Suddenly I find myself doing time in Conjunctivitis Junction. Or maybe there’s a rare flesh-eating bacteria gnawing on my optic nerve, waiting to get into my brain. I couldn’t really say. All I know is that my eye hurts like a mofo, and it’s spewing stuff. I am waiting for the “primary care physician” to call me back. I would like to get some ointment and maybe a poultice as well. Oh, and an eyepatch. A white one would be way more fetishy.
I’m also trying to figure out which kindergartener I should string up for giving this to me. Or is this some vile cross-contamination from the instruments at Kindermusik? As if trying to pretend Littles is interested in overly arranged childrens’ ditties isn’t bad enough.
Near blinded with pain, I find myself reflecting on karma. The last time I got conjunctivitis, it was my sixteenth birthday, and I called in to school sick. Only to actually find myself blighted by disease. Oh, the unfairness of it all. I still went to driver’s ed, because damned if I was going to be stopped from getting my license. The driver’s ed instructor liked to make students drive him around, periodically stopping for errands. Mail Boxes Etc., Subway, the dry cleaner, what have you. I made sure to wipe my hands all over the instructor’s wheel when he wasn’t looking.
If I don’t get a call back soon, I’m going to have to treat this the Little House on the Prairie way – a squirt of breastmilk (shaddup, it’s antibacterial) and some expired Vicodin.
Compromise is the stuff of which marriages are made, so we’ve agreed to settle for the Stokke Xplory. At only $749, we’re talking less than the per capita GDP of Afghanistan! This is a steal. And baby can ride up high, the better to witness the pain of the world, judging from that first photo, or baby can easily enjoy an espresso beverage. We should have bred a baby-stroller hybrid when we had the chance. But I’m sure some Republican somewhere has something against Wheeled Americans. Or babies grafted on top of goats or St. Bernards.
In other important news, everyone’s all bent about MySpace. But The New York Times just discovered that teenagers enjoy taking self-portraits at arm’s length. This is the biggest break since they learned that people enjoy knitting.
Unsourced gossip: apparently Massachusetts is trying to strengthen seatbelt laws to make being unbuckled a stoppable offense. There is outcry that this will lead to racial profiling, and then some people just don’t like being told what to do. Well, move to New Hampshire and pay higher property taxes. There are no races in New Hampshire (except dirt bike), so that takes care of racial profiling. The legal fireworks balance out the lack of diversity. Anyhoo, seatbelt laws require impassioned speeches about civil liberties, but wiretapping without a court order is A-OK!
I was once helped by a seatbelt! It’s true! Actually, more than once. This morning, some skeez in an orange Tonka truck (Honda Element?) tried to make a left into the lane of traffic. Unfortunately, I was already right in front of her. I used my cat-like reflexes and saved us all, but on second thought, I should have let her hit us. Such destruction would have totally gotten us out of the fucking lease.
Then there was the time my mother turned the mini van over during morning car pool. This was during her storied “I don’t need glasses” phase. The neck injury I sustained from dangling like a bat still kicks up to this day, but I imagine it might have sucked more had my neck crumpled against the roof of the car. The most annoying part out of all of this? A neighbor was driving by and thought it was a good idea to take several bruised and stunned children to school. I got to school on time and took a science test. I had a valid excuse to go home on a silver platter, and I was too dumb to take it. Never again! Today I am going to cancel a meeting because it is snowing. Discretion is the better part of laziness.
A letter from the Bureau of Foolish Decisions arrived to tell me to buy flood insurance. Apparently there is a 1% chance per year of encountering a Hundred Year Flood, based on the fact that the place is basically a fucking houseboat. I don’t get it, because it’s not a 100 year mortgage, so, duh, we’ll never make a 100% chance. At least that’s what I think I learned in seventh grade math.
I don’t even know what term the mortgage is. We’re giving them some money, and then that continues until we get tired of the place, just like renting. In the end, we don’t actually own anything, because only $12 a month goes to principal. But theoretically we’ll make money via this not owning anything since the non-owned property becomes more valuable when other people pay more to not really own in it in several years.
I need to lie down. I done thought too much. I am going to see if buying a canoe would count as flood insurance. It seems like a handy thing to have anyway. And I could beat bird flu victims to death with the paddles.
We have a family of spiders living in some ambiguous part of the car. Sometimes they crawl out from behind a visor or across the dashboard. Then we freak out and wave our hands in the air, while yelling “Ahhhh! Ahhh Ahhh!” This does make driving more difficult. Finally, the non-driver scrounges up a piece of paper or an atlas page from a less popular state (like Alabama or Arkansas) and squooshes the brute. This is no small undertaking because these are big fleshy gangly white spiders. They bear a passing resemblance to Dr. Phil.
Today I was wondering how cold it has to get before they die of exposure. I said “I’m going to ask a spiderologist.” Mr. H said “I’M BRIAN FELLOWS.”
So I turned to my old friend the internet. It seems that the organs of spiders just swim around in hemolymph, which is their sorry excuse for blood. They survive during the winter by burrowing for warmth and lowering their metabolic rate. That’s what I’m doing right now. Except my strategy involves a bottle of wine and a plate of pasta and a duvet rather than leaf mold.
We had one more parasitic encounter before we even made it into the house. The downstairs neighbors waylaid us and asked us to look at their computah because they took it to Best Buy after they got it from their brotha, and they put the bits and the bytes in it, but they canâ€™t get on the internet because Comcast says they donâ€™t have enough bits, but they left them a CD, and then they had to call Microsoft, and that cost thuhty dollahs, can you believe it, but they still arenâ€™t on the internet, not the high speed one, and they need a Windows 98 disc because they canâ€™t download the explorer, and their friend Sheryl had a look, and she is so good with computahs, but she couldnâ€™t figure it out eitha, and could we just take a look?
Of course someone at work already basically asked me that same question today, so I was able to answer in no uncertain terms “Find where it says ‘Attachment’ in the menu bar of your email program, then choose ‘Save.'”
Here’s some pictures of spider bites. There are more vile pictures in the lower left nav if you are so inclined.
In which our Lambchop displays great Sincerity
We love David’s blog. Such a wag! That’s why I could not help but write when I noted that he condemns the word “smooch”. Since I often leave this word like so many rose petals in my wake, I had to know what there could be, in his opinion, to offend:
“…I wonder at the truth of “smooch” being your least favorite word! Do you prefer “osculations”? I like to throw “smooch” around when I don’t really want to offer or imply something so sublime as “Kiss”. Please explain your anti-smooch stance.”
and David responded so:
“My dear, it is not the concept I oppose, it is the word itself. To me, smooch is oily, falling in the same category as ooze and schmooze. It is dishonest and terribly, terribly wrong. For the act itself, I prefer kiss with a lesser inflection; even buss and peck have their charms. I stand my by aversion.”
Well, your lambchop has been guilty of many things, but this is a first for oily. Mother would be proud- her assertion that I am every bit as intolerable as Father (and by that I mean excessively charming) has once more been vindicated by a complete stranger. But I want to assure you, my attractive and well-paid readers, when I “smooch,” I truly, truly mean it.
I only want to add that it was extremely clever of David to reply with such an oily phrase as my dear. I nearly choked on my Batard-Montrachet.
No, as benign and Narnian as Canada may be, you are not the first one who wants to live there. Who would have thought?
I did not see the State of the Monkeyshines Address, as it aired here at the hour when all good Germans are out drinking. My evening was informed at the cabaret by a trippy breakdancer who looked like Mr. Clean, some handstand acrobatics, and the swallowing of many ping pong balls. (not by me- all I managed to swallow were several glasses of beer. If I had been more ambitious, I would not tell you about it, anyway.)
Anyway, all is right with the universe because Mr. Nick Cave is releasing a new album. I can’t wait to listen to it while I try on my bridesmaid’s dress made of dyed peach goose feather and black dog’s nose pumps!
I actually almost went to a gym today. No, Lickety, not because of the promise of untoward behavior in the sauna. I was going to tag along on a guest pass with a friend to her aerobics class. I wish I could participate in the same way that I enjoyed 20 minute workout before school as a kid- in my pajamas with a big bowl of fruity pebbles, hooting at the alien women doing squats in their neon tights/ fluorescent thong combination. (it was olivia newton john’s decade, after all!). Anyway, I didn’t end up having to jump up and down to awful german pop music because my friend spent too long on her makeup. Maybe she knows something I don’t about those saunas.
I decided randomly to troll the huge cineplexx at Potsdamer Platz. I like watching movies in a theater. Even bad ones. But I get there and wouldn’t you know it
OH MY GAWD!
there was a throng of people clotted in fron tof the entrance and they appeared to be drooling over what looked like a length of red carpet. Oh great, I thought, celebrities! I happened upon the Berlin premiere of Catch Me if You Can. No movies for anyone but men in pancake and a typhoon of carmen electras. After pausing a moment to feel like a special part of the greatness, I wanted to go home. A debate ensued because some of my friends wanted a peep at Tom Hanks. Now, while I would delightedly accept a supper invitation from Nick Cave and most happily take a turn around the park with David Bowie, I like to think of famous people like bears- they are more afraid of you than you are of them (and as long as you don’t feed them or attack their young, you won’t have to shoot them). No way in hell am I going to stand around outside for two hours in the middle of january pressed up against people I would never voluntarily touch, craning my neck for a glimpse of Leo’s pre-pubescent moustachery and an overweight Kip Wilson.
My friends say “oh, we like ourselves, don’t we?” Maybe we do. When I got home I turned on the news, and sure enough, in front of the Sony Center in a glorious haze of flashbulbs were Spielberg, Hanks, and DiCaprio.
and i just needed to say Oh MY GOD I MISSED TOM HANKS!!!
Who would have thought the Friendlyass Bear would ever cease to grace Boylston street with its ponderous bronze bottom? I used to work right across the street from old FAO, and when I wasn’t watching homeless people coupling in the BayBank ATM (another woefully absent institution!), there was ol’ Friendlyass, carefree and ample cheeked. And there was the company president sneaking up behind me and screeching at me to get back to my terminal before she throttled me with my headset.
Man, was she a bitch.
Speaking of bitches and muddy bears, I have monthly blues pretty badly. But I am not all moon womanly jazzed about discussing such topics, so look elsewhere for a rant about tides and bad moods. lets just say there are no chocolate chips in my cookie today.
However, nothing cheers one up more than tales of ‘tards. I myself went to a Special School. See, I was in an accelerated program with kids from all over jersey city, and we got booted out of the normal public school where we collected (for knocking a baby out of a stroller and onto the tarmac during a game of touch football. Accelerated kids and their high spirits!) Anyway, my orphaned program was taken in by a Special School. We occupied the top floor of their building, shared their stinking cafeteria, and tried not to stare at them openly masturbating in the nurses office. We did not have much contact with them- but they would come up to our auditorium for holiday parties. Halloween was the best. All the mongoloids and pinheads dressed like animals, and plants. I remember them gathering around to sing a song. Picture all those raised tuneless voices, out of sync- and a really gangly pinhead dressed up like a bumblebee dancing, antennae bouncing, and moaning out the words to “Lean on Me”.
Continuing with my tenuous grasp on the marine life theme, may I present Hi Ho in Sake. Watch for the tail slapping!
This episode contains a toothy shark and a melon piÃ±ata. And if you only watch one episode, make it “Shitting a Brick”.
Hoo wee. That little song will drive you nuts for days! Apparently those are mascots for a DSL service. But who knows for sure? Too bad we don’t speak “asian.”
I think maybe now we have to worry about the charges of racism more than the XXX rating? Next thing you know people will be accusing us of claiming all black people look alike?