Tag Archives: zellweger

I have been invited to another damn baby shower

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Clearly I need a karmic tune-up. Therefore I sent several emails apologizing to people I’ve been avoiding.

Dear you, I am writing to say that I’m sorry for not touching base again about your client’s project. It sounded tedious and terrible, and I am sure you are a terrible person to work with as well. I trust you’ve found other options in my absence. Good riddance. Yours, Licketysplit.

Er. At least that was the subtext. And I would not really say “touching base.” That was just for effect.

I also volunteered to teach underprivileged children things. The program director responded enthusiastically, so this looks like a go. I am trying to figure out what underprivileged children might like to learn. They can teach me how to fashion a convincing shiv, and I can show them how to organize the extra buttons and thread you get with garments. I think I am going to have them write about their dumb lives, because who doesn’t like writing about his or her dumb life? They already do it all over the sides of buildings. Adorable urchins! Adorable!

I am also cleaning the house and doing the laundry, all by my lonesome. I gave Zellweger a whole week off. She’s in Tijuana. I hope she can hitchhike back in time to drop off the dry cleaning. There are flies circling that pile. For some reason, I just thought that last line in a Katharine Hepburn voice. Flies. Circling that pile. There are.

Daddy, I want a trained squirrel

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Happy St. Declan’s day! What did you buy me?

We have come to a difference of opinion, ’round the Vomitola household. Mr. H thinks I am simply not funny. While I regard the concept of stalking myself as comedy gold, his first thought was that he was worried that I actually do this around the house while he’s not here.

Oookay. Clearly, we have a problem. Either he’s a jerk, or I’m not funny, or I’m criminally insane and haven’t noticed yet. Actually, the beauty of being criminally insane is not caring what anyone else thinks. I will always think I’m funny, and Zellweger thinks I’m funny, so that’s all that matters. The rest of you can hang, hang I tell you!

Ah, self-esteem is a wonderous thing. It’s all part of being a massive celebrity. Did I mention that I have diamonds glued to my toenails? This is really quite fetching.

Celebrity skin

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It occurred to me that I refuse to actually achieve anything in my life because I still consider fame a viable career option. One of these days, I’m going to get swept up in the current and deposited on Oprah. I swear. Certainly, this would be more difficult if I had the entanglements of a real career. Luckily, I am generally fancy free, although one client just accepted my ridiculous total whore price for what promises to be the most annoying job in history. I am going to word the contract so I can fire him at any time. And Mr. H can feed the cat if I am called to Hollywood.

I realized that I am ill-prepared for fame, so I decided to create a Learning Annex-style crash course on how to handle it.

Part One: Dealing with unwanted attention

I decided to stalk myself. I started by going through the trash. The bathroom trash is really not that interesting. It’s mostly dental floss, and tissues with odd stains on them. Is it blood? Makeup? What? You all have these tissues, do not try to act like you don’t. The kitchen trash was the motherlode. It was filled to the brim with liquor bottles, pregnancy tests, rubber gloves, and empty pill bottles. Great! Now I know the name of my pharmacist. I photographed everything. I left Zellweger a note to shred everything, even the banana peels.

Then I decided to practice my expression for when I’m photographed on the sly. I sat in the living room with a camera for what seemed like forever, but I didn’t spot myself. Finally, I caught myself in the bathroom mirror. Augh! I look so fat! The camera is adding ten pounds. Nevermind! Composure. Happy place. I took my shirt off and pretended I was on a yacht. Composure.

As I left for the grocery store, I put on my largest pair of sunglasses and a fur bikini top. I threw red paint on myself as I was distracted by fumbling with the car remote. That’ll teach me! Never again will I let my guard down.

Then I was recognized at Starbucks. “Your drink will be up at the bar, Licketysplit!” And then again, “I have a soy latte for Licketysplit! Have a good day, Licketysplit!” My God, can’t these people see I am just out for a quiet afternoon? There’s a time and a place for fawning over a celebrity. Composure! I smiled graciously and adjusted my sunglasses. I pulled out a Sharpie and signed the bar. I’m sure they’ll want to hang it on the wall in a glass case now.

Tomorrow: Part Two: Money management

It was easy! Because In stinked.

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Gah, internet, gah. I woke up with my head wrapped up in the covers, like mummy. I think I was secretly trying to smother myself. I don’t know what’s up with the universe these days. I am constantly spotting 11:11 on the clocks, and last time that happened, we spent our life savings. Who needs Vegas when one comes factory-equipped with a lifetime supply of stupid ideas?

Some things are clearing up, however. The battle of the printer was won decisively, by getting a new one and kicking the old one. The mystery of “Who’s Been Pooping on the Stairs?” was solved. It was the woodchuck all along! And I thought it was the raccoon. A real novice move. And I wondered where the clean laundry was hiding, but Zellweger left it in the dryer.

Hey, let’s talk childhood. I was on the phone with my mom the other day, and we got to discussing my old drawings. I asked “Do you mean the Easter Island ones?” She read me and Loves-the-Bus the story of Thor Heyerdahl, and since I couldn’t sit still, I was allowed to draw. I drew the natives skulking through underground tunnels and rolling logs under those giant stone heads.

No, my mom was referring to the drawings she made me do for a contest. A children’s theater company in Richmond selected a drawing for the cover of the program for each season’s production. I recall determinedly scribbling about Cinderella and Pinocchio and Peter Pan and Charlie’s Angels. And then my mom said “And your drawings were so wonderful, so full of life.”

“Yeah? Well how come I never won?” That used to burn my ass every time I saw some other kid’s drawing on the next cover. Even at age six, I had a strong sense of injustice.

“I don’t know, I guess they never had the same feeling after I made you go back and correct them.”

“You what?”

“It was like your pencil never left the paper on your first pass. You just had all these details in your head, and you just let them flow. So I’d have you go back and straighten out lines and things like that. You always drew windows crooked.”

“….”

Ethicist: should I bill her for therapy, plus my usual hourly consulting rate for time spent in therapy?

Already today

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I ate a mildly fermented orange. Will this kill me?

I directed a whore who is new in town to a place to get her acrylic nails repaired.

I stocked up on a whole ton of birth control for the day it is declared illegal.

The cat punctured my exercise ball. I shouldn’t have thrown her anywhere near it. Now I realize all the howling was just to warn me not to eat the deadly orange. Sorry, Cat Lassie. Nothing a little duct tape won’t fix.

I had my hair cut by the Sally Hershberger of Lowell. Next week she is going to bring out my inner bottle blonde. No wonder that whore sought me out. While I was in the salon, a man came in and assumed the asian stylist did massages. What an assumption! I know she really runs a counterfeit Harry Potter ring out of the back of the place.

Zellweger forgot to add fabric softener.

Nobody’s perfect, not even meeeeeeeeeeeee

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I’m hungry. Also, I just moisturized. The internet deserves to know. I probably should not post while hungry. I probably shouldn’t post at all. I have a pasta deficiency. And a cookie deficiency. I ran out. It’s like Darfur over here.

What is the most offensive thing I can possibly say? I am not sure, but I’ll know it when I get there. Should I go with a fat joke, an ethnic joke, a handicapped joke, or just make throw-up sounds? The sky truly is the limit in Content Challenge.

Mr. H had some fancy test at the hospital today, and they said he is still most likely not dying. They stuck needles in his arm and passed an electric current through a spot on the arm marked with an X. The verdict: he did not enjoy this much. Maybe they could jazz up this test, like an episode of Fear Factor. Tank of electric eels, please! I used my medical training to diagnose some people in the waiting room as elderly. Later, on the drive home, I diagnosed someone as a douche bag. The telltale sign of this disorder is total disregard for the turn signal.

Sunday, sunday, sunday

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At this point, the casual reader of Content Challenge is probably far more taxed than the writer. See, I can just say any old stupid thing, and it ostensibly counts. Maybe I am expressing myself. OK, I’m so not. Hazelnut beer is being consumed. I’m watching an old episode of America’s Next Top Model as I type. Whatever happened to Yoanna anyway? Haha, you totally just read all that. I offer no refunds, since this is free “content.”

OK, I’m sorry. I love you! I’ll Zellweger you all tomorrrow.

We went furniture shopping again, and it was an eye-popping experience. Willy Wonka was showing on the IMAX screen in the store (yes, really), and grubby children swarmed around with chocolate smeared all over their faces from the free Wonka bars. People appeared to be using the available wheelchairs and scooters to get around the store just because they don’t like to walk. Yeah, and I get sick of breathing. But somehow I soldier on. Oh my gawd, Yoanna can’t walk her way out of a paper bag. She would be so fierce on a Rascal scooter.

Beads that sparkle like a prism, snake oil for your rheumatism

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OMG, I am the worst captor ever! I left my Zellweger at a rest stop two weeks ago. Didn’t even notice until the laundry started piling up. Well, hell. She must have gnawed off her ankle bracelet, because I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she was put off by Theater in the Car. I think I was doing selections from Gigi that week.

And today I slept in, only to wake up to more perplexing acts of human awfulness. The mind reels. Should I go back to bed? Should I spend quality time staring into my new 10x magnifying mirror? Should I delete all these emails from MoveOn.org and NARAL hectoring me about the supreme court? Should I purchase a trailer in the woods? Should I stick my head in the oven? No, because the oven is filthy since I had to let the help go. Oh balls, I’m sure I’ll think of something. A telethon! Tom Cruise is in charge of the phone bank. The prescription for PTSD is long walks on the beach and a tinfoil helmet.

Sharks are jumpin and the cotton is high

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Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy sexy! I’ve got Zellweger down in the basement Zellwegering the laundry. She knows her way around the delicates, that girl.

Every day (everyday) I think “Man, this is it, the day I finally eat the whole thing.” But I never do. You know why? Because I am Bartleby. I prefer not to. Also, I am too lazy to walk to the fridge. I wish the ceiling would just rain Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. I could tip my head back like a baby bird.

What do I prefer, you ask? Well, there’s shouting at the help, kicking the pets, and cheating on my spouse. And heavy, heavy drinking. This morning’s plans were spontaneous: I ran someone off the road for the first time in a long while, and that was great. After evading the police, I arrived home just in time to lay a trap for the mailman. I’ve hidden a black widow spider in the box! Now I’m going to have Consuela (my dumbass housekeeper with the stereotypical housekeeper name) throw out all the expired yogurts.

Oh what a beautiful

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Morning, worms. Today would be just the best day to cover myself in Fritesaus and beach myself on the deck until the birds pick my bones clean, but instead I am here for you. For you! Since “weblogs” all jumped the shark sometime last year, I am going to ram this baby right into the iceberg. Are you with me? I want to make this site (cite) the Cousin Oliver of the internet! Joanie loves Chachi, and they both love hearing about what I ate for breakfast. I want to be the Golden Palace to your Golden Girls. Bring it. Oh, consider it brung.

I was at the grocery store yesterday waiting to put in my order at the fish counter (should I order the fish or the fish? I KNOW!), and I got distracted by this pile of especially sensuous filets with glistening skin. I was thinking about how it would be great to stitch them all together and make a suit, and I was picturing myself wearing this suit up and down the aisles, and there would be music playing and lights flashing. And then I was all “Self, someone is talking to you, oh, what is he saying, respond with a pleasantry, oh, which one to use, ok, let’s try ‘hey, how ya doin’?,’ but you don’t care how he’s doing and maybe that won’t even fit, but let’s give it a shot anyway.” So I said “Hey, how ya doin’?” and asked for 3/4 of a pound of…wait for it…scallops! And then I went back to thinking about my fish suit, and then it was time to tune in again, and what was this guy saying to me? Honestly, how many decisions must one person be forced to bear? So I said “sure,” hoping that would do. I guess it did, because he handed me a bucket of scallops. I don’t know what I would have done if he had presented me with orange roughy or previously frozen shrimp. And I said “Have a good day,” and then I felt like a jerk because I realized this dude with the fading black eye works at a fish counter and shitheels tell him to have a good day for eight hours! There is no way he is having a good day! At this fish counter there is probably a whole underbelly of gossip and crab leg fights that I don’t get to see, and maybe that’s part of a good day. Maybe once he leaves and removes his scale-encrusted apron and lights a fattie in the parking lot he will have a good day. God. Everyone should light a fattie in the parking lot.