B.Desmond:The Early Years 2009-2013
Bellamy Desmond: The Early Years 2009-2011
So I’m at a bar with Boombalattie (ahhh, so many of my best stories start out like this… too bad I black out and forget to write them down), and this chick that I had never met before says to me, “YOU’RE Bellamy Desmond!” And the inflection in her voice was surprising devoid of ridicule. (Ego-gasm!) It is thanks to this delightful woman with brilliant taste (and amazing data recovery skills) that you are about to trip the light banal with Bell once again…
Unfortunately, because Hecubus is Dyslexic and Spastic, and I am Lazy and usually Drunk, posts are in no particular order.
And sadly, many of my images were irretrievable, including those of my beloved Sea-Monkeys. I’ve tried to remove most of the posts that rely on pictures, but because I’m Lazy and on my way to being Drunk, I’ve lost the incentive to go through all this shit a second time.
I’m Back, Bitches.
I am a Junk Suspect
I seem to have transitioned from Insomniac to Chronic Oversleeper (Hec subscribed me to some career-tip website that emails me tidbits like: “Why Oversleeping Can be Dangerous;” keeping me up-to-date with all of my lifestyle transgressions).
The Good Bit:
- I get to spend even more time in the vibrant realm of Bellamy’s Subconscious.
The Bad Bit:
- I get to spend even more time in the vibrant realm of Bellamy’s Subconscious.
Also, I’m exhausted. And also, I’m a lot less productive. And also, I’m a lot less creative. And also, I gave up caffeine.
But the cat is happy to have so much more quality (aka, unconscious) time with me, so it’s all good…
And now, time for today’s, Annoying Habits of Hecubus
I’ve mentioned, no doubt on more than one occasion, how having Hec home with me in the mornings is ~ for lack of a better word ~ delightful. Despite my current propensity to hibernate, I do still eventually crawl out of bed each morning and I do have a (albeit haphazard) routine. The routine bit: I immediately don my Nano. The haphazard bit: I generally clean stuff, but occasionally will face the degrading taunts from my Wii-Fit instructor avatar. (That Bitch).
For the sake of both my sanity and my marriage, I have learned to make concessions for the Nano interruptions. I assume it’s similar to what Hec has done for The Cat. Both my Nano and The Cat exist. I shall never listen to a book without countless pauses; Hec shall ceaselessly be awoken in the night by The Cat smacking him across the head.
Marriage is about sacrifices.
But the other thing about Hec in the morning is that He Wanders. Seriously, the man walks a mile while brushing his teeth. And that mile-long road is inevitably paved in the location of Where I Need to Be. I need to get to the dresser. Hec is there, frothing at the mouth, electric toothbrush gripped in his mitt of a hand. I need to get to the closet… I need to get to the refrigerator… I need to get out the door… I’ll give him this: he has the power of omnipresence. (For it cannot be stealth. Have you ever heard Hec “tip-toe?” It’s deafening.)
Also, Hec begins conversations as soon as he slams back a shot of Listerine: “Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmm – Swish, Swish – Hand Gesture, Hand Gesture.”
Me: You’re going to take up backgammon?
Hec: Hmm, HMM! – Hand Gesture, Hand Gesture.
Me: You’re Ti-Vo-ing a marathon of Sigmund the Sea-Monster? You’re thinking of running for Pope? You’re juvenilely amused by misshapen vegetables.
“I Haven’t Been Myself Lately”
I say that so often that I’m starting to wonder just who the hell I think I am. If not being myself becomes a daily event, will it mean I’ve morphed into a new self? Or will it be a duplicate self and I’ll still retain the other self which I will sometimes be when I’m not being myself?
Were I to spend less time in contemplation of such nonsense and more time working on my log cabin, my cat wouldn’t be homeless right now.
So I’ve just updated my resume with the title “Expert Corset Lacer.” No, I haven’t spent my day in the brothels of yore again; rather, Little Sister is getting married and I am to be the Matron of Honor. Matron. Really? Why not just say, “Old Married Bat Who Will Stand Next to Me at My Wedding. Avoid her if you can. She smells of cooking sherry and enjoys talking about her cat.”
Sadly, this description fits me fairly well.
If a Maid of Honor titters and fusses with your hair and tells you you’re “glowing,” what does a Matron of Honor do? I picture a solid looking Victorian woman in a floral dress with lots of strategically piled hair, pulling the bride aside and delicately explaining what The Wedding Night will be like; assuring the blushing bride that it doesn’t last long and once she bears the Groom a son, he’ll begin satisfying his repulsive manly urges with the whores down in the quarter.
Would it surprise you to hear that I’m not much of a wedding person? Cynicism about marriage aside, I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. Not that I didn’t have a wedding, I did. It was delightful. My contribution to the event was to:
- Pick out a dress.
- Purchase the dress.
- Wear the dress.
- Select the cake…
The cake I selected was pistachio with some sort of raspberry liqueur frosting, so I fucked up number 4 fairly well. Even the woman serving me the cake to sample looked at me cross-eyed.
“Here we have chocolate truffle cake, a white cake with a buttercream frosting, and this abortion of a cake that I tossed some pistachios into so that it would appeal to the “eccentric” brides-to-be of the world. No one will eat this cake at the wedding, and yet you will preserve a bit in your freezer and attempt to consume it on your first anniversary, at which point, it will be beyond vile. Since brides-to-be who select this cake generally don’t make it to the first anniversary, this may not be an issue for you.”
“Yes please. I’ll take that one.”
In my defense: I’m not a sweetie-eater. I blame Hec for giving me this task when all he had to do was plan the entire wedding.
And now here’s the cynicism about marriage that I put aside earlier: As delightful as it is to spend a year of mortgage payments on a four hour event at which Uncle Bob is going to get shit-faced and throw up all over the flower girl, statistically, the odds are against you and your beloved reaching the “Until death do us part” bit.
Here’s the deal: being a practical kind of gal, I have been planning the demise of my marriage since childhood. Well, that’s not quite true. I spent my childhood planning on not getting married, so it’s really just since I actually got engaged to Hec that I’ve been planning on said demise. While I have yet to begin siphoning funds from our joint account into my private account, I do have certain rules that I feel will keep me independent enough to instantly recover from the inevitable Kick to the Curb:
Rule 1: Never become attached.
Rule 2: Maintain separate households.
Rule 3: Turn the cat against him.
Rule 4: Do not, under any circumstances, wash his underwear.
At least I’m maintaining Rule 3.
Driving home this morning (impromptu sleepover due to overindulgence – an act that is unfortunately, very much “Being Myself”), I was thinking of Hecubus. Of our lives together. How Hec is synonymous with Home for me. But loving Hec means never being sentimental for too long…
So the house was empty (except for The Cat) when I got home. Slightly saddened, I took a shower, chugged down my daily drug ration, and prepared to leave for The Wedding Dress Shop. But alas, who hearkens upon my doorstep? Could that dainty trod be the elephantine steps of my darling Hecubus? Yes! It is! It is my Hecubus! He opens the door, and he says to me:
“Look at this big bucket of ice melt that Al bought for us! Do you see how much ice melt that is? That’s a lot of ice melt! Where are the plastic cups? Don’t we have any plastic cups? I need one to scoop the ice melt. Have you looked at how big that bucket of ice melt is yet? We really needed ice melt. And Al bought it for us. Wasn’t that nice of him? To buy us all that ice melt?”
And out I went again.
Thank you for the ice melt, Al.
I Have No Resolve
If you’ve made a New Year’s Resolution, Go You! Seriously.
My personal New Year’s Resolution is to stop saying, “Seriously.” But don’t let that discourage you.
Hecubus, New Hampshire’s newest teetotaler, has taken to calling me “Crazy Broad.” Thus I can only assume that he’s given up sex along with alcohol. Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid now that I’m drinking for two…
For my part, I’ve given up coffee and embraced vegetarianism. Although pre-Hecubus I was a non-coffee drinking vegetarian, so I don’t know that I’m sacrificing as much as I am regressing.
Either way, here’s a question: Why are there so many Crazy Cat Ladies, and so few Crazy Cat Men?
At Home with Hitler and Trilling with Trololo
It was inevitable, I suppose, although there was a time when I would have scoffed at the idea: Hec is not home and I am watching a documentary about Hitler.
I wonder what the other Mrs. Charles J. Troeber is doing right now… If she’s swimming in her in-ground pool, I’m going to be so pissed off.
My Charles J. Troeber Theory: Charles J. Troeber (aka Hecubus) lived on a vineyard estate in Sonoma, California, had a gorgeous, patient, non-perverse wife and two cherubic children who had a nanny even more gorgeous than the wife. Tragically, Charles banged his head during a mechanical grape-picking accident, rendering him a wandering amnesiac and ultimately, a bombastic, yet lovable, computer geek. Mrs. Troeber spent the next year of her life desperately searching for Charles, but was ultimately seduced by the gorgeous nanny into cashing the life insurance checks, packing the kids off to boarding school, and forming a commune where hot lesbians can keep the cliché of hot-lesbianism alive… and make goat cheese.
Meanwhile, Hecubus found me.
And that’s why I’m home alone on New Year’s Eve day, watching a documentary about Hitler.
And now Ladies & Gentlemen, without further ado, Trololo!
Recently, Dr. Hecubus H. Desmond, renowned Ancient Alien Theorist and Manual Laborer, unearthed a shocking discovery. BellamyDesmond.com was granted the honor of his first interview. This Chick was on the scene:
“Doctor Hecubus, what inspired you to implement a major archeological dig in this remote Hampton, New Hampshire location?”
“Well, This Chick, I’ll tell you. My adorable yet slightly neurotic wife recently expressed concern about mildew in basements and its potential effect on brain cell activity.”
“But Doctor Hecubus, is your wife not aware that her wine consumption poses a far more formidable threat to her cognitive functioning?”
Doctor Hecubus’ reply to this question is unintelligible.
“Doctor Hecubus, what you have unveiled is so alarming; at no point in history has such an anomaly been revealed. What would you say to prepare our audience for what they are about to see?”
“What you must understand, This Chick, is that what I have unearthed is far more than an artistic abortion. Rather, these Elephants trumpet the tale of America during the Infamous Gelatin Mold years.”
“Thank you, Doctor Hecubus. Now please select a set of keys from the fish bowl and show yourself out.
A Year Without a Pork Product…
I just can’t tear Hecubus away from his Festivus almonds…
Mom, in an unanticipated and somewhat tragic break from the norm, decided to not shop for Hecubus in the Potted Meat Section of her kitchen pantry this year; instead selecting a can of crème brulee flavored almonds, almost certainly purchased from the “food that seemed like a decent idea at the time but was never accepted by the general public” aisle at Marshall’s.
Also unfortunate is the death of mom’s dog, whom I liked despite myself and who, for his part, was weirdly into me. For the first time in recent Festivus history, I did not receive a gift bag from “Rocky” stuffed with tissue paper and polyester leopard print lingerie or string bikini underwear broadcasting the promise of a “Touchdown.”
Damn, but I miss that dog. This year I got socks.
Which in no way means that I haven’t been – once again – spoiled far beyond what I deserve by Hecubus. Thanks to him and the collaborative efforts of Team Andover, I’m typing this blog on my lavender (excellent color choice, guys) HP Mini. Also, stay tuned for annoying videos of my cat, which I will no doubt post ad nauseum once I figure my camera out.
To Date Christmas Week Adventures:
- Announcing to Hec that I was alphabetizing the DVDs, his unexpected emotional reaction, and the reorg back to “genre.”
- Relaxing to the tranquil sounds of “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.”
- Unwrapping my Big Lick t-shirt.
- Playing Play-Dough with my favorite OCD four-year old, who never, ever lets the different colors touch (while I did my best to ignore the pieces that had fallen onto the floor).
- Observing Hecubus studying his gift of Gun Oil.
And now, the champagne cork has been popped. The holiday stylings of Lunch Lady Land are emanating from the iHome. The hardened bits of Play-Dough have been swept from the floor. There’s a Doctor Who marathon on BBC America and a Tron Wii-game on the (genre organized) DVD shelf. Time to gather up Hecubus and celebrate Today Desmond-Style.
Happy Festivus to You and Yours.
And remember, there’s no such thing as a “Gift Pack” of Spam.”
You know what exhausts me during the holidays? No, it’s not the decking of the halls or the donning of my gay apparel. It’s not even the wassailing (although a good wassail often winds me). Rather, it’s the ham cubing.
That’s why I buy Carolina Pride Smoked Cubed Ham… for all my smoked cubed ham needs.
Whether I’m preparing my family’s traditional delicious and decorative “Cubed Ham and Gherkins on a Toothpick” or experimenting with an innovative fusion dish of Cubed Ham and Miracle Whip Caviar, Carolina Pride Smoked Cubed Ham saves me not only time, but also the frustration of being refused a sharp knife by the orderlies here at the home of the criminally insane…
“Carolina Pride Smoked Cubed Ham… When You Want Smoked Cubed Ham… from the Carolinas.”
Hecubus is Charles J. Troeber
Prompted by the T.V., I enter Hecubus’ name on BeenVerified.com. The Results:
- I’m Fourth on his “Possible Relatives” list.
- His ex from the 80’s is First.
- His sister-in-law is Second.
- His brother is Third.
- Charles J. Troeber is Fifth.
I enter my name on BeenVerified.com. The Results:
- Hecubus is First on my “Possible Relatives” list.
- Beloved Woo is Second.
- Charles J. Troeber is Third.
I enter Charles J. Troeber on BeenVerified.com. The Results:
- Hec is First on his “Possible Relatives” list.
- I’m Second.
- Charles J. Troeber’s alias is “Hecubus Desmond.”
My Life is Naught but a Lie.
Is there a Mrs. Charles J. Troeber? I’m really hoping that I’m the second wife; that Charles was driven to an additional identity by the utterly insufficient (and small breasted) Old Lady Troeber.
Alternately, is Charles an escape from Train Wreck Bellamy?
Is there a Charles J. Troeber, Jr.? Or a Charlita? If so, are they on Hec’s IRA beneficiary list?
Is Hecubus (or Charles) really a DOG PERSON?
Other people I now suspect Hecubus of being:
- The Man on the Grassy Knoll
- Deep Throat
- Don Draper
Honesty and an Ode…
I’ve been waiting – I’d Like to Thank Jesus” speech in hand – for the paparazzi to contact me. Sadly, it appears that fame and fortune is eluding this “Gansett Girl” (of the week).
If The Press is knock-knock-knocking on Cricket’s door, she is once again nobly protecting me.
What I know for Sure: They’re real. All four of them…
Under different circumstances, I would sigh and be thankful for my day job, were it not for the loss of my beloved SSI…
SSI – before he was SSI – arrived. Despite his uber-posh Ivy League degree, I was wary of him from the start. After all, how dead inside must one be to accept a job from the Cap’n?
Merely two days later, I divined that this man had a Sense of Humor… and I selflessly advised him to run away as fast as he could…
Soon-to-be SSI heeded me not, leaving me naught to do but dub him Super Slave Intern – the only (surviving) inferior to Menial Task Girl. (Actually, the title Super Slave Intern was his idea – but legally, I don’t think I need to give an Inferior any props… nor any residuals.)
Donning a Newspaper Cape, SSI faithfully stood by my side for seven months. We laughed. We cried. We exchanged non-sequitors. He gave me Sriracha; I gave him a sock monkey key cover.
More than any of that, we were partners in the Fight Against Evil.
Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for SSI, sometimes Evil wins.
Up, up, and away, My Adored SSI – Try to avoid sulfates…
Posted by Bellamy on September 16, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
The Thrifty Tippler
Should wine be categorized in my budget as Groceries, Health Care & Medications, Recreation, Personal Care, or Entertainment? As CFO of the Desmond household, I feel I have a responsibility to plop it all down as Luxury, but as Resident Self-Delusional Wino, I’m planning to distribute the expense equally over the other aforementioned categories.
The major topic of this morning (second only to how much FairPoint ‘Supervisor Amanda’ sucks – and I don’t mean in the good way), was the impending production of Desmond House ‘Shine. It seems Hecubus, inspired by the clever packaging of Mason jar whiskey, has denigrated our Concord grape plans from jam to rotgut. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me to strap myself to this bandwagon.
In related news, I’m joining a jug band.
Guns and Gansett
As a Gun-Totin’ Chick – who hit the target 12 out of 50 rounds last week, thank you very much – I have been invited to join The Guys in their monthly Range Day. Hecubus has bought me a new Giants hat for the occasion, informing me that “guys like chicks who have a ponytail hanging out of the back of a baseball cap.” And isn’t that reason enough for me, a despiser of nearly all things football, to don some team garb? Rah-Rah-Rah.
Thus far, I’m the only chick I’ve spotted at the range, and the reactions to me from the men have been mixed. There are:
- The ones who don’t make eye contact with me – who fall into two categories: a.) The ones who don’t make eye contact because they prefer to ignore my existence; and b.) The ones who don’t make eye contact because they’re leering at my breasts.
- The ones who will talk to Hec about me as if I’m not there, as in, “That’s a good gun for your little wife.”
- The Old Codgers who nod at, but not speak to, me.
- The ones who glare at me sideways ‘cause I should be home fixin’ up some vittles.
- The ones who have evolved.
It’s all well and good, though. Hec and I really needed a hobby to do together that didn’t involve watching movies and drinking wine. So now we go shooting… and then clean our guns and drink wine. And then we watch a movie. And drink more wine.
The Sublime & the Ridiculous… But Mainly the Ridiculous…
Posted by Bellamy on September 9, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
My silence is not indicative of a lack of material, just of my inability to write any of it down. It can be overwhelming to select one piece of absurdity from the heap and focus on it. For instance, should I write about:
- Grain milling
- Gun toting
- The every-accumulating perversities of Our Lifestyle
- Canned quail eggs
- My mother’s closet full of vibrators
- Food hoarding
- The Renter’s swollen, naked torso, or
- Hecubus in General?
And who would believe that, despite these Daily Adventures, I had nearly lost my sense of humor?
Like, so nearly that I considered becoming a Grown-up who wears slacks and blouses and watches the Weather Channel 24/7 and eats meatloaf.
Luckily for us all, there’s the Cap’n. (For those of you who haven’t already met the Cap’n, that’s short for “Captain Oppressive.” He pays me to be miserable.)
Today’s lesson from the Cap’n:
How to flush the toilet.
“Bell, I’ve just realized that I haven’t given everyone a lesson on how to flush the toilet yet.”
And I just like that, I’m back.
The Weekend Grind…
Posted by Bellamy on August 7, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
You may think that I write improbable dialog, but that’s only if you haven’t spent time around Hecubus and me. This past Friday morning, our tête-à-tête went something very much like this:
Me: You know, if the stock market continues to fall, I’ll probably be out of a job.
Hec: Good. You’ll have more time for grinding.
Me: Yes, and for using our grain mill.
At that point in the conversation, Hec released me from my post-Apocalyptic whoring-for-food duties.
Just a few minutes later, I heard Hec on the phone with Djr, talking about food hoarding and me whoring, at which point I interjected: “Wait, I thought you took me off food-whoring detail?”
Hecubus: True, but there will be times when you’ll need to fill in for the other food-whores.
Me: So now I’m a food-whore TEMP?
I’m so insulted. I hope the full-time food whores will show me how to use the copy machine…
And because I’m a spoiled twat who is constantly inundated by surprises from her husband, I am now the proud owner of a Deer Bag. Being a frugal kind of gal, I especially appreciate the “Reusable” feature, as I assume this means I can throw the bloody, gut spattered deer bag into the washing machine with my delicates. Since Hecubus usually has to bring a deer leg to bed with him in order to generate the aphrodisiac of venison-scented lingerie, this is bound to save both money and time…
Saturday Afternoon Fever
Posted by Bellamy on August 6, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
The Scene: A Saturday afternoon (about 10 minutes ago), the infamous couple Hecubus and Bellamy Desmond are eating Vietnamese dumplings and listening to the Beatles channel on Pandora.
Bellamy: You know, I’ve just realized who I am. I’m your Linda McCartney.
Hecubus: Yeah, but I’m not going to marry some one-legged broad after you die of Cancer.
The Greenest I’ve Been…
Posted by Bellamy on August 1, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather...
If I’ve been neglectful of you, Dear Readers, it is because my time has been spent going through prosciutto withdrawal whilst searching for new and innovative recipes for garbanzo beans. I’ve also been dealing with the psychological ramifications of acknowledging that my new “Hec-ified State” fails to jive with my cynical charm.
You see, I have at last embraced (or perhaps, succumbed to) Gluten-Free Vegetarian Hecubus’ new Lifestyle, only to discover that I’d best find some damn good legume recipes if I’m going to survive without cured pork products.
Sadly, Green Goddess Earth Mother that I now am, I must admit to groovin’ on spending the day in the kitchen making my own vegetable broth out of Mirepoix (because I’m both Green and immensely cultured now) and vegetable scraps. The funny and / or sad and scary bit is that Hec fights to eat the scraps after they’ve been cooking for two hours, insisting that they’re delicious and once again making a mockery of his assertions that I’m a good cook.
Hec: Mmm… this is great! What is it?
Me: Yeah, those are some old leek greens that were going soft, collard green stems and the remains of a zucchini that’s seen better days. Eat up.
Since I doubt you would be interested in my new found passion for gluten-free pizza crust and recipes such as Chickpea Pot Pie, I’ll strive to tap my Inner Bellamy: the less kind, less gentle Me. I mourn for the Bellamy I’ve already lost and fear for what remains of her… for my Country Living Grain Mill is on its way…
I am completely serious.
Something else of note: Hecubus bought me a Flip Video Recorder for my birthday, so hold your breath for some titillating footage of my cat not moving for hours at a time. (Until, that is, Hec lobs an Angry Bird at him – since Envy Me, I have the entire plush collection – and then yells “Got Him!” And he wonders why Henry isn’t too keen on him.)
Drinking Hec’s Kool-Aid and Eating his Tofurky
Posted by Bellamy on July 15, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
Despite another birthday, I apparently still have a role to play in Hec’s TEOTWAWKI plan. I had assumed I’d be transitioning from Whoring for Food to Gardening, having effectively proven that I don’t have a brown thumb after all, but Hec has informed me otherwise:
Me: (After successfully canning my first batch of salsa) So now I’ll be in charge of gardening and canning.
Hec: As long as it doesn’t interfere with your food whoring.
Me: I’m 39, I think my whoring days are over.
Hec: Oh no, your whoring days are just beginning.
So far, the closest I’ve come to whoring is the Bikini Malfunction I had this morning at the pool (yes, we’re on another minibreak, and yes, of course we’re at a Marriot). I did, however, see my first Male Prostitution transaction last night at the hotel bar. It was extremely anti-climactic. The prostitute looked like a scrawnier version of Elvis Costello and had the intellectual capacity of a water chestnut. His pimp was this old dude donning an ill-fitting suit jacket and a blue tooth device. The john had a even worse suit jacket and, most likely, a wife and three kids.
Do you know how difficult it is to come up with a transitional phrase that smoothly connects male prostitution to Tofurky consumption? I suppose I could do something with the word “meat,” but that would be a stretch…
So without further ado, here are some images of last weekend’s Tofuky feast:
Oh, where to begin…
Let’s start with the Hec Hand. My faithful hand model, who constantly warns me to be careful with knives – despite the face that I daily (and successfully) wield a Wusthof Drieden, wandered in from the garage last Sunday and requested a towel. After he had bled through the first one while contemplating a butterfly bandage, we landed up at the ER. While I played Angry Birds for an hour and a half, Hec and the nurses did their best to keep each other “in stitches.” (Groan, but that was cheesy. I’ve been with Hec too long…)
As for the Tofurky, it was actually good, if visually repulsive. The “wishbone” turkey jerky was disappointing, though. I guess the “winner” is the person who lands up with the biggest piece of jerky, but really, what kind of prize is that?
Hec’s going stir crazy trying not to talk to me while I write and I’m losing my ability to tune out Boomer and Carton, so I’m off to shower…
Posted by Bellamy on June 17, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
Not being a sadist, I allowed my bridesmaids to select their own dresses. And now, in order to disprove the adage “What comes around goes around,” I offer the following photo:
While I appreciate the fact that the dress comes with its own breasts, the strappy, sparkly shoes make me uneasy. I have been limited to either wearing stockings and modeling that “old lady in sandals and pantyhose look,” or showing off my fabulously white legs – speckled, as they are with, with black and blues.
Ah well, it’s the bride who’s meant to be beautiful anyway…
The funny thing about today’s nuptials is the officiant, known affectionately to me as Hecubus. That’s right, Hecubus has been handed a captive audience… and I, in turn, have handed Hecubus a script. It’s bound to be an adventuresome ceremony, considering that Hec was directing people to address him as “Your Eminence” at the rehearsal dinner and continually asks at what point he can say, “Let Us Pray.”
Hec had just best leave off his advice to the groom: “Welcome to the family. I hope you brought your lithium,” which was funny until I realized that I’m part of the family the groom is being welcomed into…
Oh, and as of 8:00 tonight: Dress for Sale.
8 Super Goonie Extra Terrestrials of the Third Kind
Super 8 would have been a lot shorter if the creature had been given a Halls cough drop with a motivational wrapper reading: “Believe in You” and “You can build a space ship out of Rubik’s Cubes without eating all of those people first.”
But I’ve been warned against a penning a scathing, cynical review from Hecubus, who preferred the 2-minute Zombie movie at the end of the real film and to whom I was forced to admit, having spent an hour sobbing at a heap of trite, clichéd plot lines, that “I’m losing my edge.”
And now, the Best Quote of the Day:
“They’re for feeding babies, not for men to play with.”
Since the embittered, sexually frustrated old bat whom I’m quoting failed to identify what “They” are, I’ll assume she meant “spoons.”
I Like Myself… That and Five Bucks Will Buy Me Six Ounces of Cumin…
Posted by Bellamy on June 9, 2011 in Bellamy’s Blather…
One of my favorite expressions is, “You’ve Done the Work.” In Oprah-speak, this means that you’ve spent an astronomical amount of time and money with another human being who encourages you to blame you parents, your childhood, your early relationships, and the loss of your first goldfish (and your Dad flushing said goldfish down the toilet… oh, and your Dad is naked) for your inability to fold a fitted bed sheet.
I speak from experience, having Done the Work.
I wish I could seamlessly work the phrase “Drinking the Kool-Aid” into that diatribe because I really want to use the line: “I regurgitated that Kool-Aid.”
Ooh – but here’s an even better one: “I never swallowed the Kool-Aid. Rather, I spit it into the Cumin Bucket, but NOT the TEOTWAWKI Cumin Bucket.” (That’s a Blue Milk joke, kids.)
But I digress.
During this series of This Chick’s Perspective (and when I say “series,” I mean this entry, because I’m quite obviously easily bored), we will review Self Esteem: Pop-Psychology in Fiscal Year 2011 or “How a Trip to 7-11 Could Have Saved Me Thousands of Dollars and Been Just as Ineffectual:”
And now I’m off to Conquer the Day… or to drag myself to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine.
If you’ve any complaints about the lack of cohesion in this entry, then you’re quite obviously lacking something, because it’s certainly not me. I’ve Done The Work
October 8th, 2009
Have the characters in zombie movies ever actually seen a zombie movie?
Personally, I’ve watched enough of them to know that when the zombies come, I’ll be ready. Theoretically, I would be wearing that asymmetrical red dress and thigh high black boots a la Milla Jovovich in the first Resident Evil. Not having ever been a Ukrainian supermodel however, I recognize that my chances of pulling off said look are slim… and I really don’t want to be fighting off the living dead looking like a middle-aged suburban whore…
But, wardrobe aside, here are some basic recommendations:
- First and foremost, it’s all about automatic weapons. You don’t want to be fumbling with reloading a double barrel shotgun when a blood-frothing zombie is coming at you with the sole intention of brain consumption. But be practical; do not select a weapon that you can’t handle (or lift). And start training now, because in life there are only three inevitabilities: change, death, and a world of zombie domination.
- Witty dialog is a must ~ a little levity being essential during trying times. Also, the whiners are historically the first ones to get eaten.
- Music is not incidental… you will require tunes to kick-ass to. Given my druthers, I would select the soundtrack to the 2004 version of Dawn of the Dead.
- If you’re trapped in a mall with restaurants, hoard the booze. There’s no need to be sharing with the other un-undead… This isn’t kindergarten… This is survival.
So, Zombieland… disappointing. I’ll start by saying this: you can dress-up a skinny, pasty kid in a hoodie and give him a dry-wit, but it won’t make him Michael Cera. Nice try.
Also, absolute worst celebrity cameo kiss-up scene in movie history. Really. Bill… Bill…. Bill… how the mighty have fallen. Did the reviews for Lost in Translation not stroke your ego enough?
Sigh. Life… it will only break your heart… Especially if you equate movies with life.
October 6th, 2009
It being 5:30 and pre-pottery, it’s not technically Tuesday night…
Just logged onto Audible.com and received notification about how “delighted” Winnie the Pooh fans would be with the new long-awaited follow-up to The House on Pooh Corner.
I’m sorry, isn’t A.A. Milne dead? Oh… the text has been approved by the Trustees ~ you know, the folks who control the checkbook…
Words cannot express… and so I shall break my own rules and inquire, “W T F ?”
Gotta’ run… lots more work to do on Slaughterhouse 5 – II – Electric Boogaloo…
October 6th, 2009
- a person who suffers from a destructive or injurious action or agency: a victim of an automobile accident.
- a person who is deceived or cheated, as by his or her own emotions or ignorance, by the dishonesty of others, or by some impersonal agency: a victim of misplaced confidence; the victim of a swindler; a victim of an optical illusion.
- a person or animal sacrificed or regarded as sacrificed: war victims.
- a living creature sacrificed in religious rites.
If forced to choose from the examples above, I think I’d prefer to be a victim of an optical illusion. However, I don’t know that my medical insurance company will consider “treatment for the trauma of not knowing for sure whether I’m looking at two faces or at a vase” to be a legitimate mental health expense.
Number 4 is right out… unless I will be eaten after said sacrifice. And no pyre burning either… it creates carcinogens.
So I received this warning from the IRS this morning:
“The IRS doesn’t initiate contact with taxpayers by e-mail. Don’t be a victim.”
Do I want to begin a rant about the irony of said email considering our government’s rapid decline into pure socialism? Not really. I’d rather prattle on about our Culture of Victimization and Blame… but I’m a victim of impatience and disgust with the topic.
I’ll say only that I will try not to be a victim of pottery-night contemplation and thus spare you all from being victims of yet another of my Tuesday evening blogs.
That and I totally blame my parents for fucking me up.
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday…!
October 4th, 2009
I am in The Cave, attempting to be Positive Mojo ~ which is far more challenging than it may sound.
Necessary Garb: Giants t-shirt and underpants (yes, underpants).
Necessary Skill: The ability to listen to Hec rail on about football without throttling him.
In other news: here’s what Hec’s man soap bottle boasts: “Pheromone Infused.”
Now, I’m no scientist, but if human pheromones exist, wouldn’t the act of washing oneself mask said pheromones?
If human pheromones do not exist, exactly what creature’s pheromones have been injected into this body wash? This only slightly concerns me, as I think pheromones are species specific, but what if the scientists are wrong? Will I smell Hec and have an overwhelming desire to bed a gypsy moth?
I know – I’m being over analytical again.
Male interpretation for “Pheromone Infused:” “Use of this product will result in sex.”
Does it work? Well, I’m not talking… and neither is the gypsy moth.
And now back to our regularly scheduled program:
I think I may have to throttle Hec after all – he keeps insisting that I watch the replays. You know, I’m going to start shoving my ear buds into Hec’s ear cavities while enthusing, “You have GOT to listen to this paragraph!”
Even More Advice…
October 3rd, 2009
When shopping at a department store while listening to a book on your Nano, try to avoid depressing subject matter. You know, unless you’re cool with being “That Crazy Crying Chick at Kohl’s”…
Too Much Shit in the World Update: Yankee now has a “Fresh Water” scented candle. Oddly, it doesn’t smell like water… which is to say, it smells.
Roadsign Update: “Slow, Men at Work” has been replaced by, “Slow Down, My Daddy is Working Here.” This makes me want to make horribly inappropriate comments such as, “Fuck your daddy, kid, I’ve got to hurry up and get to the next bar before my buzz wears off.”
Me Update: I am not a very nice person.
In My Head… Zombies… and Bell Biv Devoe
October 3rd, 2009
“That girl is poison… never trust a big butt and a smile…”
Who is this advice being given to, exactly? Are we to assume that this person once believed these traits to be indicative of trustworthiness?
“Big butt? Check. Smile? Check. I shall now allow this person to tend my child whilst I go to the crack house.”
Or should this counsel be interpreted as: “Never trust any person having both a big butt and a smile”?
Let this be a warning to you Queen Latifa devotees.
… If the big butted person stops smiling, can she then be trusted?
Additional Advice: Don’t ignore your blog… unless you happen to enjoy being spammed by Russians…
~ Much to my chagrin, I spent the week without a sense of humor… Fortunately for Hec, I’m now back to being a ray of fucking sunshine.
Happy Belated AGF.
Line My Eyes and Call Me Pretty
September 29th, 2009
To assure Hec that I have not spent my recent Tuesday evenings out giving hand jobs for crack (he having already paid for rehab thrice), I’ve taken a few pictures of my earthenware efforts. I’d post the photos, were my pots not so pedantically diminutive. I’m far prouder of my hand job snapshots…
Tuesday night posts are my new indulgence. After burning my diaries of 30-odd years, I made an unspoken vow to never again write after sundown. There’s something about nighttime that makes it far more difficult to put things into perspective… Or at least, into This Chick’s Perspective… Or at least, into Bellamy’s…
But, in the immortal words of Roger Waters: “Fuck all that, we’ve got to get on with this.”
May I interject to trumpet: “I Win!”? In an earlier post, I related my first impression of a classmate: ”this woman is either newly married and terribly neurotic about it or her marriage is on the rocks.” Married in May 2009, she was…
Newly Married Chick stabbed herself with a pottery needle ‘round about 8:45 and, as a result, almost passed out. Amidst the rolling eyes of fellow throwers, I conveyed my experiences with annual blood withdrawals and semi-annual Hec nose bleeds. For aren’t we all fragile creatures? And isn’t there indeed nothing new under this essential poisonous sun?
Conclusion: Tuesday nights are proof that teetotaling does not eliminate melodrama. I continue to blame that goddamn town…
September 29th, 2009
His priorities being skewed, Hec has informed me that he will be working again this weekend ~ instead of taking me to see Zombieland. Clause #212 of our marital contract: “Husband shall accompany wife to all zombie movies, even those for which the casting director resurrects Woody Harrelson.” This may be grounds for separation… although I may be appeased with a case of cheap champagne.
Barraging me with bad metaphor, yesterday afternoon the little booger preteen next door and four of his similarly awkward friends were literally riding their bicycles in circles at the bottom of my driveway (see: vultures circling), impeding me from taking out the trash. Did I mention I’m frightened of other children?
I did time in a duplex in a snooty town when I was in 8th grade. I remember taking the trash out one night to a taunt of: “Trash Girl, Trash Girl, Living in A Trash World.” Me being 12 and my provoker being 15 and a boy, I could think of no witty retort. The episode haunts me to this day…
Note to self: Get Over It.
In other news: I was so distracted by the mad mullet at Lowe’s on Saturday that I forgot to purchase the $100 giant inflatable Santa driving a race car. Damn. (My original plan had been to purchase the 6-foot Life Sized Cloaked Grim Reaper ~ a more practical acquisition, since he would be suitable for year-round display… but you know me; I’m a sucker for anything NASCAR.)
Obvious Statement for the Day: There’s an overwhelming amount of shit for sale out there…
Oh… one more tidbit not worth reading: It having been a few weeks, I checked out peopleofwalmart.com yesterday. I learned that my dream of one day living in a log cabin is merely an old conversion van and some scrap materials away… Sweet.
Step Right Up…
September 28th, 2009
If you happen to find yourself in Epping, NH (and why the hell wouldn’t you?), you have got to check out their Lowe’s: Home of The World’s Most Magnificent Mullet. Had I the balls, to coin a phrase, I would have pulled out my iPhone and snapped a picture, but sadly, I couldn’t muster those cohones up.
Paling in comparison to the real thing though it does, I’ll offer up a description: Elvira-black hair cut into a bowl shape, intricately coiffed (including spit-curls), finished by two feet of mullet mane flowing down the center of our heroine’s (exceedingly wide) back.
When did carnies start working in the DIY industry? And why wasn’t I told?
Decision made: If I can’t be a porn star, I’m going to become a carnie. Does anyone have a Flowbee I can borrow? I’ll trade you my toothbrush…
Excuse My French… Or Not…
November 23rd, 2009
If I brought to our marriage a tendency toward mini nervous breakdowns and an apathetic cat, Hecubus brought the mouth of a truck driver. Like most successful couples, we have adapted to each other’s quirks. Hecubus now knows when to tread softly (metaphorically that is – Hec couldn’t literally tread softly if he was in an anti-gravity chamber) and when to check his food for cat hair (always). I, in turn, have reconciled myself to his “emphatic” vocabulary; have, in fact, incorporated profanity into my own lexicon.
Pre-Hec, I was such a wholesome chick. I used to say things like “gosh” and “darn” and, in states of extreme duress, “frig.” Parents used to feel comfortable leaving their children in my care; I was allowed in more public places; I didn’t frighten Christians dining with their little ones at Japanese restaurants…
But while I’m no longer surprised (just slightly horrified every now and then) by my inappropriate verbal outbursts, incorporating Curse Words into my writing still gives me a little thrill… like I’m a geeky chick with a dark side… like secretly, I’m Bad. Dress me in leather, hand me my crack pipe, and I’ll soon be off shaking-down 7-11’s. I’ll be kicking fucking ass!
A Philosophical Query…
November 23rd, 2009
Oh, what type of arboreal form would a literal phone tree take? Would each branch lead to a leaf alien to its environment? If a phone tree fell in a forest and I was on hold, would it make a sound? If I chopped down every damn phone tree and then burnt the entire fucking forest to the ground, would a human answer the goddamned phone?
Say it With Me Now, “Boondock Saints II: Electric Boogaloo”
November 22nd, 2009
Why, oh why, a thousand times why, do I know of the existence of Peter Fonda? Why is he not a stranger to me; just another ex-acid tripping hippy poser in a crowd? If I had never gazed upon his visage, would my medication dosages be lower? Would my nights be more restful? Would I have a chance to become a self-actualized human being?
Probably not. But the sequel to The Boondock Saints would have sucked a little less.
Before I secure my place in history as The Chick Who Hated Everything Except Cured Pork Products, I’ll say this: the first Boondock Saints rocked. And I don’t mean it rocked in that fleeting, “Dude, that Journey album rocked,” kind of way; rather, it rocked like Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions rocked, but with righteous, ass-kicking Irish dudes… and Willem Dafoe.*
*Willem Dafoe is the bees’ knees, man… a disconcerting amalgamation of creepy and sexy, although not so much the latter when he’s wearing fuck-me pumps and a fake ass. But regardless, he’s always worth watching.
Unfortunately, All Saints Day was All Over the Place. It had some great scenes, but some of them didn’t necessarily belong in the movie, and the editing overall kind of sucked. Although it wasn’t as bad as say, District 9, it splashed down far below my expectations. Too heavy on the camp; too light on the character development. And while it’s cool that they wanted to have an Old Home Boy Reunion, when you kill someone off in the first film, don’t bring him back in the second… unless it’s in a flashback. If Bobby Ewing’s resurrection in Dallas taught us anything, it’s that dream sequences suck.
(And no, I didn’t watch Dallas; my sister did. But even if she hadn’t, every human with a modicum of consciousness during the early 80’s knew about Bobby Ewing, although most of us wish we hadn’t.)
From the verbalizations emanating from below, I’d glean that the G-Boys are winning. This is good for me, as I’ve been absent from the room during the entire game. Hec may now classify me as “Bad Mojo” and banish me from The Cave for the remainder of the season. Sweet.
Iron Chef Hecubus
November 20th, 2009
Okay, my spouse emailed me that he’s just steamed rice with a big hunk of frozen tilapia on the steamer rack… and he’s now consuming it.
- He eats shit like this, not realizing that by doing so, he mocks every utterance he’s ever made regarding what a good cook I am.
- I don’t even want to know what my house smells like.
- I’ll no doubt be sleeping in the guest room tonight, for reasons involving Hec’s digestion of this culinary atrocity.
Film Reviewing on Demand
November 20th, 2009
I’ve been charged with reviewing a film that I have not seen and have no intention of seeing, considering the absurdity of the trailer. But, I’ll forge ahead with what I know…
First off, the Actors:
John Cusack as Our Hero: While I’m all for the concept of “The Every Man” saving the world from annihilation, I’m put off when “The Every Man” is a bloated, America-hating communist.
Danny Glover as Our President: Danny Glover – really? That’s the worst presidential casting since Obama…
Secondly, the Plot:
Armageddon, The Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah. These movies are categorized as “Disasters” for a reason.
Thirdly, the Synopsis:
Post-just waking, pre-coffee, I had to endure a 30 minute rant about the absurdity of 2012 from Hec. It included a lot of scoffing and hand gesturing, frightening the cat and disrupting my morning mission of attaining complete consciousness prior to human interaction.
I’ll give it 1 star… for not being directed by Michael Bay.
Posting on Demand
November 19th, 2009
Someday, despite the admonitions, I’m going to follow a construction vehicle. This will either lead me to a new existence as a hardcore, beret wearing insurgent… or to a gravel pit. Either way, I think it’s time I took a risk. I tire of my cushy, white-bread, non-construction vehicle following life. Viva la Revolucion!
Brief Current-Events Coverage
November 19th, 2009
The Bad News: Due to factory malfunctions, there will be a shortage of Eggo waffles for the foreseeable future. The classic marketing phrase “Leggo My Eggo” will soon be accompanied by fist fights.
The Good News: A new study shows that heavy drinking is good for heart function. Sweet. My heart shall thump healthily whilst I await my liver transplant…
Distraction from Your Spouse’s Terrifying Driving: We’ve Got an App for That…
November 17th, 2009
In lieu of unconsciousness, the presence of an iPhone app involving the manipulation of brightly colored rectangles is apparently diversion enough to get me though a road trip with Hecubus.
Ah, The Cape… once symbolic of life’s unattainable mysteries – a visionary land where The Beautiful People don v-neck sweaters and browse quaint boutiques. If only I had been able to retain my illusions. Was I more innocent before The Cape revealed its true nature as The Dank Isle of In-Laws? Probably not. Was I happier? Well…
We set off on Saturday morning, braving the torrential rain for the rewards of guilt, computer repair, bad wine, and earsplitting conversation. Ah, The Family…
Clichés are clichés for a reason, but I didn’t marry with the intention of becoming one. In fact, Hec’s family sounded delightful on paper – especially in comparison with my own. Optimistic, admittedly not an attribute I’m comfortable taking on, I first arrived on their doorstep 9 ½ years ago armed with a smile and a coffee cake.
My first misstep: my coffee cake had a cream cheese crumble, and Mom-In-Law is lactose intolerant. Here’s how it went:
“Oh – how nice to meet you. Is that a coffee cake? There’s no milk products in that, are there? Because I’m lactose intolerant and can’t eat milk products.”
Later that evening, while she was consuming her second slice of pizza and explaining that mozzarella and parmesan don’t bother her for some reason, the delusion of Happy Family began to curdle.
In all fairness, this past weekend was one of the least disastrous in recent history, most likely because Sis-In-Law and Demanding Grandchild vacated the premises for the evening. M-I-L and I actually cooked dinner together, and no mayonnaise or fish flakes were introduced to the recipe. (Although she does use bottled, pickled garlic, which I do believe is an offense deserving of an after-life without pasta for any true Italian.)
I was writing “Kill Me” over and over again on Hec’s thigh during the 80th recounting of their most recent trip to Italy, but he wasn’t catching on, so I switched to “S.O.S.;” which he also either didn’t get or chose to ignore. He and Dad had shared about 3 bottles of wine, the latter two of which were a dubious substance having the bouquet of rancid squirrel meat and cigarette butts left floating in a ½ empty can of Budweiser after a successful keg party…
[And yes, I have had squirrel meat, thanks to a non-resident of Connecticut or any other of the 50 states of this great nation but whom we visit on occasion in the land of Somewhere Off the Grid. Or at least, he told me some of the chunks of stuff in the stew were squirrel meat, but he could have just been messing with me. I’ll fall for anything once… or twice… depending on my degree of inebriation…]
Honestly, I’m somewhat disappointed by our semi-successful visit; I had been hoping for some great blog material.
I’m just never satisfied…
Stuff and Junk
November 12th, 2009
I received a call Tuesday night from a stuttering clerk at a Texas Marriott. He began the conversation thusly: “I’m sorry, but do you know an – [oh, let’s call him Nobody from Abroad] – Smith? We got your number from his room’s call log.” Considering the clerk’s nervousness, I was tempted to tell him that he’d reached a phone sex line and that it would be unethical of me to divulge the identities of my clients, but I restrained myself. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t… what if the clerk had then given me his credit card number? It could have been the start of a lucrative new career…
Anyway, turns out Nobody’s rental car battery had drained and a tech was there to do whatever needs doing to drained batteries, but required Nobody’s presence. While generally in charge of all administrative tasks for my own spouse, I’m rarely called upon to assist the husbands of other women. However, in the spirit of foreign exchange programs, I was happy to do what I could – which was virtually nothing…
Back in New England, I finished “Her Fearful Symmetry”… One Word: Please. Another word: Absurd. A lot more words comprising my theory: The author began with good enough intentions, but then received the check from New Line Cinema for her “Time Traveler’s Wife” movie deal, at which point she decided to wrap things up with her current novel and retire to Antigua.
The good news: “Good Omens” – a new Neil Gaiman book, co-authored by Terry Pratchett. So far, loving it, although I am wondering how co-authoring fiction works; most writers being control freaks about their words…
Workplace Update… My most recent interaction with Cap’n Inappropriate
Some essential background info: after documents are scanned, they are stamped with a red S. See where this is going?
Cap’n to Me: “Bell, can I use your big S? Where’s your big S? Oh, but you have a little S… Get it? Get it?” Wink.
Yup, I get it. Awesome.
Where’s My Cape??
November 10th, 2009
It would be far easier to stave off my existential crises were I not performing tasks suited for learning-delayed monkeys…
All my Hec-es are in Texas… which means I get to use The Texting Machine. It’s an extremely inconvenient medium for an individual who prefers to be grammatically correct. Or, somewhat grammatically correct. I realize that I use far too many ellipses…
Having completed my bathroom painting on Sunday, I had naught to do last night but clean the house and try to canvass enough restraint to not watch Sunday night’s episode of The Next Iron Chef. Luckily, irony being what it is, the one night that I had access to our plethora of remote controls, the satellite was down…
I did have some considerably profound thoughts while wandering around last night with my Nano, a glass – or two – of champagne, and a variety of cleaning implements, but I neglected to write any of them down. This is a damned shame for all of us, as I’m certain the meaning of life was amongst them.
Speaking of the meaning of life, I’ve decided I cannot bring myself to read the next “Hitchhiker” novel. (How I got there from here: Meaning of Life –> Monty Python –> Douglas Adams (wrote for Monty Python – obviously). The book got fairly good reviews by the freaks who have never read the rest of the “trilogy,” but was trashed by The True Believers.
I’ve instead selected “Her Fearful Symmetry,” which I’m enjoying, but is most likely considered a “chick book.” Me being a chick, this is apropos enough, but I don’t recommend it to dedicated brackt fans.
That’s it for now. Menial Task Girl… up, up, and… damn it, still here…
Finger Lickin’ Nasty…
August 17th, 2010
For those of you overwhelmed by the sophistication of canned ham:
I guess I’ll have to add a few of these to the TEOTWAWKI stash… Not only will the amniotic fluid the chicken is suspended in make for a scrumptious gravy, it will also serve as an effective moisturizer after the world’s supply of lotion and pig fat are depleted. (The end of the world is no reason to let ourselves go, Girls.)
Thank you, Sweet Sue!
Russia Has an Electromagnetic Super Weapon and I Can Never Go Home Again…
August 11th, 2010
I think repeated exposure to lectures about TEOTWAWKI should be classified as abuse. At the very least, they should be a justification for chronic apathy and public drunkenness.
I’m opening a sanctuary for victims of TEOTWAWKI Sermon Overdose. All food in the LFTYMMFP (Live For Today, You’re Making Me Fucking Paranoid) shelter will have a two-day shelf life and residents will be encouraged to learn impractical skills such as how to make whimsical knick-knacks out of band-aids and using your ferrocerium rod to spark-up your bong.
Leonardo DiCaprio as “The Clam King”…
August 8th, 2010
All I ask of this world is that I am never forced to see the director’s cut of Inception.
Guess the Desmond Family Topic of Conversation this weekend. Was it:
- The “Clam King” menu
- Generic peanut butter versus Jiff
- Mark Hurd
- Botox injections for the cat.
Menial Task Girl, Away!
August 2nd, 2010
Life has been fairly dreary since we left Riddick back there on that planet (aka, New York City)… Even Hecubus wearing a pair of my underwear attached to the Velcro back pocket of his cargo shorts did little to alleviate my ennui.
At work, hip gansta’ SSI (Super Slave Intern – he’s 22, fresh out of Brown, and brilliant… My mission: to convince him to Flee This Wicked Place) keeps me fairly entertained by recommending words for me to look up on UrbanDictionary.com.
(Aside: SSI & I are currently taking applications from illustrators. We’re putting together a storyboard for a comic about Menial Task Girl and her intrepid chum Super Slave Intern fighting the evil forces of Captain Oppressive and The Non Sequitur. And no, I’m not kidding. SSI is 6 foot 5 and I’m obviously not, so I picture a Pinky and the Brain type of visual, only I’m definitely wearing a cape. SSI, as a subservient even to me, gets merely a newspaper poncho. He’s agreed that this is fair.)
And now, back to our program:
My favorite word thus far is skeet, despite the fact that its revelation unto me has resulted in a near-perfect example of too much information.
Three Items that a Husband Should Not Share with his Wife:
- That he thinks your mom is hot
- That he had the best sex of his life with someone else
- That he has a definition for skeet more perverse than that of the Urban Dictionary.
Yeah, I Don’t Think That I Can Make It There…
July 22nd, 2010
or The Chronicles of Riddick II, at long last, a True Electric Boogaloo
First Mistake: Assuming Hec was simply speculating when he whispered, “Bell, they’re Swingers.”
Second Mistake: Oh….just being Bell.
So we’re hanging with the happy-hour horde at the Embassy Suites hotel in Manhattan when Hec decides to make small-talk with The Man with the Black Penis. It began innocently enough – with Hec commenting on The Man’s foresight to bring a glass from his hotel room to Happy Hour, thus enabling him to drink his adult beverage from an adult beverage receptacle. (Not that I’m complaining; the plastic cups were flimsy, but the drinks were free.)
“Oh, I’m an alcoholic,” responded The Man with the Black Penis. “I know all the moves.”
Big Fucking Red Flag. But Bell from Oblivion loves her a dude (or chick) willing to give up the blue-chip and keep on keepin’ on…
Turns out he’s a salesman of the sparkling beverage Nuvo. We knew it was true because he was wearing the t-shirt.
Now, pay attention kids, because I’m about to tell you how Sports Talk is the Verbal Gateway Drug to Sex with Strangers:
The Man: I live in Georgia, but I’m from Manhattan.
Hec: Blah-blah blah, Knicks, blah-blah blah.
The Man: Blah-BLAH! Basketball, baseball, football, foosball…
Stage left: Enter Woman. “Samantha.” Charming Southern Woman donning a red kerchief dress and carrying a torch for Peyton Manning.
Loving me my Manning Brothers as I do, I was then ingested into the banal Verbal Gateway Drug to Sex with Strangers. Eventually, however, Samantha wandered over to me and the Connecticut Chick Cult (sans one, who stayed home, and doesn’t she regret it now!) and the four of us made nice-nice small talk whilst the boys talked about sports… and, apparently, Swinging.
Stage Below: Enter Bell’s bladder.
As I’m meandering toward the ladies room, thinking, “My, What a Lovely Couple,” BOOM, The Man with the Black Penis is right there. In my personal space.
The Man: ___________________
Yeah, I’ve forgotten what he said, because I really did have to pee, but at some point, I blithely twittered, “Gee. You know, we’ve all been talking for an hour, and I don’t even know your name.”
The Man: My Name is Riddick.
Seriously. No, SERIOUSLY.
Me (Inner Monologue): Um, I don’t think “Riddick” is a real name. I’m pretty sure it didn’t exist until it was given to Vin Diesel (also probably not a real name, as discussed in an earlier blog).
Me (Aloud): Wow, like in Pitch Black? That was a pretty good movie, but The Chronicles of Riddick totally sucked. What was up with Dame Judy Dench agreeing to be in that film? Ramble-ramble ramble.
Riddick: So, are you all doing anything fun tonight?
Me (Inner Monologue): Ugh, I’m an IDIOT. This guy is so just talking to us to scalp some theater tickets.
Riddick: Because my Lady and I, we’re Swingers.
You know, one would think that there is just no smooth transitional phrase to connect The Chronicles of Riddick to Swinging, and one would be right. The thing is, no transitional phrase is really necessary, because how often are you going to make that conversational leap? Unless your name is Riddick… and you’re a Swinger.
Being not so much a Swinger but yet, still so undeniably hip, I simply nodded. “Good for you, Gosh Darn It. Swinger Pride!”
Determined to not come off like a Country Mouse, I stood my ground, thus goading Riddick to continue with The Hard Sell:
Riddick: You like My Lady right?
Me: She seems delightful.
Riddick: You ever have sex with a Lady?
Me: Well, I saw these two pairs of shoes once in a bathroom stall in Vegas…
Riddick: You should. You should have sex with My Lady.
Me: Now, would I only be having sex with Your Lady?
Riddick: Nah, you’d have sex with My Lady, and then I’d fuck you.
Me. I see…
At this point, I began glancing at My Supposed Posse, who was apparently oblivious. Okay, fine. Perhaps this was an appropriate time for me to practice putting down my politeness protocol (try not to step in the steaming mound of alliteration) and walk away on my own, but my pervading Bellamy acknowledged that this was one of the Most Awesome Moments of My Life. Screw you, Suburban Swing-Squad and your snobbery; I’m in New York City and hey, hey, hey, look at me and my black man. Becausethat was the next question:
Riddick: You ever have sex with a black man?
Me: In order to answer that question, I’m going to need to ask you a question: When you say “black,” are you including American Samoans, Sub-Continent Indians, and Australian Outback Aborigines?
Me, In Reality: Um…
And as I’m pondering whether or not NOT having had sex with a black man would make me a racist, Riddick Pulls Out all the stops…
Riddick: Can I show you something; it may shock you a little.
Me: Sure. I am Un-Shockable.
Riddick: No really, you won’t be expecting this, and I don’t want to freak you out.
Me: I am both Un-Shockable AND Un-Freak-Out-able.
Riddick (Blackberry in hand, Photo Mode): Okay…This is my Cock.
Me: I see.
I think I was meant to react with more enthusiasm, but honestly… And don’t get this wrong, because I am at least a heterosexual, but my only thought was, “It’s so veiny…”
No, that’s not true. My other thought was too look over at My Supposed Posse with a pleading glare. Because it really was getting a tad uncomfortable, and yet I couldn’t tear myself away. Train wreck avec porn, Hello!
Riddick: You know, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I didn’t want to fuck you.
And oh, once he brought on the flattery…
Riddick: Because you’ve got that Librarian with a Wild Side look going on for you.
Vanna, I’d like to buy a cliché…
Riddick (Again pulling out his “Blackberry”): Look, these are some of the other people we like to party with. (Naked-chick Naked-chick). Oh, and that’s my friend Larry. He was drunk in his car, so I took a picture of him.
Riddick: Your husband, is he a jealous man? Cause I used to be a jealous man.
Me: Oh no. Not at all.
Riddick: Because we don’t do this thing if your husband isn’t okay with this.
Me: I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s very open-minded.
And at last Hec sidles up, having had a “You Didn’t Believe Me When I Told You They Were Swingers and Now You Must Pay” Intervention timetable.
Anticlimax: We made our excuses and I finally got to pee… although…
I heard Hec exclaim as we walked out of sight,
“Have a great evening; too bad you didn’t get to smash out my wife!”
Long Story Short…
July 14th, 2010
SSI, a mere 22, asked me today if I’m “kicking myself” for not hanging onto my abundance of Jim Morrison posters because “they’re probably worth something now.”
Seriously, does he not know that Jim’s insipid image is available to this day in every head shop across the country… nay, the world?
I’m feeling very antique and fragile right now… I wish I was home, curled-up in the fetal position with my life-like orangutan toddler…
Today’s Lesson: Never make yourself vulnerable to today’s youth by admitting that you used to worship a dead junky who didn’t wash during his adulthood.
Rhinestones Not Included…
July 11th, 2010
Parents, have you longed to share the style and comfort of Pajama Jeans with your baby (or life-like orangutan toddler)? Would you like your baby to be a trend-setter in the infield at the next NASCAR race? Is your child in need of an ensemble for the Trailer Park Baby 2010 Pageant? Or do you simply tire of changing your baby daily and wish there was a diaper that would esthetically disguise your neglect?
Presenting Huggies Little Movers Jeans… the diaper for a future-generation of adults who will read at a bell-curved eighth grade level.
Sold exclusively at stores that end with the word “-Mart.”
July 8th, 2010
Hecubus sent a very nice “Thank you for the birthday gift” message to my mom’s and dad’s email addresses this morning, copying yours truly ~ and Yours Truly just snorted coffee out of her nose; Mom and Dad having been divorced for 30 years.
Oh my goodness, what would Dear Abby say?
I would form a defense for Hecubus with the argument that my current step-father’s first name is the same as my dad’s… were my dad’s email address not my maiden name spelled backwards, and considering that Hec’s somewhat dyslexic, he really should have gotten that one…
I realize that you may need to be an adult child of two individuals who still actively despise each other to get the humor behind that little anecdote, but personally, I’m filing it in theClassic Hecubus folder…
We Drink More Before 3 PM Than Most People Do All Day…
July 4th, 2010
If you received a voice mail from some arbitrary whack-job on Saturday morning announcing: “I’m in an alley. Behind Keystone Bank. At Novare Res,” yeah, that was just me. Sorry about that…
Ah, Novare Res, with such exertion did we pursue you… Do we regret having found you? No, indeed. Although perhaps we should have spent a little less time getting to know you…
It all began spiraling out of control when Hec was presented with a 340 bottle beer list… They even had a beer for Bell…
I would post the pic as proof, but I can’t figure out how to superimpose Kate Winslett’s face onto my own…
We didn’t spend the entirety of a beautiful day in a bar underground; prior to that, there was shopping.
You know, I’ve never browsed candy-necklace underwear while two men selected a male blow-up doll before.
\”Enhancing Relationships Since 1992\”. I’m drawn to the fact that it’s “Family Owned.” I’ve been thinking of opening a similar shop with my in-laws…
July 3rd, 2010
The Bible placed by the Gideons is a far more effective mouse pad than The Book of Mormon (LDS).
I Didn’t Know Smoking Crack Could Lead to a Crack Habit…
March 12th, 2010
So I’m commuting home from work tonight and hear the following on the radio:
“I didn’t know depression could lead to suicide until my husband died.”
Um, hello. Where have you been since the Dawn of Time? Do you need an intervention from the folks at Pfizer?
And why are people always walking or running or biking or otherwise disrupting traffic patterns for causes? Why not something more lucrative, like Binge Drinking for Alcoholism? Ask me for 10 bucks when I’m drunk – I’ll give it to you. Or, wait until I pass out and mug me. Either way, cha-ching. And no torn ligaments.
Feed Your Head
March 11th, 2010
The Ralph Wiggin’s “Me Fail English, That’s Unpossible” siting of the week:
“Making Mom’s Happy for  Years…”
As professionally painted on a box truck advertising cribs.
Seriously – not one person during the process of creating the slogan, reviewing the slogan, and applying the slogan to the vehicle noticed this? Not one?
I don’t know why I allow myself to be astounded by anything anymore.
Here’s another one: if your child is so young that you still ask her if she needs to “go pottie,” it would most likely be imprudent of you to bring her to a movie featuring beheadings and big scary creatures.
So, my favorite part of Alice in Wonderland was when the three-year old started screaming in reaction to the Jabberwocky. No nightmares for her on the agenda…
My second favorite part was listening to the old biddies in the row behind us natter on about “How irresponsible of Disney – to back a film that featured smoking.”
My inner reactionary monologue: “Have you read Alice in Wonderland? It’s been around for a while now, you should check it out. One of the focal characters is a Hookah Smoking Caterpillar; not a Gum Chewing Caterpillar or a Life Saver Sucking Caterpillar – a Hookah Smoking Friggin Caterpillar, you imbeciles!”
I can imagine that screaming 3-year old twenty years from now, Marlboro Light dangling from her nicotine stained fingers, muttering, “Damn that bright-blue animated Hookah Smoking Caterpillar. I thought smoking would make me look cool like him…”
March 10th, 2010
I met with a client this morning who, concerned about how his wife will handle the finances after his death, was compiling a list of fiscal responsibilities for her. It made me wonder: considering that I’m fairly financially savvy, what items would Hec put on a list for me…
- Look both ways before you cross the street
- Turn the safety off
- Check behind you before reversing
- When you’re about to pass out, sit down and put your head between your knees
- You’re left hand is the one that forms an “L”
- When attacked and no weapon is available, ram the palm of your hand into the perpetrator’s nose, thus dispersing shards of bone into his brain…
What Part of “Service” Do You Not Understand?
March 7th, 2010
You know what sucks about spending Friday night hanging out at a Toyota dealership? No bar. And why not? They have comfortable couches, a big screen TV, wireless internet – now if someone would just serve me a fucking gin and tonic, perhaps I would be content to spend yet another ceaseless “20-25 minutes” hanging out waiting for a vehicle I had dropped off at 7:30 in the morning for an hour-long repair of some recall which lands up taking 11 hours and all of my patience, including my reserves.
Seriously, I think I burnt 2000 calories twitching my left leg Friday night, and the only “Service” I was offered was some coffee flavored water so old that it had formed a skin on top. Perhaps, given the soothing effects of a G&T, Hec would not now be referred to as the “Husband of That Bitch,” by the “Service” team at our Local Toyota Dealership.
I don’t generally go into tirades about sexism, and considering my audience, I recognize that it would be imprudent for me to do so at this time. However, as I am about to have one, I shall preface it with the assertion that I’m not a feminist; I don’t think men and women are equal in all things and, despite the fact that some men grow enviable breasts, I have no desire to have a penis. But when I arrive at the “Service” desk to pick up my vehicle after the umpteenth “20-25 minutes” of the day, and one of the “Service” guys tells me he’ll check and see how much longer it will be and then never reappears, and 45 minutes later I approach three “Service” guys sitting around talking about trucks and Budweisers to ask them about my vehicle, and they look at my mousy face with the geeky glasses and then look at my breasts and apparently decide that I am a woman, but not a hot woman, and as such need not be treated with any type of respect, and thus they tell me “20-25 more minutes,” and I ask them if this is a “Real 20-25 minutes,” and one of them looks at me, looks at my breasts again, and shrugs and says “maybe,” I get a little cranky…
Ok. I’m done now.
Addendum: If you have a 10 foot driveway and it habitually takes you 5 days to bring in your recycle bins and garbage cans, you’re lame.
And no, I have not abandoned my Sea Monkey project. The Babies are doing swimmingly, literally, and tonight they’ll get their first feeding… Photos to follow…
Toyota Dealership Reveries…
If I ever do gather together enough imagination, talent, and patience to write something longer than a two paragraph drivel-packed commentary about something as thought provoking as Sea Monkeys, and some critic reads my Magnum Opus and uses the word “touching” in his review, gather your friends and family together, fill your pockets and fists with stones, corner me in a dark alley, and lob away.
I don’t consider myself an unemotional person. In fact, as much as I like to feign being a left-brainer, I’ll admit that logic tends to cower under the covers on those frequent occasions when the Scary Right Brain pops out from under the subconscious bed.
However, as Professor Elia constantly and passionately raved, “There is Sentiment and there is Sentimentality,” “touching” belonging to the latter category. Here’s my stream of consciousness reaction to the word “Touching:” puppies being rescued from wells, trite epiphanies, bogus happily ever afters, anything by Nicolas Sparks.
And now I shall channel my inner Valley Girl and announce, “Gag me with a spoon.”
You know what else bothers me? That 1-877- Kars for Kids jingle. It makes me want to hurt something.
Let There Be Life?
March 3rd, 2010
Having created life, I was too deeply emerged in reverence of it to blog. However, coming home from work yesterday afternoon and gazing upon those dirty little specks drifting aimlessly about in 8 ounces of near-fetid water, I realized how selfish it would be to not share the joyous events that will lead to New Life. After all, it does take a village to care for a Sea Monkey, and there may well be a time when I shall call upon you, Faithful Readers, for spiritual, intellectual, and emotional guidance for our Young Ones. (Currently, I am accepting cash gifts on their behalf.)
Ripping open that packet of dehydrated Sea Monkey eggs and dumping them into a flimsy plastic vessel filled with stagnant tap water was an epic occasion for Hec & I; having been restricted from creating human life by the gods of Sanity and Continued-Existence-of-the-Human Race. (I’m not sure where those particular gods are hanging out when the crack whores and other assorted losers bring life into this word. I assume they’re busy helping the God of Socialism build more welfare offices with our tax dollars.)
For the next few days, there is naught for me to do but shop for my Sea Monkey offspring (available items included the “Port-a-Pet Pocket Aquarium Playpen”) and complete the application for my Sea Monkey Scientist Diploma.
In case you think I’ve gone soft in the face of Creation, let me unequivocally state that I have not abandoned my Sea Monkey Class Action Suit. Despite having already invalidated the claims of “Sea” Monkey and “Insta-Pet,” I shall defer my final assertion that the creatures are not, in fact, Monkeys until I obtain physical evidence.
(Unfortunately, current technical difficulty precludes me posting Exhibit C in this blog. I’ll try again when my patience returns.)
Bellamy Desmond’s Sea Monkey Class Action Suit
February 28th, 2010
Instant: an infinitesimal or very short space of time
Exhibit A, Fact 1: The first step in the Sea Monkey Birthing process involves adding the contents of the Sea Monkey Water Purifier packet to 78 degree water and allowing said water to sit for 24 hours. This is quite obviously a flagrant misuse of the word “instant.”
[Hec just informed me that the water was not, in fact, 78 degrees. I had to intercept him en route to the microwave…]
Exhibit A, Fact 2: Despite the blatant implication that our nascent not-so-instant pets would be subject to an oceanic existence, the source of their lives’ waters came not from the sea, but from the tap.
Exhibit B: The following photos shall serve as documentation for this Suit that Step 1 had been performed per instruction. (Note: Pictures are to Scale – Humongous Hec Hand included.)
A Special Kind of Spin Class…
February 7th, 2010
How much do I love this man? After finally admitting that I have a problem, and one which I intend to exacerbate, I went to Hec, head bowed in humiliation, to tell him I was about to order SIMs. And guess what? He ordered it on Friday…
I’m not worthy… Really.
In keeping with that old adage, “There’s nothing like a bad Irish zombie movie in the morning,” Hec and I began our day with Dead Meat. Light up a pack for this one, George Romero. The zombie plague begins with farm animals, as all things tend to do in Ireland. Frankly, I think the zombie-consumed residents of County McClooney got off easy. Consider those poor Irish bastards who had to live with the haunting memories of seeing their once carnally-adored sheep go rabid…
[Chapter 5, Paragraphs 2 – 4 of the critically acclaimed book, “It’s Okay to Use the N Word When You’re Black,” allows me to disparage Irishmen without being tagged as a racist. Having been delivered unto this earth by an Irish-Woman, I have been endowed with the right to make fun of those dirty micks as much as I want. (In keeping with this theme, I may also ridicule Swedes, drunks, lunatics, cat fanciers and tax preparers without anticipating legal repercussions.)]
Must be off to prepare hors d’oeuvres for the Stupid Bowl Party…
Oh – one more thing. You know how “you learn something new every day?” Well, today I learned what a spinner is. I would say that men are pigs, but I think that’s already been established.
Here’s Hoping Legion Isn’t Legion…
January 30th, 2010
So the kid from Sling Blade grew up to become Jeep, that loveable yet dimwitted trailer-park scamp who will – with the assistance of Charlie, a promiscuous pregnant waitress who hides her vulnerability beneath a veneer of disdain for the world – raise the next Christ Child.
God help us all.
In Legion, I had expected an amalgamation of Constantine and the The Seventh Sign, but received a mishmash of pseudo-biblical nonsense and a plot so mangled that the chef at a metaphorical road-kill café would struggle to find anything worth salvaging for his dog’s dinner.
(Here’s a bit of context for my local readers: That book about Diodian was more cohesive.)
In a nutshell: God pissed off. Sends angels to destroy humans. Angel Michael rebels. If baby of teenage slut is born and lives, humankind will survive. (No explanation for this bit.) Michael travels to Paradise Falls (get it… get it – Paradise Falls… here, let me grind that symbolism in like a cigarette butt under a 350 pound man’s shoe) to save baby of teenage slut. Gunshots. Gunshots. Gunshots. Bloodshed. Bloodshed. A lot of male characters shedding a single tear. Gabriel blows. Fighting. Fighting. Fighting. Gyrating Cudgel. Jeep and Charlie and Baby (name undisclosed) on mountain at sunrise. Prime for sequel and… Cut.
I have omitted the bit about me guffawing during the scene of the mountain at sunrise… which apparently pissed off the movie viewers who were gleaning profound life lessons from the film and which sent Hecubus into silent hysterics.
Just a few questions:
- A Two-Parter: Why the metal collars on the Angels? Did God put an electric fence around Heaven and Earth to train Angels to remain within this realm? And why select a style of collar which implies that Angels are God’s sadomasochistic bitches? (I know… I know… I’m going to Hell.)
- While I understand that “The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth,” why do “Movie Meeks” always live in corrugated steel trailers?
- If it’s the Apocalypse and you’re one of the 5 people chosen to protect the child who will save the world, should you really chug a case of Busch beer prior to handling an automatic weapon?
- Immediately after giving birth, are women generally able to climb mountains?
- Did Paul Bettany need the money that badly?
- Another Two-Parter: Does my local Christian Café / Bookstore sell those gyrating spiked cudgels? If so, do they take AA or AAA batteries?
Bellamy’s Rating: “Oy Vey!”
Apropos of Nothing… Really
January 29th, 2010
If history has taught us anything, it’s that the amateur sex tape of you and your current beloved is bound to land up on the internet. And if that’s your intention, then bully for you. Personally, I don’t want other people watching me have sex unless I’m getting paid for it, but hey, that’s just me.
But seriously, although I try to keep an open mind, I really don’t think the sex tape thing would work for me. For one thing, I can’t even stand the sound of my own voice on an answering machine…
Like all things needlessly perverse, I declare this idea “A Guy Thing.” My perspective: A man watching a video of himself having sex is analogous to a football player watching himself on the JumboTron as he scores a touchdown… and then watching that clip over and over until he’s too old to bend over to tie his cleats.
Way Too Old for Adolescent Angst…
January 25th, 2010
It struck me the other day that I have been out of high school for 20 years. After feeding Hec this irrelevant globule of information, he commented, “Good. Maybe now you can get over it.”
I stopped myself from rebutting that I am over it; remembering that I had been recently intimated into buying Dunkin Donuts coffee from three teenage wresters who arrived on my doorstep. Considering my general attitude towards the sport of wrestling, it’s ironic that I could be so ruffled, but the fact that they were so obviously Cooler Than I Am (which admittedly isn’t that difficult to be) pushed me over the edge. (And the adult in me feared that, if denied, they would egg my house.)
What is it about high school – other than the fact that it’s the time in our lives when we are bulleting, hormones raging, into adulthood – that makes such an indelible impression? And I know I’m not the only person to suffer from Horrible High School Memory Malady because I’ve taken a survey… And even if that survey included only one person who may or may not be as nuts as I am (in her own unique way), it’s proof enough for me.
I’ve heard tales of people who enjoyed high school, but I think those people were either constantly high or have repressed the terrors of showering in gym class and not being selected as anyone’s lab partner.
I guess I could wax nostalgic about my first love (for despite my geekiness, I did have one… his nickname was Satan and he prided himself on not having a conscience), but I’m fairly sure that the inevitable ensuing heartbreak quashed the few blissful occasions of rapid heartbeats. (Although on a positive note, I’ll admit that it would have been far worse had I done something as stupid as marry my high school succubus…)
I think the main reason teenagers kill themselves is because they’re told that these are the best years of their lives. And I know that saying that may be tasteless, but I’m not kidding.
So, maybe I’ll have a one-person 20th high school reunion, spend three-hours drunk pretending that “Remember Whens” are really something I want to remember… and then just get over it. I’ll even wear a nametag, in case I forget who I am…
January 24th, 2010
- That Rod Serling had done a “Twilight Zone” about Kraft Singles – American Processed Cheese Food Product.
- That adults would stop telling high-schoolers that, “These are the best days of your lives.”
- That luck was a lady.
- That clowns weren’t so scary.
- That I wasn’t afraid of teenagers.
- That I still had my Battlestar Gallactica t-shirt.
- That Bob really was your uncle.
- That yodeling would make a comeback.
- That I was lounging in my Pajama Jeans right now.
10. That fear didn’t dictate so many of my decisions.
11. That my cat’s breath didn’t smell so much like cat food.
12. That I hadn’t bent my Wookie.
13. That my life had a narrator.
14. That the voices in my voices in my head would stop being that narrator.
15. That fat-bottomed girls really did make the rockin’ world go round.
… To Be Continued…
When I’m 64… Is That Considered Old?
January 22nd, 2010
Headline News: There are occasions when two women, nudity, a phallic device, and a camera do not result in eroticism… and all the incidental 70’s porn music ever carved into vinyl can’t help. And that’s all I want to say about that…
As I was palpitating with delight at my new work HP desktop (replacing a crappy Dell that I couldn’t even watch Hulu videos on – not that I would do that on the clock; that would be unethical, and we’re all about ethics at my office), my boss was announcing, “I hate it.” Not only did we have to uninstall Office 2007 because he can’t handle the “x” after the “.dot,” but he would also prefer to regress from Windows 7 to XP.
The scenario brings to mind my ever-expanding list of Things I Don’t Want to Do When I Grow-Up and Get OLD:
- Shut down my brain with the assumption that The World Peaked in my 30’s. That goes for ideas, technology, music, art, and sexual positions.
- Have every conversation rapidly morph from small talk to my ailments and bodily functions (or lack thereof).
- Start putting definite articles in front of words that shouldn’t have definite articles. (As in, “She has The Cancer.” “He has The Diabetes.” “We went to The Wal-Mart.”)
- Tell kids to get off my lawn.
- Store my clothes in moth balls.
- Think I can go without showering so long as I apply a substantial daily coating of Jean Nate.
- Drive 10 miles below the speed limit.
- Have a tissue box in the back window of my car.
- Eat dates.
10. Say, “Kids these days” with a tone that implies I never did anything stupid… or fun…
And I would add, “Go to dinner at 4:30″…but Hec & I already kind of do that…
So, what have I missed?
Still Accepting Resumes…
January 18th, 2010
I have no need for snow. Nix. Nien. Nyet. Bubkis.
Also, I tire of Café World… and thus am interviewing candidates for my next inane obsession. Here are the current contenders:
- Sims. This is a word-of-mouth referral from Hecubus who, for some reason, thinks that I would find fulfillment in controlling my own little world.
- The Giants. No, I’m joking…
- Cat Collecting.
- Taxidermy. (Which would be a practical skill to have in the event I tire of Cat Collecting.)
- Randomly Calling 800 Numbers. Currently, this one is showing the most promise. It’s free, I can do it at work and, if I dial the right number, I just may be reunited with Mr. Lavahn at the rubber factory (who, by the way, is not a crazy person).
So, I had meant to spend a quiet day lounging about in my Pajama Jeans, but instead found myself shoveling slush. Meanwhile, Hecubus is at a Bruins game, no doubt drinking Budweiser, eating crappy food, and using variations of the word “fuck” as adjective, adverb, and punctuation. In a side-by-side comparison, I think I’d choose shoveling…
Do It In Pajama Jeans…
January 14th, 2010
Whatever “it” is, you can apparently do it in Pajama Jeans. Click here for the informational video:
- Can I use my Bedazzler on my Pajama Jeans?
- Do they sell a Pajama Jean-Jacket?
- What about Pajama Jean-Shorts?
- Are acid washed Pajama Jeans available?
- Will Pajama Jeans complement my Snuggie?
- Are Pajama Jeans considered Business Casual?
- Will Pajama Jeans make my ass look big?
Sher de Ner der Ner Bork Bork Bork – Avec Curry…
January 13th, 2010
I don’t get the logic behind “Patience is a Virtue.” I could get hit by a truck whilst being virtuously patient. Fuck that, man.
Like most proverbs, that one is a conspiracy; it’s The Man keeping us down; it’s the leaden shoe of oppression stomping upon would-be questing minds; it’s the boss insisting on random drug testing.
I have no idea what I’m going on about… Café World, perhaps, because I want another oven and I can’t have one until I reach the next level.
Aside from Café World, I hate Facebook; I so don’t need another avenue leading to destination: Neurotic-ville. Not that I need a virtual kitchen, either…
Work is going swimmingly, as is my alcohol-intake reduction.
And now it’s time to play: Guess What Bellamy’s Lying About. Is it:
- Work is going swimmingly
- As is my alcohol-intake reduction
- Both 1 and 2
- Neither 1 nor 2
- Both 1 and 2 with a beer chaser
Alcohol-Intake Reduction sounds a bit like a consommé…you may wish to take that into consideration before making your final selection.
I’m off to cook Real Life tandoori chicken… It tastes just like sambaar and/or tortilla soup, but nothing like sixty dollar pheasant.
(PS – I was sure to adjust my “a, b, c,s” to “1, 2, 3’s” this time, so if the rest of the blog sucks, it’s because I was focused on that.)
Our Lifestyle, Part 1…(No Electric Boogaloo Yet)
April 10th, 2010
Cap’n Oppressive – renowned misogynist, homophobe, religious zealot, and complete hypocrite – often includes the phrase “Your Lifestyle” when referring to the Desmonds’ non-work hours. “Your Lifestyle…” As if, by virtue of our atheism and enthusiastic wine consumption, we’re over here having Bacchus-themed orgies, sacrificing virgins, and drinking goats’ blood.
That being said, I will acknowledge the lamentable scarcity of spouses content to spend a morning together with their cups of tea and a Victoria’s Secret catalog, selecting a suitably skanky outfit for the wife bound for Vegas.
I’m a Doctor and I Want My…
April 8th, 2010
How little does a person have to know me to recommend a book entitled The Forty Rules of Love? And how little must I know myself to take the recommendation?
Here’s what I’ve learned thus far: When I hit forty (living, as I will be, in my Ethan Allen infused House in the Hamptons), I shall abandon my husband, my children (read, “Sea Monkeys”) and my cat for a leather clad, ebony tressed, Turkish stranger.
The only thing that saves this tripe from being a romance novel is the lack of sexual narrative and the novelist’s reliance on Rumi as a plot device.
And I’m mourning the lack of sexual narrative…
Here’s a blurb:
The Scene: A robbery on a carriage bound for Constantinople; aboard, a Virgin headed for life with her Spinster Aunt.
Narrator: “They took everything; suitcases, clothes, boots, belts and jewelry – even the driver’s sausages…”
Oh my god – not the Sausages! Anything but the Sausages!
There’s something so magnificent about sausages (all phallic references aside). They are replete with mystery and also, with practicality. Could nature have created a more perfect food? I think not. Take what you will of me, World, but leave me my sausages…
You Asked for It…
April 8th, 2010
Free-basing General Foods International Coffee granules, waiting for Spring to be over.
Ah, Spring… a time of rebirth; of awakening. Harley Davidsons emerge, growling, from their garage hibernation. Postmen expose pasty knees beneath the cuffs of government-issue polyester shorts. Pollen settles like sticky saffron on every surface, including nasal passages. The air virtually reeks of change and possibility…
I fucking hate the Spring.
I wonder if toll-workers are ever offered bribes by change-deficient motorists? In lieu of 75 cents, are they ever proffered, say, a stick of Wrigley’s? A half-bag of Goldfish crackers? A semi-mashed McDonald’s Happy Meal toy? A Jesus bobble-head?
In the face of such life’s mysteries, how can I be blue?
Ham & Cheese…
April 4th, 2010
Last night I dreamt that Hec took me to the Virginia Ham Hotel for our 15th Anniversary. We had a five course dinner; each course: 2 slices of ham.
I’m really hoping that this is not a portent of things to come.
April 2nd, 2010
According to Cap’n Oppressive, anyone who has ever either visited a psychiatrist or been subscribed medication by one is a “Mental Retard.” Thus was revealed during yesterday’s highly productive staff meeting.
- “Mental Retard,” really? Where am I ~ back Down South in 1985? Who uses that expression anymore?
- What’s James Sokolove’s phone number?
Other than that, everything is Awesome. Awesome, Awesome, Awesome. As I informed Cricket yesterday, I plan to have Awesome tattooed on my forehead. I’ll leave room for the ‘adjective’ Wicked, in case I ever move back to Massachusetts.
So as I’m rambling incoherently to Hec last night, he turned to me and said, “You’re overtired. You always get like this when you’re overtired.” Wow. My mom used to say theexact same thing to me when I was eight years-old and at the launch of my current bout of insomnia. Have I really spent the last 30 years in introspection and philosophical contemplation only to discover that I’ve never psychologically progressed beyond the age of eight?
I must be a Mental Retard.
March 31st, 2010
Traditionally I wait for my physician to “happen upon” my bruises, but today, considering the size, shape and color of my current injury, I thought it prudent to warn my doctor ahead of time to “not be horrified when he sees my right thigh.”
If my intention had been to stave off questions of abuse, my strategy failed miserably.
In retrospect, I can see where my preemptive caution could have been interpreted as: “I am acting nonchalant, so as not to raise any questions.”
If you get any calls from Women’s Services, Hec, it’s not my fault. I told him it was just me being klutzy… again. I also later told him (a NY Italian) that you are a Connecticut Italian, so maybe that put you in the clear…
Although… perhaps that was a regrettable tactic, too…
Anyway, I have been told, “in all seriousness,” that we have to put bumpers on the corners of our bed.
I wonder if this is the first step to a life in a cushioned room where my only “blogging” will be done with blunt crayons on paper towels…
On my way home from the doctor’s, I saw five military helicopters headed in for a landing at our local air force base, so it appears that the Revolution is imminent. Since Hec’s not home, I shall attempt to muster up the strength to pull the slide back on our revolver. Failing that, I’ll throw caution to the wind and head off to pottery class…
Say “Maybe” to Life…
March 31st, 2010
I think my cat has a cat allergy.
So, it must be time for my annual physical; due to yet another encounter with my bed frame, I have a bruise the size (and shape) of an ostrich egg on my right thigh. There’s going to come a time when my doctor will stop believing my assertions that Hec doesn’t beat me, and commit me to a women’s shelter for my own protection.
Ah well… maybe I’ll meet some hot chicks there…
I watched that Jim Carrey movie (which, in itself, is fairly out of character for me) “Yes Man,” and have decided I too need to start saying “Yes” to life. Yesterday I received a call asking me to take a survey, and after hanging up (politely) on the chick mid-sentence, I pondered how my life would have changed had I answered “a few short questions.” Perhaps I would have made a new friend… Perhaps I would have learned how to macramé plant holders out of cat hair… Perhaps I would now own a monkey…
Sadly, that moment is gone, and I will never know…
I plan to start anew today… but so far have not received any questions.
Although, perhaps I should start tomorrow, so I won’t have to answer “yes” when my doctor asks if I’m being beaten…
Blast Me Out of This Salt Mine…
June 11th, 2010
Thanks to Djr, Hec and I are currently watching Jericho. It’s a fairly entertaining show thus far, although I have yet to watch an episode straight through. The Issue: Hec holds dominion over The Uber-Remote and feels the need to continuously pause the program to comment that the “Salt Mine would be the first place we would go” and “If you put a radio in a sealed container, it won’t be effected by an EMP pulse.”
Seriously, he keeps sending me websites with information about converting my urine into potable water, or some such nonsense. Please. Once the wine ceases to flow, I’m cashing in my $7.90 voucher from Vegas and going to Jesus…
Do you think a collection of Hummel figurines would give our cement bomb-shelter a cozier feel?
A Wise Woman Once Sang:
June 11th, 2010
“Life is just a bowl of cherries
Don’t take it serious,
Life’s too mysterious
You worry so
But you can’t take your dough
When you go, go, go
So keep repeating “It’s the berries.”
The strongest oak must fall
The sweet things in life
To you were just loaned
So how can you lose
What you’ve never owned
Life is just a bowl of cherries
So live and laugh,
Laugh and love
Live and laugh at it all!”
But then, she also sang “Blow Gabriel, Blow,” so I’m not sure she’s a reliable Oracle…
Sea Monkeys Weep Not…
June 2nd, 2010
Shall I wax poetic about the passage of time? About the slipshod manner with which we treat our moments? About how we feign ignorance of the demise of our years whilst we nurture our fears and safeguard our egos; ignoring the lessons of our hard-suffering ancestors?
Um, No… Please. That shit makes me gag.
However, I shall offer up a Eulogy to my darling Tap Water Monkeys:
Fare thee well, my Surrogate Children… my Housemates…my Friends.
It was with indescribable anguish that I requested Hec dump you down the toilet because your constant buggering and those feces sacks you bore on you bottoms disgusted me so much. But consider my abhorrence of you not rejection, but rather, the beginning of a New Life. Emulate the brave, noble creatures of C.H.U.D., my Babies, and Live Long and Prosper in your Sweet Sewerage Heaven…
In closing, I quote the immortal words of Sarah McLachlan:
“I will remember you.
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by –
Weep not for the memories
[of being in that murky plastic receptacle on my kitchen window sill and having my houseguests comment, ‘Wow, are those your Tap Water Monkeys? They really are kind of disgusting.’]
You’re My Wonderwall…
May 29th, 2010
I don’t think Hec is groovin’ on my Abby Normal Roaring Nosforatu phase… Although he did text me “You rock my stripey socks” while I was in Vegas, so perhaps it’s growing on him.
Ah home, where the hookers have been replaced by housework and no short Mexicans flick trading cards showing naked chicks with stars on their naughty bits…
Maybe I’ll put cup holders in the bathroom and start chain-smoking Marlboro Lights; you know, to recreate that Vegas ambiance.
Cricket made an analogy of Vegas to Wonderland, which leads me to query, as dear Alice once did, “…who it was that dreamed it all?”
“It was a curious dream, dear, certainly, but now run off to your tea, it’s getting late. So Alice got up and ran off, thinking as she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been…”
Okay Cricket, I’ll trade you Melodie and Jaylyn for your Jenny & Tiffany…
It’s Good to be Needed…
May 26th, 2010
Being CEO of the Desmond household, I’ve been thinking that it would be prudent of me to create a spreadsheet itemizing the necessary monthly tasks, bills, etc., that Hec would need to be responsible for were I, for example, to be kidnapped by a furry pink gorilla in Las Vegas. I had planned on starting with “How to Make the Mortgage Payment,” but apparently I’ve been overestimating Hecubus’s homemaking skills. For as proud as I am of him for retrieving the mail from the box while I was away, I can’t help but notice that he failed to open any of the envelopes.
Open mailbox. Retrieve contents. Open envelopes and review enclosed documents. Take action as necessary.
Although unable to compete with the fantastical abundance of my Vegas stories, here is Hecubus’s: There once was a Man sprawled on a couch with a Cat splayed across his stomach. Said Man fed Said Cat bits of Kentucky Fried Chicken while repeatedly watching The Wrath of Kahn.
But although I may mock my Hecubus, I also came home to his testament of love for me: He refused to watch Saturday night’s Dr. Who without me.
Seriously, how lucky am I?
An unedited email from my mother re: my answer to her question about “Wasa Peas”
“Thanks for the information. I guess I spelled Wasabi wrong which is probably why my Google search didn’t give me much of a selection. The Urban Dictionary did describe the peas but used an expletive as to why they wouldn’t ever eat them again – something about getting pain and suffering while getting hit in the forehead with one. Google search indicated the Welsh Space Agency web site had info on in their Newsletter. So I decided to check it out – figured info would be reminiscent of the benefits of “Tang” that was talked about in early space flight. Never did get to that site just got a message that I was “Forbidden to access..”. That rather unnerved me. That coupled with your comments, made me decide to proceed no further.
“No one in the world ever gets what they want and that is beautiful/
Everybody dies frustrated and sad and that is beautiful…”
So I’m listening to They Might be Giants on my way to work yesterday, and was teetering on the edge of finding those above words achingly profound, when I heard the next lyric:
“They want what they’re not and I wish they would stop saying
Deputy dog dog a ding dang depadepa.”
And I snapped out of it.
I’m not exactly sure what happened to 2012. I wish I could claim it a Lost Year – Hunter S. Thompson Style, but I was just here, in the suburbs, turning 40 and whatnot. The good news about being 40 is that I find myself more grounded, content, self-actualized even… and I have the 12-hours of Sobriety Chip to prove it.
But my silence has not been due to lack of material, for although I have a new job (with a new Zany Boss) and a new car, I have the same Hecubus, and age and time have not tempered what can only be called his “Hec-uisms.”
I’ll admit to being somewhat suspicious of recent Enthusiastic Fan encounter, as Hecubus would not be beyond paying someone to bring back Bell. Bell may be a snarky, cynical-Sociopath, but Not-Bell is very much the same, except without the sense of humor.
Also, the timing of Enthusiast Fan is suspicious, as Bell was teetering on a comeback and fan’s ego-boost pushed her over the fence. In fact, I knew Bell was coming back when I started narrating my own life again. A for instance: instead of just reacting with shame at one of Hec’s recent “Hec-uisms,” I found myself creating the dialog:
“And then Hecubus, wearing only his boxes and ubiquitous Giants t-shirt, opened the door to find our friend’s 9 year-old son. ‘Nice Boxers,’ tittered said son, before disappearing, giggling into the twilight.”
Okay. So, that’s my second and final prologue. I promise to stop referring to Bell in the third person going forward. And I’ll try to retrieve some of my old pictures… for those of you with short attention spans.