Category Archives: Uncategorized

Action cat, cat of action

Uncategorized, ,


action cat

This is as lame as it gets, people. Pet photos. I am essentially punishing you for reading! Just like I am punishing the guy who sits in the office building across the alley by picking my nose while staring right at him. He *started* it by staring at me. And I wasn’t picking my nose the first time, just scratching it. But then he looked at me like “Aha, I caught you.” So I glared at him. He glared back. Now it’s WAR.

The little mister and I got a new coffee table a few months ago, and Coco loves to stuff herself underneath it, so Mr. H took a picture after provoking her. We call this compulsive need to burrow under something “weaseling.” She’s not happy until she’s wedged into the couch or tunneled into the middle of the laundry basket. We call her “Weasel.” She doesn’t really care, since her brain is the size of a walnut. So we abuse the privilege and call her “Monster” or “Monstro the Monster Cat.”

This morning was not cute. She woke up me at 5 a.m. by biting my tank top strap and letting go. Repeatedly. She has all the finesse of an 8th grade bra snapper, but it’s a pretty effective tactic. She figured this out when she was but a babe. She does not do it to Mr. H, since he doesn’t make a habit of wearing spaghetti straps. But mommy is fair game. Apparently I am doomed to play out biological gender roles by someone not even of my same species. Curses! She also has a shocking lack of respect for cashmere.

Anyway, then she threw up. Luckily not on me. So that was my day. How about yours? Whoopty shit.

-xxoo

not with a bang but a whimper

Uncategorized, , ,

Recent times have proved most interesting for Lambchop and I. She has been diligently serving a term as an office girl at an Attorney’s firm. In addition to carefullee polishing the handle of the big front door, she regales me with tales of the executive lunchroom and hilarious doings with spreadsheets. She has even stopped screeching “WHAT do you want?” when she answers the phone, instead favoring the dulcet tones of a 1950’s sweater girl. But don’t ask her for legal advice at parties, unless you are a doctor, prepared to examine portions of her anatomy in exchange. Quid pro quo.

Me, I had a birthday. This seems to have altered my previously comfortable role in the MTV favored demographic. All of a sudden I am receiving horrendous tacky catalogs in the mail, things like Orvis, Smith & Hawken, Marshall Fields, etc. If I should ever receive Lillian Vernon, or perhaps Coldwater Creek or J. Jill, I believe that means I am officially a crone. Oh Jesus, I’m only 25. I’m too young to own a photo lazy susan, to wear caftans, those felt clogs!

A photo of some belated birthday festivities, which happened to coincide with Gay Night, hence Kyan’s glowing visage. The cupcakes were purple with pastel stars sprinkled daintily atop. I am not sure why Lambchop is blowing them out, since it’s ostensibly MY birthday; I must have been too busy mincing around demonstrating the hubris of a neophyte chef.

But I did learn one cruel lesson: when Martha says unsalted butter, she really means it. The cupcakes were all hat, no cattle, so to speak.

-xxoo

Something’s come along, gonna burst our bubble

Uncategorized, , ,

I am using the Power of My Mind to send messages to the producers of Paradise Hotel. My brilliant idea? The losing couple should be shot into space. Oh, let it be Dave. Must. Kill. Nerds.

Today I had to write a cover letter. That is sooo hard. The best thing I came up with was this:

“I can’t help but notice that your office is just next door to my current office building and on the 5th floor. I work on the 5th floor too! This makes me a natural choice for this position. Also, the Starbucks on the corner already knows my order, which facillitates maximum coffee break efficiency.”

And there are other dilemmas of course. Word doc, PDF, or elbow macaroni? If I make a shrine-like box out of popsicle sticks to enclose the scroll, do I still need to laminate a photo of myself? Couldn’t hurt, after all, I am attractive.

No, a subtle approach *is* better. I will probably just spray paint the box silver. I want to save something for the interview after all, and I have the most fetching sweater.

The annoying thing is that I’m not even unemployed yet. But the writing is on the wall in eight foot tall letters due to a summer of layoffs and about half an hour of billable time in the past two weeks. Having been through one particularly disasterous company implosion two years ago, I am taking no chances. That company still owes me (and other unfortunate souls) about 6 months of 401k contributions that were sucked out of my paycheck and never plonked into the account. Not to mention 3 weeks of final pay. Plus I got my Social Security statement the other day, and apparently they think I only made $17k in 2001. Ha. I think I spent that much on shoes. And, er, charitable contributions. Other people also had the same problem with under-reported income, so now we’re thinking the management (“pigfuckers”) may have also diverted SS contributions. The fun never stops, and all the agencies you’d think would help out, such as the Attorney General’s office and the Department of Labor, seem to have their thumbs solidly lodged in their collective hindparts. I am thisclose to writing a “help me Hank!” letter to Hank Phillipi Ryan, the local consumer adovcate news harpy. At the very least it would be amusing to see the dynamic ex-mgmt. duo shoo cameras away from their van down by the river.

But I’m not bitter!

-xxoo

Fish, Barrel, Barrel, Fish

Uncategorized, , , ,

gary shandling

Hey, ampoule the Emmys were on last night! How about that? Most of the country demonstrated the same level of rabid appreciation as some lady on the train this morning.

“Did Friends win anything? No? Oh. But that girl from the gay show did? I like her hair.”

I enjoyed the triumph of The Daily Show and the Hispanic monkeypox montage, treatment but then I realized there was probably an episode of Law & Order on some other channel, help so I flipped around until I found it. Then I fell asleep because my couch is soooo comfortable. I missed the tribute to John Ritter. From eOnline: “Henry Winkler delivered a touching tribute to his friend John Ritter and asked that we remember the star for his versatility, not just for his pratfalls. And then they showed a hilarious clip where Ritter slams facefirst into a bowl of guacamole.”

Other than that, slow news weekend. Lambchop (who is currently without internet access) and I went to a horrendous art show that a friend had some great pieces in. The highlight besides her lamps was definitely the portrait of the cats done in sequins. No really, it was sparky. The lowlight? All the giant photos of female genitalia. I got in trouble by saying “Oh look, a clam sandwich,” and the clam in question was standing behind me. She glared at me. I scuttled away. Fighting a giant clam is a little more Mario Brothers than I care to get into on a Saturday night.

We also saw Goldfrapp; she really does make those crazy noises! Check it out. I love that she dresses like a deranged girl scout crossed with Nazi youth. People should really get into hats more.

-xxoo

Glonk

Uncategorized, , , ,

I have to get a “knowledge transfer” today from someone at work. I think that’s like the episode of Star Trek where Spock’s consciousness went missing. A wacky search will ensue, and the knowledge will be discovered in a comely nurse.

Last night Lambchop and I saw Lost in Translation, which was just hot stuff. In a low key, perfectly crafted way of course. Really gorgeous. I wanted to get on a plane and go to Tokyo. It would beat sitting in dreary Boston. Which still beats sitting in Arizona with a stick. The one saving grace of today was buying David Bowie tickets. I could have clued you all in that they went on sale today, but I am selfish, with small beady eyes like a snake.

And speaking of David Bowie, I watched Mr. Pants robotically make his way through a performance on the Today Show yesterday. The camera panned across the audience a few times, and I had to wonder yet again at how the most stylish man on the planet manages to attract fat, unkempt goths as a major part of his fanbase. You’d think these poor sods would take a memo! Mr. Bowie did not get to his present perfectly preserved state without daily jogs, a good cosmetic dentist, hairstylist, colorist, wardrobe mistress, and plastic surgeon. Whatever happened to emulating one’s idols?

-xxoo

Go East, Young Strumpet

Uncategorized, , , ,

Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Best. Wedding. Ever. Followed closely by Worst. Honeymoon. Ever. Fair enough I suppose. Everything went off without a hitch at the dog n’ pony show, from the lavender-strewn aisle to the free, accidental fireworks display at the reception. The timing ended up being perfect; they went off right after the Best Man’s toast, and someone else across the harbor at another wedding paid for them. Everyone looked suave and mostly behaved. The relations didn’t even fuss about the total lack of Jesus in the ceremony. An open bar wounds all heels.

People were also excited by the beautiful 75-degree sunny weather after a week of nagging rain. Little do they know that Todd Gross and I killed a hog that morning and festooned the Channel 7 studio with the offal. Sure, you might think that weasel Kevin Lemanowicz is far more evil, but Todd Gross is truly the Lord Voldemort of meteorologists. It’s called Planning and Connections, people. Don’t try an outdoor wedding without a sacrifice. Full disclosure: I got the black magic idea from an old installment of Martha’s Calendar.

Anyway, to the schadenfreude-mobile! Once I finally snapped last Thursday morning, and desperately 411’d United reservations to extricate us from what we came to call The Arizona Situation, I made the connection that everyone loves a horror story. It was just a few clams to change our tickets, not at all what I’d feared. And we got cushy seats on the flight, and an upgraded room at the hotel we stayed at in Phoenix before our flight (once we explained we were fleeing our marital bliss like a band of scorned Israelites).  Flying on September 11 was a far more appealing prospect than remaining one more second in Arizona.

What, exactly were we fleeing? Long story short: Mr. H’s parents wanted us to use a time share week as a wedding present. So for the dates we wanted, we had our pick of Colonial Williamsburg, the Poconos, or a spa in Sedona, AZ. They’d been to Sedona before and swore up and down that it was “so sexy.” We feared the worst, but they were so positive. “Free is good,” we rationalized. “We like spa treatments, thanks to the Fab Five.”

Try spending a week with elderly German swingers in teeny Speedos. Sedona is one giant strip mall, lousy with kachina dolls and Indian jewelry and those horrid Guatemalan ponchos. We experienced rental car failure, abysmal coffee, painful massages, and dehydration/altitude sickness. I ruptured an ear drum, got my thigh sucked into a Jacuzzi vent, and lost my favorite sunglasses. Oh, and it turns out that Mr. H is terrified of heights. Good to know in advance that all the roads are basically hair pin curves along vast gorges with no guard rails. Space fucking madness.

Then there was the Spirituality and ubiquitous piped in new age music. My aura is as black as an Amex Centurion card. I could have told you that. Mr. H’s is a nice shade of blue though. At least we had the good sense to manifest our destiny right back to pleasant sea level Boston. Sure, we could have stuck it out and complained in Arizona for a few more days. But complaining from the comfort of one’s own couch is far sweeter. Mr. H’s barely year-old titanium powerbook literally exploded right after he’d downloaded all the pictures from the camera and wiped the card, so no photographic record of this “vacation” exists. Fitting.

The moral is: do not anger the powers of the universe by having the world’s most perfect wedding. Look what happened to Martha, after all. Wabi-sabi. Also: do not listen to Mr. H’s parents. I don’t even LIKE nature, what was I thinking?

-xxoo