Crescendos big enough to park a bus in, thats what I’m talkin’ about.
Category Archives: Uncategorized
Takk
.jpg "VOMITOLA")
I think I am coming down with tonsilitis. Again. So its tea and Viennetta for me for the next couple days. This did not stop your intrepid lambchop from going out to see Sigur Ros tonight, mind however. And boy was it worth it. They were intense. I would poke fun at the emo kids in their vintage “hand-me-downs” but I just heard “thank you for being a friend” coming out of the tv in the other room, tadalafil and I think before I die I need to see the Golden Girls dubbed in german. “ach, rose…”
When Sigur Ros winds their wistful way to your town, do go.
cough, smooch
Hurry up and wait: a travelogue
The two feet of snow Boston received a few days ago are still snarling things. Last night it took a full hour to drive from zee Back Bay to Mr. H’s house in Slummerville. There was honking and gesticulating, and failure to yield to emergency vehicles. And then there were the other drivers, ba dum dum. No, I’m teasing. Of all the rages I am known to enjoy, road rage is not among them. I did read about one severe case of snow rage. In Framingham. Isn’t that the town where people kill each other at their kids’ hockey games? Go figure.
And I won’t even get started on the T. The rage has disipated to a collective ennui. If it had a sound, it would be a low-pitched whiny “nnnnnnnnnuuuuuuhhhh.”
It’s finally warm enough to go out without gloves and a ski mask, so to celebrate living through a hellish drive, we walked to Rudy’s Cafe, the margarita mecca of Teele Square.
On the way back, I noticed a salon called “Skin Skedaddle.” What is the meaning of this? “We extract to the point of disfiguration. People will skedaddle when they see you!” That’s almost as good as Hair-azz, which briefly existed next to the Outback in Burlington. And let’s not forget what always, always cracks me up in Porter Square: “Long Funeral Service.” It used to be Long-Hurley, which was passable, but I guess there was some sort of schism.
But yes, I’m just rambling. Must be hibernation wearing off. Must focus. On…who won the Bachelorette! I’m going to subtitle this: And Shamu makes 3
Good God, who would have thought she would choo-choo choose Ryan? Â He’s a poet, and he don’t even know it. But Charlie, Charlie had a serious hair problem. I kept flashing back to the footage of melancholy sea birds after the Exxon Valdez. Anyway, any guy who can tolerate the booming cadence of her biological clock totally deserves her. My stomach crawled up into my throat during the scene where she and Ryan, or maybe it was Charlie, were feeding bread to ducks. She cooed “Ready? Over here!” and I could picture her perfectly in maternity overalls, herding tow-headed children around on an “educational” experience.
I topped off my evening with a nightcap of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Melissa Rivers blinked back tears as she realized she was there to be “humiliated” by having creepy crawling bugs and rats stuffed down her pants. Zen. And you bet your ass I will also tune in tonight to watch the Bachelor “follow-up” with Aaron and tearful Helene. I’d like to say I have something better to do, but somehow this has become important to me.
xxoo
Lambchop and Licketysplit
click Lickety, Right, Lamby” src=”/images/boddy_small1.png” border=”0″ alt=”Lambchop and Licketysplit” />smooch
chop change chop
I don’t ask Kitty Winn for advice. The solution to all that ails me lies in re-sculpting my eyebrows, a new shade of lipstick and a behemoth cup of sumatra- preferably with an espresso dropped in (there’s a spiffy name for that- something to do with guns, i think). I live on the edge- note how I ended a sentence with a preposition back there.
So I was out shopping for clothes today for work. Smart new grey trousers and some shiny new ankle boots. I didn’t let it put me off in the slightest that I haven’t got a job. The point is, I can picture myself in a tie and vest with a silk hankerchief in the breast pocket, telling people what to do, twirling a telephone cord, and having sushi for lunch. Now all I have to do is choose a calling and find a job, preferably one in which I will be in a position to fire people. I better get some silk stockings. I don’t know about you, but I can’t send a man packing in a cotton/lycra blend. I’m a professional!
What did I come in this room again for? Was I looking for something, or was I going to do something?
smooch
Hell is other people?
Dear Kitty Winn,
I am a sad and lonely act, gagging for sex. My sympathetic friends have helped set me up on a couple of dates, but every time I found myself on the road to snog city, some part of me would panic and find fault with the guy-like I didn’t like his side parting, or he said “wicked” once too often. But then I go right back to repining my celibacy. Naturally, my friends are no longer sympathetic. Perhaps you can answer the question that’s on their minds- “what the hell is the matter with (me)?!”
-Cry for love
Dear Crybaby,
It’s not you, it’s them! Actually, that’s not true, it’s YOU, YOU, YOU, but I cheered you up for a minute right? One possible course of action is to re-evaluate your romantic timeline. Perhaps you are letting the woo drag on a bit too long? It helps to have already sampled the milk before you let the cow start to annoy you. So hop to it and kiss on the first date (be safe of course). If it’s sex you want, sex ye shall have! Then you’ll have at least a 3-10 day cuddle hormone-fueled fog before you start to blink, rub your eyes, and notice the object of your lust sways his hips like a woman or lets the fork touch his teeth.
Believe me, there is no relationship lacking this phase of revulsion. Your “Oh God, how did I get here?” moment could come in 2 days, or 20 years. But if it’s worth pursuing, you’ll forge ahead. You’ll know when.
Alternately, if it really seems that no one measures up, maybe your friends just don’t know anyone good! Maybe you need to ditch your friends for more attractive ones, with more suave, attractive friends of their own.
Failing that, figure out what’s eating you about yourself. If you don’t like yourself, you are likely a cranky poop, on your way to being a nosy old bat. And who’s going to want to be around such an obvious open wound? Maybe all these losers are really trying to drive you away because you are so insufferable and pathetic that they don’t know what else to do?
Oh, put the letter opener down! Turn off the oven! Kitty is just trying to provoke. Sadly, the answer is that you are the key to your own happiness. No one else can make anything better if you don’t allow them. It’s ok to be a solitary soul for a while. Try to put the cravings for love aside and find it within yourself. Think Buddhism. What Would Richard Gere Do?
Keep Kitty updated, Crybaby, as your problem is more thorny than anticipated. Relax, be yourself, and before you know it, you’ll be picking out a thermos for that special someone, not an ordinary thermos either.
Fortitude,
-Kitty
get fit for life
I have been avoiding it, talking about being sick, detailing the contents of my hanky with comments like “i didn’t know that shade of green existed in nature. not in my nature, anyway….” But dammit I am flu-ey and really bored of it.
So i was fiddling with the velcro closure on my new medical brace (its an elastic thing that holds things together in the event of abdominal muscle failure. it’s padded on the outside which makes it also look like a shield, if Gaultier made them.) when I came across this article about infanticide. And it interested me because lately my ideas about the nature of beauty and weakness and their counterparts have moved into the suggestion of physical defects or conditions. My head is full of thick shiny braids and warped spines and the possibility for happiness.
xoxo
I love you like a fat kid loves cake
It’s a slow news day. Boston is under a blanket of white stuff….much like the one under which Vomitola staff frequently finds themselves. I was toying with the idea of a post called “Things I have spilled on my desk.” Last week it was chowder. Corn chowder, not man chowder. Heather. A co-worker walked into my office and said “Aw man, I missed the bukkake.” A few days later, marinara sauce. Same co-worker walked in, he of impeccable timing, and said “Aw man, I missed the placenta!” The moral of all this? I’m a saucy girl? Bukkake is always amusing? I don’t know what to tell you. I’m ashamed of myself, really. And I do clean it up, it’s not like it festers for days! Surely that’s more important than the snow out there. I feel for all those poor Fox news bastards shivering out along the highway in their parkas. “It appears to be snowing, yes, quite a bit. I’d stay inside if I were you. Don’t walk on the Charles, morons!”
That out of the way, I should explain the title of the post. It’s from the song “21 Questions” by 50 Cent. 50 is a numerological cipher, he is! He is really on the pulse of America’s damaging love affair with food. Witness 50’s take on the obesity epidemic:
Fat, fat, them Snickers got your ass getting fat, fat
Those cookies got your ass getting fat, fat
That Cake got your ass getting fat, fat
Bitch you grown, that ain’t baby fat, fat
In the gym I see your ass up on the Stairmaster
But you got it on level two bitch go a little faster
Look girl, I ain’t gonna lie, I’ll tell you how I feel
They should handcuff your big ass to the treadmill
He’s really on to something, huh. The secret to weight loss is definitely to reduce intake while increasing activity. I’m not sure diet experts would agree that one should handcuff him or herself to gym equipment, but I’m sure 50 cent was speaking in metaphorical terms, citing willpower as a virtue. In fact I’m inspired to get a personal trainer! Brawny Hans will have me lithe and limber in no time.
xxoo
And it IS over
Kitty Winn realizes that, in a haze of perfumed paper and silk heart printed teddies, I gave short shrift to a troubled soul. So as soon as my nails are dry, I will attend to the matter.
There.
Dear Sad,
I am going to have to break some bad news to you. If your girlfriend is putting down your gigglestick in public, this relationship is toast. You are in bed with her- wake up, roll over, and stretch out your arm. Feel that? That’s Another Man. Your girlfriend has moved on to greener pastures and is probably already planning romantic getaways with someone she deems less “meatballish”. Somehow the breakup has escaped your attention. Perhaps you should put down the hash pipe and try to remember if you heard the words “it’s over!” being hurled angrily at you along with your clothes. Or maybe you haven’t missed anything- maybe you have some extraordinary qualities that make the final step of departing difficult for her. Tell me, are you rich? How rich?
Anyway, you have to face facts. Whether her tampons are still under your bathroom sink or not, You Are Single. Try to enjoy it. After all, being single makes dating that much easier.
-Kitty Winn
Fashionably late
xxoo