Tag Archives: politiks

Quagmire no more!

Now, did you think “giggity giggity” or “Iraq” when you read that subject line? I meant Iraq! Read my mind! Then I thought “giggity giggity.” Then I had to go check the spelling of “giggity.” Then I saw other open browser windows, little magpie that I am, and I had to check Facebook not-Scrabble and stuff like that. It is a wonder I returned here at all. But I thought I would take a few moments of my precious ybab nap time to rejoice in the fact that Congress and Roger Clemens are finally hammering out an exit strategy for the Iraq war! YES! It is about time, don’t you think? Jesus H. Jones. That is what they are doing, right? I only get to look at CNN for three seconds every day.

NOW I know how Joan of Arc felt

This just in: it’s stinking November! Didn’t I just warn you about this? Faaaaack. It’s too early to go to the Caribbean.

Dismember? Nofunever? I will think of the perfect Novemberism right after I post, I’m sure. Nonmember. That’s me. The Democratic Party called the other to thank me for my generous donation a few years ago. I said yes I am so nice like that, the things I do for those children, but what good did it do? And the poor lady read a script about all the ways they screwed up and all the things they are going to do differently next time around, and would I consider doubling my donation? I said I had left the party. I don’t know if this is true, but I am not about to part with my no money yet. But please don’t start out by telling me how you suck when you want to ask me for money.

Me? Oh, I am fine, thanks for asking! More about me: Last night I got hella free candy because I had the foresight to have offspring. That made it all worthwhile, let me tellyoo. Abdominal surgery, sleepless nights, and the occasional poop on the floor? Certainly a bargain price of a snack-size Kit-Kat! Oh, give me a break, give me a break! Break me off a piece of that.

Allrighty, what’s good about November? How psyched are you for November? Guy Fawkes day!!!!!! That is in November. Thanksgiving is in November, and that’s generally fun if you put aside historical context and all. I make a mean quinoa pilaf. Veteran’s Day, well, that could be a downer. Depends on who you ask. Halloween candy on sale? Don’t need that and would not want to catch obesity from looking at it funny either. Christmas decorations will slowly start to become more contextually appropriate. I think we should just neatly excise October and November from the calendar. Halloween can be moved to September, right after my 25th birthday. The Vomitola calendar is awesome. St. Croix’s Day is a real day! So is “everyone’s attractive” day! Except that is not really true. We just pretend and feel better.

Unprofessional painting

If me of now went back in time to warn me of five years ago that future/current me would be covered in flecking blue paint (Martha Stewart Surf 286) and honey-mustard sauce, me would not believe me! But it is all true. Me has no idea how me’s life turned out this way.

A few days ago, I had a few glasses of wine (with dinner, not at 10AM, although heaven knows…) and decided to start painting the bathroom a different shade of blue. I have good ideas all the time! I can’t even tell you how frequently. I have a whole folder on my desktop called “GOOD IDEAS!!!!!” My bathroom is 50% old blue and 50% new blue now, and I may work on it one hour per night for the rest of my life. Because either I get some paint in my hair, or someone wakes up and starts screaming, or a cat wants to come in because the door is closed, or maybe the fumes just become too much and I wake up on the floor the next morning even dumber.

After the bathroom is painted, I will have to tear the “shelving system” out of the linen closet. That means I will have to put better shelves in. I can’t just leave things in a heap in the bottom of the closet, much as I wouldn’t mind. It’s hard to find shelves. At IKEA, they expect you to cut them to the length you desire, like, with a saw or the power of your mind or something, so all their shelves are eighteen feet long. No. The Container Store has a sale on shelving, and that’s great, but everything is sold in systems, and I, a professional internet user, can’t figure out how to find JUST SHELVES. Single shelves of the correct length. In desperation, I typed in “http://ijustwanttobuysomefuckingshelves.com/” and crossed my fingers, but no luck there. Where do you get shelves, good people of the internet? I am hoping my own Google ads will tell me.

Local color report:
Lowell High School is back in session. Before we set out on our nightly trek for takeout, the phone rang: a “PRIVATE CALL” according to the display.

“Bee dee booop,” said the caller, voice breaking with hysterical giggling.


“I’m sorry, your penis did not go through!” The caller then died from laughter and somehow managed to slam the phone down in a dying act of valor.

Once downtown, a roving pack of teenagers conspiratorially made the aside “PENIS!” to us as we passed. Then we passed Marty Meehan over by the Masonic Temple. He was going to hassle us about voting when a young voice shrieked “I like penis!” out a screened window from the housing project across the street. We continued on, not stopping to vote in the primary because we had already seen Niki Tsongas having a victory dinner two streets over at the one nice restaurant in town, oblivious to the penis crisis in the streets. If she isn’t in touch with the penis issue, she does not need my support.

“If we were actually insane,” I remarked to Mr. H, “we’d assume people were only saying penis to us!” One never knows.

How I got covered in honey-mustard is another boring story for another time.

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!

Hail to the cheese sandwich

How about all that politics and that guy who did that thing? Remember when I cared? The last election cycle sent me onto heavy antidepressants. Although I don’t take those anymore, I am still pleasantly dumb thanks to related short term memory loss and the brainfog that comes from all things to do with a baby. Hey! I like socks! Do you? My anti-drug is avoidance.

And WTF is with all you packy-loving sonsofbitches who don’t want to buy boxed wine at the same time you pick up your VeganHelper crumbled substance? I hate you! I bet you’ll still go to Starbucks, despite all your blah blah about preferring to support local businesses. Knobs. Do you all live in my condo association too*?

In other news, I am trying to craft the perfect bib for babies to wear to Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of “Don’t feed me. My mommy bites.” Or maybe “Don’t feed me. You had your chance to make your own kids fat.” A baby is still too young to eat food, pish.

*A baby and I compromised and signed the rudest neighbor up for casual encounters ads on Craigslist. You: must have own python.

I’m voting for this cheese sandwich

No, I’m voting for the person who called my house with the least amount of recorded messages. No, that would be bad. I’m voting for the person with the funniest commercials. No, he’s pro death penalty and has his own smorgasboard of crackpot ideas to boot. I guess I will vote for Deval Patrick and close my eyes and pretend he’s Barack Obama. Or Bill Clinton. Voting for Bill Clinton was so fun! Politics = totes not fun now.

Or I will skip voting in the governor’s race at all and turn my attention to my own pet cause, Wine at Grocery Stores. I already live near a lawless New Hampshire border town, so I can go buy all the damn wine I want at a grocery store. And that would be a lot of wine. We switched to Wine Block to economize. The grocery store carries the yellow box, the pink box, and the red box. The rest of the state should enjoy similar privilege.

I still haven’t made up my mind on the ballot question that has something to do with childcare. I have a child, so that might one day affect me, if she didn’t incinerate babysitters with the power of her mind. John Kerry says I should vote for whatever the question is, but a friend’s home daycare provider who has a yard full of stray insulation rolls and auto parts says I should not vote for it. Dammit, I am going to have to read something to get to the bottom of this, aren’t I?

Naw, I’ll just let a baby vote. I knew there was some reason we keep her around. She’s getting good at typing, and she ate my grocery list the other day. I have to go lie down with my wine block and a curly straw.


I am a failure as a human being. I did not write a post yesterday. I started one, and it got erased. Nor did I vote in the Democratic primary today. The terrorists are winning! I should be more politically active than ever, what with having to hand this shitbucket of an earth over to an innocent child, but said innocent child is going through a phase not unlike the tortured adolescence of a Tasmanian Devil. This makes basic tasks im-fucking-possible. We reap what we sow. I guess. I also did not recycle. And I fired the babysitter. One day… a new record in didn’t work out. Reproduction…a supremely stupid idea. Er, I mean “it’s all worth it.” And it is worth it, for the five minutes of gummy smiling a day. But, you argue, you could hire an elderly homeless person if gummy smiling is your thing. I’m sorry, I am not breastfeeding the homeless. No matter how often that one guy on the third bench to the left of my house may ask. Speaking of breastfeeding, I was reading the “mystery diagnosis” column in the NYT magazine the other day, and a banner ad nagged “Babies were born to breastfeed.” I was already breastfeeding a baby right at that moment, and I got this mega defensive feeling, like “what the fuck more do you want from me, banner ad?” That banner ad wants to smoke a cigarette when it’s already smoking.

In closing, tits tits tits tits tits tits.

If you stand in line for twenty minutes, the terrorists have won

I went to the post office again today. I know, I know. The selling everything I own campaign is a bit trying, although it’s fun to imagine an obese shut-in in San Diego enjoying my used copy of The South Beach Diet. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring the wolverine, because she would have launched herself across the counter and gummed her way through the clerk’s jugular. She doesn’t like waiting. She was home watching General Hospital with a bottle of Southern Comfort, if you were wondering. No, she was poking a dead bird in the park with her father. What else?

Some dark-skinned men were attempting to mail some documents written in a non-Latin alphabet to a foreign country. The clerk was flummoxed and kept making them fill out more forms. She finally plugged some stuff into the computer, only to announce with a quaver that the package would arrive on… September 11th! Suddenly all the other clerks had to come over and inspect the package, while attempting to be casual. One of the men started making a cell phone call in a FOREIGN LANGUAGE. I was just waiting for the guy behind me to yell “Let’s roll” and strangle him with a roll of stamps. They were Indian. See, not even the bad brown people!

Mr. H is joining Content Challenge with a photo a day. A baby sits up like a little Rory Calhoun.

Second toughest in the infants

I have recently discovered that a baby hates other children She screws up her face and glares at the sound of their shrieks and giggles, but she is happy to make eyes at adults. It’s a good thing she’ll be an only child. Hell is other babies, darlin’.

Mr H and I celebrated our anniversary with spaghetti and meatballs, like Lady and the Tramp. Since I’m a tramp, I guess he has to be the lady. He cooked, as a lady should. He also bought my love with a gift, which took me off guard. We never exchange gifts because we usually buy whatever we want as it occurs to us. Which is probably why we’re broke. Shiftless Americans!

It’s getting to be that time in baby ownership when it’s possible to pull one’s head out of one’s ass for brief moments. I’ve read several disturbing articles that all go something like CIA, Bush, torture, torture, and I wish I could put my head right back in my ass. Oh wait, I can take a nice long nap with the Suri Cruise photo spread draped over my face. That’ll work.

Oh God, I am so weary of opening proxy envelopes. How did you know?

Today my checking acccount contains $664.44*. So darn close to beastliness. Clearly Mr. H did not get the Satanic Memo when he made that ill-considered ATM withdrawal yesterday. Learn some of the math, fucko!

People are all “So watcha gonna do if yer baby is born on SIX SIX SIX?” And I’m all “Yell and grunt, probably?” Mr. H pointed out that we live in the United States of Wackistan, and there must be some Fred Phelps-type groups fixin’ to pitchfork all children born on this date until they fly up to Jesus. But don’t they have some gay, gay marriages to worry about? We decided that if that feeble election year federal thing passes, we’ll get divorced. Yay! I always knew I’d make a good divorcee.

My future ex-husband is making me eggs. BRB!!!!!!!!

*Yes, we’re poor. All the bills come out in the first half of the month! The second half of the month is spent replenishing the room full of cocaine.