Tag Archives: decline of Western culture

Poo corner

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Yesterday, we foolishly tired of our air conditioned home and ventured out for a walk. You know, after a long drive. We had heard that a certain New England town, which I’ll call Concord since that’s what everyone else calls it, was quaint. But apparently there is a town ordinance there that requires everyone to bike in the damn road while swaddled tightly in Spandex. Lance Armstrong may have a vested interest in protecting his remaining testicle, but you’d think all those virile square-bottomed investment bankers could play a little fast and loose.

When we were nearly run off the road by yet another SUV (in this case, an H2) passing cyclists who insist on riding side by side (because CARS DO THAT ALL THE TIME WHEN THEY ARE FRIENDS, it’s true), we decided we’d had enough. Concord is now on the list of places to which I’m never going back, including Rockville and home again. Instead, we went to a farm, where a sheep did something offensive to my hand.

922: Out of order

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You may have noticed 923 came before 922. I don’t think that’s a problem. Keep it to yourself if you do.

A cartoon of great worth.

I have got the flattening of affect that normally comes with the first pissant course of SSRIs doctors like to prescribe before they realize I need something fancier and more liver damaging, something that really tickles that hard to reach spot. However, I am not taking any medication. Maybe some Emergen-C here and there. To what do I attribute this fly trapped in amber deal? I had a recent phase of being overly affected by the various cruelties in the world and mourning my own memories, and instead of flipping the hell out, I managed to form my own protective coating. I am part oyster, although others will eternally maintain I am more of a clam. Forgetting is our best skill as humans. Darfur? Newark? Iraq? What? Those are funny noises. Do you have any meaning for me? I would like to borrow a cup of purpose. Or I could work on an icing recipe instead. The sun still comes up, and dogs still have to pee, and the sprinklers will turn on until there isn’t any water left.

913: they see me rollin’

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Someone is big. Someone walks around holding one finger of my hand. Someone waves haughtily like a figurehead of the monarchy as we stroll downtown. Someone claps at the end of “Goodnight Moon” and when the waitress brings the chopsticks.

We haven’t yet tried this, probably because I like to believe in the illusion of the human soul. That link is so several days ago anyway. I have been too busy breathing into a paper bag to tell you things.

Smother’s day

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I have recently been made aware of a concept in the America called “Smother’s Day.” A television ad told me about it, and then another and another. If I am to correctly understand, a Smother is something like a Smore, but not an actual brand of jelly. That’s Smuckers, and they are happy people live to be one hundred despite eating high fructose corn syrup solids. So in the midst of all that jubilation about the dinosaur birthdays, a ybab decided to start pointing at things. “Dat?” Well, honey, that’s Matt Lauer. “Dat?” Oh, put me on the jeezly spot, why don’t you? Some things just can’t be explained. Maybe when you’re two.

And back to this Smother’s Day deal: I hear it’s a magical day, where the cat box cleans itself, and ybab will wipe her own butt for 24 entire hours. I hear that I might get a gold pendant of some sort, possibly with the “#1” designation. And I won’t even have to put out to get this jewelry. Who wants to put out when you have a ybab already? Fool me twice, I don’t think so!

Do I smell natural gas? That would just figure if my house blew up. Last year on Smother’s Day, it flooded. Haha! As you might imagine, I am jittery about this one. Pee to the Tee to the Ess to the D. I am celebrating by not purchasing gifts for any relatives who have been blighted by offspring. Mr. H is of course free to purchase gifts in my stead, but he won’t, because he’s Mr. H. Is he even reading this? I have set a bear trap just now. Who else has found my blog? You? Great. Leave a comment plz.

OK, so if not a pendant, I hope to get a mug. Or a beer hat, but insulated for coffee. It should attest to my prowess at keeping ybab alive. She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’, luckily. This morning I removed her from eating cat kibble, and she rewarded me with a boilermaker to the head. Is that a type of punch? A hay bailer maybe? If those aren’t types of punches, they should be. She fights dirty.

Over the hump in Pahrump

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Do you ever think it’s weird that other cities are allowed to have their own TV news? That’s just not right. We only have news in my city. I don’t care what happens in Pahrump, although it’s usually snowing. What was I doing watching TV in Las Vegas anyway?

On Friday, the chupacabra took the day off to prepare for finals, so I had to watch my own ybab. The hell? That implies that I don’t normally watch her. Ha. I wish! Normally, I sit there and “work” while she hangs upside down from the rafters above my head. The chupacabra is close at hand, and she does a wonderful job of trying to divert ybab by shaking some boiled bones or something, but ybab mainly prefers me. Foolish ybab. The chupacabra has a degree in early childhood education. I have a degree in lying. I wouldn’t hire me to watch a ybab. Anyway, we tired of menacing neighborhood dogs, so we steamed open some mail that didn’t belong to us and applied for credit cards. We could have just opened the mail, but since ybab snorts steam naturally, it seemed like the thing to do. If only we had some unwanted wallpaper.

At least watching my own ybab was free that day. Normally the chupacabra exacts a demanding price for not really watching ybab. Next thing you know, the chupacabra will want a four oh onek.

Who’s that dog that saved the day?

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Someday I am going to go to grad school just so I can write a dissertation on the archetype of the hero dog.

I need a hero dog. I would probably have more luck finding one of those than I am having finding a small human minder on Craigslist. My ghost writer is on strike, so perhaps my ad was less than compelling: “You: don’t be a degenerate! Salary negotiable. You troll! I just know you want to sell my small human the second my back is turned.”

My upper lip smells funny. Am I dying? Oh, it’s my lip balm. I apologize, but sometimes it takes a few moments of “freewriting” to clear the cache before I can do real work. You read this of your own free will! I am going to put that in my gratitude journal.

Just lions smiling in the dark

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Yes, I know that’s the wrong lyric. That’s why it’s funny. Thanks for making me explain a joke, you freaking jerks! Cite your sources, you say? No, no, you say, that isn’t right. The pigs say OINK all day and night. If I told you what the rhinoceroses say, I probably would have to pay a royalty to Sandra Boynton and the good folks at Simon & Schuster, so I will cut it right off.

Anyway, sources. We don’t need no stinking sources and studies. We need to prevent something that might lead to cancer, and you are a woman-hating jerk if you say “But the Science, she are not so good on this one!” And suddenly feminists are OK with a state tying something that only affects a woman’s body to a woman’s access to education? I am talking about Texas and the HPV and the Merck and the money and all, but I am not citing my sources. And that’s OK, because we don’t do that anymore. We are the internet. Did I mention CANCER? More women die each year of septicemia, diabetes, and unintentional injuries than the form of cancer in question, which is easily identifiable with a routine yearly screening. In the US, this cancer is the 14th hottest form of female cancer, rating below Alyssa Milano and Kim Cattrall.

No, no, you say, that isn’t right. You must want all those little girls to get THE CANCER (er, you mean one of four strains of a virus that can lead to the cancer if not caught early by a routine screening, right? And you know there are dozens of strains, not just those four targeted by the shot? No, I mean CANCER is a sure bet! Do not pass go, go straight to CANCER in this argument!). I would rather those little girls and boys learn to use the condoms and attempt to respect each other. But that’s OK, abstinence-only whatever works great. And then we can paternalistically mandate protection for something that might happen based on an individual’s potential sexual choices to cover up for the giant lapse in education. And the protection comes with great risks in and of itself, and the longterm effects are completely unknown. It’s anti-woman not to promote informed choice. Or is it PRO CANCER?

I could probably try to make more sense and actually cite sources, but I am too busy attempting to graph potential agony in upcoming situations, neither of which involves cancer. Budget air travel maybe. Is this caused by a virus?

A priest, a rabbi, and a parenting expert were crossing a river in a rowboat…

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I accidentally watched thirty seconds of the local FOX affiliate’s morning show last week. Why was the TV left on FOX at all? Cops, duh. Anyway, a self-proclaimed parenting expert was talking about “infant discipline.” I picked up my coffee and prepared to be infuriated.

But the lady had a point! She said that I shouldn’t be picking up my ybab every time my ybab cries because this will teach her that I will pick her up every time she cries. I pondered this, thinking that surely there will be some time when I’ll need to pick her up. What if she is being partially eaten by crocodiles? But I realized that I would have to stand my ground. If I pick her up every time she’s being eaten by crocodiles, she’s just going to expect me to pick her up every time she’s being eaten by crocodiles. Shouldn’t she be learning to self-soothe if she’s being eaten by crocodiles? She should also be able to sleep through being eaten by crocodiles, for at least twelve hours in a row.

I still haven’t gotten around to writing the nasty letter I planned to write. I have been too busy picking up my ybab, but only when she is not being eaten by crocodiles.

Oh, to finish the joke, the parenting expert fell in the river, and the priest and the rabbi beat her senseless with a paddle. She died.

You know how to whistle, don’t you, Katie Couric?

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Man, why you gotta go sit on a desk? It’s so…FOX affiliate! Who does a damn thing like that? I can see Anderson Cooper trying it, but would Peter Jennings have done this? I don’t want to see anyone’s knees while they tell me how many people died that day. I do not like news in the round. No walking around the set, please, unless you are discussing something important like Whitney Houston. I prefer the “sit very still at a desk and look apologetic and steely” delivery.

Maybe I am still mad that Katie took all summer to not come up with a sign off. Viewers writing in is just too painfully inclusive for my taste. Viewers are morons! She should have gone with “I’m Katie Couric, and it’s Miller time.” Or “I’m Katie Couric. Balls.” That’s how I feel after watching even five minutes of news. Why do folksy? I used to enjoy watching her on the Today Show, gritting her teeth and flexing her stilettos through endless interviews with gummy-smiling relationship experts. You could just tell how much she loathed it, how much she wanted to wear a flak jacket and do Important News instead. Somewhere, over the focus group….bluebirds fly….

***
My sister and I used to have to play with unfun toys since our parents did not believe in fun. We had unpainted blocks, an abandoned kitchen sink, some dirt, and Cuisenaire® rods. Why, then, after having to fit those stupid rods back in the plastic tray so many times am I unable to properly load the dishwasher? Just last night, I realized bowls go sideways in the back three rows. Oops. No more jamming them in haphazardly around the plate slots. The world is not so rigid as I once thought. Mr. H didn’t know the bowls went that way either.

Ten minutes til Wapner

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After throwing myself off a cliff the other day due to reading the nanny postings on Craigslist (“Little Angles Nanny Service,” anyone?), I was reincarnated as a dung beetle who is doomed to go to the post office every day for the rest of her life. Tomorrow I will go and cast a “Yoga for Your Pregnancy” DVD into the abyss. I can’t say I ever managed to do any of that yoga. Putting on pants becomes entertainment enough at a certain point.

But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Craigslist is full of the little creatures of nature. And the occasional salacious outing of a wealthy family who stiffed the nanny. I’ve given up on ever selling anything with Craigslist, because one can post all salient details and a photo and still get an email reading “Hi! I want to buy your item! How much is it? How big is it? Will you bring it to my house? What were you selling, anyway?” Of course there are many more misspellings in the actual email. So I’m trying eBay and Half.com to purge our home of useless clutter and Mr. H’s awful CD collection from before he knew me. People ask all sorts of questions on eBay as well, it turns out. Apparently I must not have written my listing in Australian*, as someone wants to me to sort out the cost of shipping. Clearly, I can do this with much more panache than the shipping calculator link at the top of the page. People are so starved for love and attention these days. Let’s heal together.

*I responded pitifully, with the help of the Outback menu: It’ll be a dinkely doo bonzer right Thunder From Downunder $18.75 American dawlahs.