baltimore itself. Or maybe I am allergic to crab. There seems to be ground-up crab in every dish in every restaurant. The other night we ate at the restaurant in the hotel, and the menu contained descriptions like “entwined with pasta” and “atop a puddle of…” and “carefully spiced.” I can’t stop thinking things like “beleagured by a balsamic reduction” or “hampered by roasted asparagus.” When I get a funny in my head, I will be thinking of it for days. Help me.

We took breaks from our scrivening to glance at a sporting event taking place in the television. I am not sure who won, but there was a charming advertising interlude featuring monkeys. If I worked at a company staffed entirely by actual apes, I would never, ever leave.

Futurist, evangelist, chocolate muffin

Dogs and babies, damn. Always this. I am in Baltimore, and as I walked from my hotel to my sister’s house in Quaintsville, a dog barked at me out of the window of a car. ‘Hi dog,” I said. The barks echoed off some overly modern architecture, and the dog barked even more at the bark blowback. The light changed, and the dog was still barking as the car drove away. “Bye dog.” I always do full pleasantries with dogs. They are so much better than people and other things. I was drinking an iced mocha even though it is somewhat cold out. Sometimes I don’t feel like hot coffee. I do what I feel.

We are ostensibly working on faming, but so far we have been interrupted by a balloon delivery and some art school lesbians. Fame is hard. Fame is a grind. Fame is arm wrestling and wine spectating. Fame is a size 8, the gentleman’s C of dress sizes. It did not even occur to me that our book was so sad. People know someone who know someone who knows Steve Buscemi. Skulk, creep. LOUNGE. Did I mention it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland here?