Tag Archives: low concerns

In the bag

Get Out the Vomitola

Hmm. Lambchop and I still live in blue states, it seems. Elsewhere, the craziest crazies were not elected. America, you shock me! In keeping with the tenet that conservatives think everyone is out to get them, and liberals think everyone is incredibly stupid, I am rightfully nonplussed.

No Sharron Angle, no Christine O’Donnell, no Linda McMahon. No Fiorina, no Whitman. Is that a crushing blow to women? Or only to women unfit to lead? When Anna Wintour runs, I am sure she will be installed as president posthaste, perhaps on a ruby-encrusted fainting couch. Karl Lagerfeld will be Secretary of State, so he’ll be able to fan her.

Uncle Karl

However, Californians are all for shapeshifting for corporations, if I’m reading that right (and I’m not)! But they are not for legalizing Marijuana. Yet in Massawhosits, we will no longer have to pay sales tax on liquor! Woooo! A jaunty pink flute of Kitty Dukakis (official Vomitola cocktail) all around! I raise my glass to you, irresponsible citizens of the world.

I guess I’ll just have to set the dial on the time machine to the day of Palin’s inauguration in 2013 to get satisfaction for my crazy yen. Oh my God, as her first act, there is a federal mandate to wear banana clips! And she signed it with one of those troll doll pens!

Welcome to my chamber of horrors

It’s no longer makeshift! That’s right, we went outlet shopping. Through some hideous twist of fate, we ended up in the Restoration Hardware outlet. I previously thought I had all the hardware I needed for my chamber of horrors: squeakless hinges, medical grade ganches, you name it. But wait til you see the glorious off-price contents of a Restoration Hardware outlet on a holiday weekend.

I got the most adorable wrought iron letters for spelling out the names of my captives. Then I was over near the lamps, and I saw a positively medieval cage, about the size of TWO breadboxes. It had a hasp and a chain! As I approached the table, some woman in suede driving mocs pursed her thin lips at me. I think my preternatural beauty offended her.

I turned back to Mr. H and called “HONEY! Look, this is just the perfect cage for my monkey skeleton!” He sighed and peered over my shoulder. “I think it’s a wine rack.”

“No, honey, I could totally use this for my monkey skeleton. It’s just what I need.”

The lady was just staring openly by this point, so we continued the banter about where to put the monkey skeleton until she wheeled around and skittered away.

Monkey Skeleton needs a house

Later, it was revealed that Mr. H didn’t know I was joking.

Mr. H and I went to a wedding, and this involved starting to drink margaritas at 10am. All weddings should be like that. I shot second camera, and that was reasonably fun. They had a tres leches cake! That’s THREE kinds of leche. Congratulations, men! Upon review, you were lacking a glitter cannon, but otherwise I give that a solid 5 thumbs up.

Then we went and test drove Audis. Sobered up and after a mint, of course. It’s fall, and we traditionally get the urge to roll our old car into a lake right around Columbus Day. The Saabaru is making a noise, and getting it fixed seems like it will be a trial. I snapped off the piece that seemed to be the problem months ago, but now it has a new noise. Since that one is Mr. H’s car, he is likely to drive it until it falls apart on the highway without noticing. The situation remains unresolved at this time, mainly because we can’t have nice things.

Then I decided to become a justice of the peace, and would you believe Massachusetts has RULES about this? I assumed it was a take a course, pay a fee deal, but no, each town is allotted a certain number of positions, and you have to apply, including a resume and the signatures of 5 prominent state residents. Uh?? Well, one of my neighbors is on the city council, and one is in the US House of Representatives, and a former state senator gives me a donut every year on Halloween, but I just don’t have anything else going for me. Oh. I once threw up near John Kerry’s house.

It’s easier to be a notary public. There’s no position limit (only your imagination), and you only need 4 signatures for that, although one must be from a practicing lawyer. All the attorneys I know pretend not to know me in public for some reason.

In conclusion,
in fourteen-hundred-ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Despite all the horrors that did accrue, he still never imagined the likes of you.

Conquer existentialism in 72 easy steps

Can you believe I can go to the grocery store without a dissociative episode or panic attack? It was not always so, blogarinos, although that was still not enough to keep me away from the grocery store. Sometimes it’s kind of fun when the stuff on the shelf dances. Hell, I’ve paid for that experience before. But anyway, such vapors are a thing of the past. They took away my fainting couch down at the Hannaford. They also stole my debit card number, but that’s another story for another time. I got a new card, and the expiration date is no longer a very lucky 08/08, which was very popular when calling for Chinese takeout, trust me. Oh right. So anyway, to conquer your existentialism, try doing all your errands with a small conscience who yells at you, passersby, and dogs and fire trucks, just in case there are any. Your conscience should also throw things at you, like a grocery list, a pen, a travel magna-doodle, and a bag of organic soup beans. This works wonders for the constitution, if not the complexion. You might also substitute fire juggling if you do not have a conscience. You’ll be far too busy and concerned with your own survival to be crazy, at any rate.

The other day the conscience ran right over to that giant plastic car shopping cart, and I grudgingly soaked it in rubbing alcohol and secured her with a well-gnawed rope. A litter of other children saw her riding in splendor and made comment to their mother as to how they wished for a similar experience. MOMMYIWANNACARCARCARCARMOMMMYYYYYYYY. Their mother glared at me and said “No, we can’t do that today.”

“YAY! DRIVE CAR! FUN! WHEE! BEEP BEEP!” opined the conscience. Her timing is impeccable. The other kids dialed it up to about 12.

I decided to run with it, since other lady glared at me. “Yes, honey, I love you! You are driving! This is so much fun! I love it when you have fun with me at the store! Yay! What does the car say? Who’s the best little girl?”

Then I had to leave without all my groceries so I wouldn’t come out and find my tires slashed. On the way out, I realized if you go in the other entrance, there are no fucking plastic cars stored on that side. Oh. This is what it’s like to have low concerns.

Clinging tenaciously to my buttocks

Darlinks, medicine I have had nothing to write. I have been experiencing excellent customer service, and thus reeling in shock. Why, I got a letter from Blue Cross, Blue Shield, and they said “WE WILL NOT PAY! NOOOOOO!” And I said “Surely this is but a minor misunderstanding, for I always operate within policy,” and I called and said “Surely this is but a minor misunderstanding,” and they put me on hold for 30 seconds while I listened to their selection of “Everbody Have Fun Tonight.” Then the representative came back on the line and said “You are absolutely correct! This is our mistake, and we will reprocess the claim on our end. You need do nothing further but prop up your feet and book a massage. Here is my name, direct line, and confirmation number. Have a pleasant day.”

So then I died of joy, and I will probably have to call them again about the whopping bill I will receive from my ybab for use of a defibrillator to revive me. Only it was more like a few fridge magnets and a rolling pin that she used, so I am NOT paying for that.

Right now, on this blessed leap day, ybab is feeling poorly. She has come down with some sort of rhinovirus owing to her father placing her in that filth-encrusted plastic racecar shopping cart. Why, did you know, he did not wipe it down with carbolic acid, nor did he steam clean and Simonize her upon returning home? I publicly shame and renounce him!

And double renouncing for even putting her in that hellish chariot in the first place, because now she will accept no substitutes. There is nothing quite like getting a dirty look from an enormous woman (who probably drives an enormous SUV and routinely straddles two lines on the public thoroughfares) because one cannot maneuver past the onions quickly enough for her liking when one is pushing a disease-riddled Sherman tank of infant entertainment. One thinks “My life has come to this.” One moves on, stiff upper lip. One gives up and weeps openly as the wheels of the beast get stuck on the freezer case for the sixteenth time. My willowy arms are simply not powerful enough!

Farm Fresh

On my last smash n’ grab at the grocery store, I ended up with a bag of chips with some sort of winsome farm scene and a proclamation about vegetables on the bag. They were in the organic section, so I didn’t even read the label. I am a trusting consumer. And my version of Supermarket Sweep includes crying if not completed fast enough, so there you go.

Last night, Mr. H read the bag. There is nothing organic in the bag. The chips have never been to a farm. In fact, the brand is a sham brand belonging to Frito-Lay. On second tasting, the chips taste exactly like Doritos.

“These are naturally baked,” said Mr. H.

“Naturally baked?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Left to harden in the sun?”

“I guess Twinkies aren’t naturally baked,” he said thoughtfully. “They just set up, like…ceviche.”

Which brings me to my next point: every time someone on Top Chef makes ceviche, I have to finish the box of wine. You’d think people on a cooking show would be more inclined to apply actual fire to food, but their loss is my liver’s gain.

926: Don’t you wish you had brand recognition like me?

Yesterday I was working at a coffee shop like an asshole does, and I messaged Mr. H to say “Guess what, I’m at a coffee shop without a ybab.” And he freaked out, assuming I had gone into some sort of fugue state and left her chained to the fridge at home while I decided to have a mocha. What a vote of confidence in my maternal skills! Then a friend came in with her daughter and looked similarly alarmed. Sheesh. Don’t you let your kids play in abandoned appliances while you’re at the loser fake office? No no no. Other wife or the chupacabra had her. I think. I don’t know. I pay someone, and I pretend I don’t count the pain pills in the medicine cabinet.

I am not as much of an asshole as the women sitting next to me, though. One of them had a daughter named Linda Pam. I clutched at the air upon eavesdropping this, thinking I had just accidentally fallen a dozen states into Alabama. Linda Pam is the proud recipient of a bag of her mother’s used sandals. Linda Pam’s mother is not really a size 6; I found out when she went to the counter to get something. The others in her coven see right through her assertions.

There is no real point to this post, but I wanted to work in how two birds collided in mid-air and died before they hit the ground my window. It was a thing to see. Ybab wanted to pet the birds. No no no no! No dead birds! What does the live bird say? Cheep? Who are you calling cheap? What does the Tiger say? Meow. Sure it does, Linda Pam. Your face is your fortune.

922: Out of order

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.

Something whiny this way comes

The other day my miniature sidekick celebrated nine months of not sleeping! No, she sleeps far better than I do. Honestly. I can’t sleep through the night. Someone should really make me cry it out*. Or spank me to sleep**.

She only cries when she sees her relatives, and the other day when some lady in the grocery store looked at her. I should have thought of that years ago! No looking at me now. Don’t make me do it. I’m talking to you, ugly head. Go back over by the frozen shrimp where you belong.

Best of all, she has learned to flip her lip with her finger and make the noise “A-bee-ba-dee-ba-dee.” The MacArthur Foundation has not stopped hounding us.

Anyway, last weekend I ran an ultramarathon (this is a lie), and I’m thinking I’m getting kind of bored with those. I could do another triathlon, but that would mean doing even one triathlon first to justify the use of the word “another.” Maybe I will finish that seven foot scarf in my knitting bag instead.

*personal parenting pet peeve; this is sarcasm.
**is this dirty?

Let’s draw the line at genocide

Saw that on the news last night in a story about Fidelity’s dealings with oil companies meddling in the Sudan. Fidelity says they have a legal responsibility to provide the highest returns to consumers, therefore they won’t rethink their choices. The reporter asked “So Fidelity is not willing to draw the line at genocide?” What a novel policy. A little mutiliation and oppression would be fine, Fidelity, as business is business, but draw that line!

Yesterday a ybab played a fun game called “Let’s cry all day.” Yes, let’s. Of course she settled right down as soon as her father came home, and her fever and general malaise finished by the time the doctor charged us $30 to say “Fluid in the ears, no infection. Teething.” Which I knew, but wouldn’t I be a jerk if I were wrong? On the way back, we saw dogs, so I guess that wasn’t a total waste of a leaving of the house.

I’ve been meaning to write about NBC’s segment on cocktail playdates last week. A blogger  got totally sandbagged by a stern robot of an expert, who asserted that women must never, ever drink in the presence of a child, and anyone who has even one drink has Issues and needs to learn a Healthy Way of Coping. I couldn’t write about this at the time I watched the segment, because it was 8 AM, and I was already drunk, and so were all my friends. Don’t you put Kahlua and whiskey in your coffee*? Now, we have been known to have a glass of wine with dinner because we don’t like coping. We do like wine, though. But, to the blogger’s point, there is a man around to keep me in line. Unforunately, that man is Mr. H, who has never actually managed to do this.

Meredith Viera had her “disapproving mother hen” face on throughout the segment. Perhaps she should go back to The View, where she and Barbara Walters and Rosie O’Donnell and that pretty-but-dumb little one can talk about being disgusted by breastfeeding instead. Rosie O’Donnell apparently didn’t let her partner breastfeed their baby past six weeks because she didn’t want to miss out on bonding too. Well, I have news for you: a ybab prefers the perfectly teat-less Mr. H at least 90% of the time. As a society, we’re OK with genocide, as long as it’s profitable, but titties, man, titties. Those are really scary. Especially when attached to drunk women. They are like twin frozen margarita machines, right there on the chest, where people can see them!

*This reminds me of one particularly awful job I had. My office wife and I would go hit Bruegger’s every morning for coffee and a bagel, and then we would nip into the liquor store next door for, well, nips to add to the coffee. And thus renewed, we would go back to our sublet lair in an unheated church basement, clap our leg irons back on, and enable the purchase of cut-rate vacation packages. You know, make the internet happen. But we drew the line at genocide!