You’ll forgive me for not posting yesterday. I caught ennui from a communal footbath. It was terrible!
Even though someone warned me that a killer tsunami (as opposed to a friendly, helpful tsunami) is supposed to cripple any land mass touching the Atlantic today, I still managed to get a pedicure. I chose a shade called “Tacky Whore.”
Ethicist, will this color make my parasite retarded? I know talking to the pedicure lady for an hour almost obliterated my few remaining brain cells. When she left the room to let my feets marinate in a brimming pool of pathogens, I read US Weekly and felt an immediate IQ boost. She was not my regular lady, let’s just say. And there is but a short list of ladies I can stand anyway, so this was decidedly non-ideal. This is a problem that could only happen to me, or possibly someone from “My Super Sweet 16.”
Then I had to take my gaudy trick-turning toes into the waiting room, and the local biddies grilled me about my house I don’t live in. Word gets around. I’m over the house, see. I didn’t like it that much anyway. But the way that unscrupulous snake dealer nearly thwarted my grand entrance and forced me to find a replacement snake at short notice? That was too damn much.
Let’s say that there is a lady who runs out of checks. She is a beautiful and kind lady. She has very healthy teeth. Full disclosure: she could use a pedicure. Anyway, this lady says “Hmm, I am out of checks. Although most of my bills are paid electronically, this could pose a problem.” She calls the check ordering company. They assure her that her checks will be there in a few days. They are not. So she calls back and complains. They blame DHL. DHL has never heard of these checks. So the lady waits a few more days, and then the lady has to pay her fucking federal taxes and quarterly taxes with money orders, like poor people. The lady waited til the last possible minute to get the cursed money orders, hoping against hope that DHL would come through. The lady comes home from mailing the money orders (which cost $3 each because she does not have a GOLD account). “Look,” says the friendly three-legged dog. There is a package from DHL! On the steps!
In other news, the teller at the bank thinks the parasite will be HUGE. The dry cleaning lady thinks the parasite will be TINY. Either I am a compulsive overreater, or I am starving the parasite. I can’t be sure. I should have gotten a third opinion from the grocery checker, but she was too busy drawing me in to a conversation on whether or not that was Eva Longoria on the cover of Scientific American. I asserted that it was. Because it was, and it also said “Eva Longoria” under the picture. She felt that Eva normally does not wear so much eye makeup, nor does she traffic in straightened hair. The bagger finally convinced her, and she mentioned that we could all change our looks so frequently if we had as much money as Eva. Damn the system. Some of us are just stuck being ugly.
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.
I went to Russian Dentist this morning. He is a rare delight beyond comprehension. He changed the poster on the ceiling above the chair to a print of Dali’s “Atmospheric Skull Sodomizing a Grand Piano.”
So we listened to opera, and he half-heartedly tinked away at my teeth with a scaler, muttering that my teeth are too good for his business. Yes, my teeth are exquisite. I can’t help it. Don’t be jealous.
He said that people must eat only fresh vegetables and spend more time listening to beautiful music and looking at beautiful things. “Go, go to museum of art!” He said looking at ugly things is a terrible idea, and one will have mean, ugly children if one does this. At last, I said, medical advice to divest myself of all my unattractive friends.
And then I thought about it, and I realized I actually don’t have any of those. Prevention is the best medicine! We laughed and laughed together, and then he commanded “You spit now!” When in Minsk.
I am going to an event sponsored by my college alumni association. I can’t believe I just typed that. I have the networking fever. They are going to be so disappointed when I show up in my bathrobe. But that’s what all people wear to work, right? Right!
I am wearing socks and a giant t-shirt today. But gee, my hair looks terrific. My beloved stylist fixed it yesterday, and together we cursed local stylist to the four winds. OMG post pics. Who, me? Stop talking to yourself. Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself.
Hey lipsmackers, I am on a spree. I wrote a really snotty email to Banana Republic the other day about their half-assed use of CSS in their redesign, and they wrote back personally and thanked me for finding something they hadn’t tested. Dawww you guys! Hire me, and I will tell you how to fix it too. Until then, I remain a crank on the internet.
I have another nasty letter out to UrbanBaby.com for not replying with their daily newsletter ad rates for one of my clients. Oh, you feel left out? You want a nasty letter too? Consider this entire website that nasty letter.
The next poison missive from the desk of Oh No You Di’n’t goes to: my hair stylist. Oh, sweet Boston stylist, I never should have left you. I am going back to you next week, if you will have me, for I just received the worst possible hair cut. I do not think I have had a hair cut this bad since my sainted mother strapped me into the swing set and stuck a bowl on my head. This one is close, in that it stops abruptly under my ears while continuing to drape down my back. Yet it blossoms forth in such a way that my head looks like a triangle screwed onto my shoulders. I am not sure how my now ex-stylist did this, because she barely removed any hair. I just shuddered and gaped, and she said “You’re going to make me cry,” and I said “Likewise!” I am not sure how these things happen, but they should not happen to me.
Oh, it’s been like three weeks. I am OVER that hurricane! What hurricane? Exactly.
Internet, I cannot provide you with the filth I had planned to smear today.
A new baby is here, innocent and, well, a little fat. He could stand to lose a few ounces. Never too early to watch the figure.
Please welcome Declan Patrick*, delivered this morning by an Italian Oompa Loompa. His mother and father are resting after a long night (time actually extends like pulled taffy when one is in a hospital). We laughed, we cried, we hurled. I feel like I just stepped off a long haul flight, and I didn’t even have to do any birthing!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zombie my way into the shower and then attend a wedding. Maybe I can work in a funeral too.
*David, you are exempt from even thinking about children, although your song was the hit of the maternity ward.
Picture Renee Zellweger making a face as if she were smelling something really pungent and terrible.
I’m taking a break from packing, my face blackened and smeared from newsprint. I make a great guttersnipe. In other fashion news, I accidentally dyed my hair burgandy. Does “Brazillian Bronze” sound like burgandy to you? Me neither. The picture on the box looked frigging chocolate brown to me. This is my karmic reward for taking matters into my own hands. I thought I’d save a few bucks (now that I’m unemployed in the future) and cover my sadly grown out highlights. I just never expected to turn into Shannen Doherty! I know this is a highly prized color amongst filing secretaries and teenage girls, but it’s just not right for me. So back I shall slink to my colorist. She will twit me mercilessly and leave me under the dryer a bit longer than necessary. Spiteful witch.
We’re down to the pile of strange wires and incomprehensible electronic bits and discs, so I’m letting Mr. H take over. I already packed 6 million pounds of glassware. You know how we roll. Like Crate & Barrel, apparently, with a sheet of butcher paper on the diagonal. Speaking of rolling, I also found a long forgotten bong! And my highschool yearbook! I’ve been throwing things away ruthlessly, because I realized my number one favorite pastime is trading stuff in for better stuff. Even Mr. H has caught the fever;I just saw him fling a framed baby picture of his neice into a Hefty bag. “I know what she looks like.” Applause! Applause!