Tag Archives: celebrity!

Sexy back

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Well, I am totes in rehab now. You want to know another reason I should be in rehab? The last two times we’ve had sushi, we accidentally dressed the wee uni in a kimono top that day. So insensitive! Actually, Mr. H did that. He ought to be in rehab, not me. But tell that to Oprah. She made me cry, and I promised to go, so here we are.

They issued me a do-rag and these:

And put me to work cleaning the bathroom:

I am all blurry because I am in rehab. Rehab goggles make substance abusers look like even better life partners.

It was a bad day to get bathroom duty. Lindsay Lohan is doing a cleanse. And so we found this in the loo:

I have to go lie down.

In a minute there is time

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I assure you it is hard being so ridiculously attractive, a regular genetic freak. If not for some quirk of face and international media, my perfect haunches and I would still be squatting on my ancestral goat farm in Brazil. But man, accidentally attend one beach volleyball tournament, and next thing you know, you have to date actors. Whatever works, I guess.

But I am tired of all the public scrutiny. Yesterday, I did not say “all white people look alike,” but the innernets are upon me with slings and arrows, and now I have to go to freaking rehab. Rehab! I can’t help it if all white people look alike, now can I? Some of my best friends are white! So I will get back to you lates. I really hope Keith Urban and Britney don’t snore. Did I ever tell you about the time I was in rehab with Robert Downey, Jr.? I let the air out of a judge’s tires on the wrong day, I guess. But anyway, blessing in disguise. You would not believe what I can do now with tinfoil and a Bic razor and some mouthwash.

February showers bring unpleasant trips to the parking lot

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We still have no hot water, medical which the management company scribe keeps referring to as Hot Water. Without fail, sick this causes me to free associate to Hot Chocolate, which means I have to sing “I Believe in Miracles.” The same managing individual, continues the bizarre habit of placing commas between noun/verb pairs in every sentence. This malady, is catching.

Later today, Hot Water, was briefly restored, and then the pipes, exploded, raining Hot Water into the hallway next to my door. The fire alarms, went off when the pressure, dropped, which caused a ybab to imitate the sound in solidarity. I, trussed her up in a blanket and stuck one leg, in a snowsuit, and we mingled in the parking lot with all the dogs in the building. Five fire engines came, which caused a ybab to join the dogs in howling.

Had this been a real emergency, well, I forgot the poor cat. Luckily, she can, swim.

State of my union

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Mr. H and I had an amicable disgreement over the number of Spice Girls. I came up with four, and he said five or more, maybe six. I really searched and came up with “Baby Spice, Scary Spice, Sporty Spice, Posh Spice, and maybe Brainy Spice?” He had to look it up. I forgot Ginger Spice. How could this happen? I saw Spice World in the theater. Possibly twice.

And so life returns to balance. But Mr. H still hasn’t come up with a good reason as to why he is not Jude Law.

Jack Bauer sleeps with a pillow under his gun

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Phew, ailment I almost forgot. This concludes Jack Bauer week. Yesterday was all bokka bokka what? As all the days are, really. Someone threw up on my back, and lunch was had, and I was told a disgusting fact. The Main Idea of this fact was “large nipples, small penis.” Does Jack Bauer have problems like that? Perhaps his nipples are enlarged because he straps them to a car battery for ten minutes each morning as part of his toilette.

Jack Bauer doesn’t recycle, and he doesn’t even feel bad about it

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So the word on the street is that no one likes Jack Bauer. Tell me about it. I don’t like it any more than you men. I don’t even watch 24. My ex-almost-brother-in-law, an actual crackhead, found it too hard to follow. I can eat fifty eggs. You don’t want to see what the inside of my head looks like. It’s like that Mucinex commercial, except with movie quotes hanging down like streamers. Oh, there’s one on my shoe.

A planet must be doing a thing. Quelle mysterioso. Will I finally roll over that 401(k) from 2001? That requires getting a signature from someone who ought to be in jail. I think that’s been the sticking point. Will I stop silently judging people at the grocery store? Only if I start judging them out loud instead.

Tune in tomorrow to find out how fat Jack Bauer’s mama was. Well, I will just tell you now to save you the trip. She was so fat that he had to starve her for three months in a crawl space.

Jack Bauer once double-teamed a chick all by himself

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I am finally halfway through reading the October issue of Vogue. I’ve found out about outfits that are already out of style and movies that are already out of the theater. Very useful. Where’s the beef? Not in Vogue, of course.

In other TCB news, I am halfway finished collecting the annual bucket of refuse to take to the accountant. It seems we’ve paid enough in medical expenses and usury mortgage interest to buy a Lincoln Navigator. Well, more than a Yaris or two at least. How very, very exciting. I even paid my quarterly taxes like a good Beta, and I have the faint hope that we might get a refund. After all, a ybab is a terrible drain on our finances what with her daytrading habit. I keep telling her to hang on to Home Depot, but she doesn’t listen.

If Jack Bauer lived next door to Kramer, Kramer would knock before entering

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Not much going on at This Old Hovel. I find myself wandering around muttering things like “They’re boxy, but they’re good!”

Yesterday, we went to IKEA again, under great protest. Did you know that you need to special order hinges for your kitchen cabinets, but you have to pick up your handles at the store? You can’t just also order the handles. Theoretically, at the end of 3-5 more weeks, we’ll have some cabinets. Goodbye, pile of food. Goodbye, unused rice cooker. Now no one will be able to see that I don’t use you.

Anyway, at IKEA, you can totally tell who is from Cambridge. That is all. And you can also tell who made a wrong turn looking for the Christmas Tree Shops. They’ll be the ones in your way in the marketplace as you desperately try to escape. They’ll also ask, of the ybab strapped to your front, “Is he comfortable in there?” No, I am Jack Bauer. I specialize in discomfort of the infant variety. If a ybab is comfortable, then I am doing something wrong. Please call my 800 number.

Whoa dilly

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I am in the land of mundane tasks. That is right next to the Island of Misfit Toys. The cat has started a pots n’ pans band with the ybab. I asked them to be quiet while I was calling Fidelity to tell them to do something to my no-money, and they laughed at me. Then Fidelity laughed at me and said I had to DOWNLOAD A FORM AND MAIL IT LIKE A PEASANT, even though their site said to call a rep to access this feature. Some feature. Some pig. It’s OK, a ybab didn’t need a college fund anyway. She’ll get through on pluck and determination and a last minute made up scholarship essay just like her ma.

Speaking of the peasantry, I had to lie to them on engraved stationary the other day. Bless their little hearts. They think they are doing something good, but their puny offerings merely sadden and then enrage me. Back to the discount chain with your slutty infant outfits! I will thank you through pursed lips. My, what a colorful outfit. My. The accompanying rash is also colorful. Those pants make a six-month-old into a regular Tara Reid, which is what we all want in our heart of hearts. There is no nice way to just say “Please don’t buy gifts ever agin. We’ll still love you, if not love you even more.”