Tag Archives: 2 heads better than 1

Mega-low mania

That’s a baby, gumming a laser dot off the carpet. Babies are so stupid! You can’t eat a laser.

I miss eating, period. It was rad while it lasted. The tubs of tapioca pudding, the beef wellington, and above all, the ham. Lambchop and I have declared a fatwa on food. We are a sorry pair, stabbing half-heartedly at broth when we lunch together. But we look great! We are so lucky to be afflicted with wasting diseases. Some people pay for tapeworms, but not us. It merely took some vagaries of the digestive tract and a whopping dose of serotonin, between the two of us. America, wait for our book.

It’s strange that we do everything together. People look at us funny when we use the same machine at the gym at the same time. And sometimes I do get tired of her sitting on top of me at the dentist, and I wish she didn’t need a night light. It’s all worth it, though. My bodddyyy and me! Maybe someday we will be surgically separated, but so far, so good. Don’t tell Lambchop, but for Christmas I am knitting us a muff.

Huzzah, huzzah!

Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

To celebrate, I have quite the surprise. I let us get pregnant a few weeks ago when she was passed out! No, kidding, kidding. But I did pick up a few gaudy do-dads, and when I purchased one of them the sales-slattern said “Oh, your daughter is going to love this!” What is more alarming: our truly infantile taste, or that this shrew thought I looked old enough to have a six-year-old?

Now I give you photographic proof that we are two heads sharing one body. This was taken in Barcelona a few years ago, atop a bus. Luckily we never forget which one of us is on the right in photos (Lambchop!).

Now what more can I say about my splendid pal? Hmm… no matter what I come up with, I am sure that ABBA has said it better at some point.

There was something in the air that night

The stars were bright, Fernando

They were shining there for you and me

For liberty, Fernando

Though I never thought that we could lose

There’s no regret

If I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando

Yes, if I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando…


Counterpoint: Bodddyyyy, I am tired of doing our taxes!

[pictured, from left: Licketysplit, Lambchop]

Why do I always have to be the responsible one?

I always say to Heather “Just once I would like it if you laundered the money!” But does she listen? Oh no. She is usually preoccupied by a shiny pinwheel or some other geegaw, while I gnaw a pencil to a stub and readjust my green visor. She’ll never sweat over off-shore holdings the way I do!

And it pains my soul, because I am fun-loving too, you see. I enjoy gumming jawbreakers, tissue paper flowers on sticks, crackers shaped like animals, and dreamcatchers. But everyone thinks I am the stodgy one because I have the head for figures. Oh, the trials of being 10 minutes older.

Finally, I will say to Heather that just because a kitten follows us home does not mean we get to keep it. Who will end up cleaning the litter box? Me, that’s who, and you will not even let me use our other arm. Oh no, you will be too busy styling your hair with the Twist-a-Braid!

I am not even going to discuss the turtle you allowed to wander away into the heating duct. Also, I’ve made up my mind, from now on I will only remember to apply under-eye cream to MY eyes! Please save your crocodile tears, I am too busy playing with this tinsel garland to listen to you! La la la la. La.


Oh! Bodddyyyyy!

Bodddyyyy, clinic why do you always get to kiss the boy?

We are a two man outfit in one sleek, supple vessel. Helen is really the brains of this operation. Our sweatshop in Malaysia was entirely her idea. It was she that earned us those splendid S.A.T. scores, pencilling in those little ovals like a Kennedy. Helen picks out the sweater sets and makes sure the juice boxes are packed. The butterfly tattoo and the cough syrup addiction were my idea. Helen is the one who speaks during Oral exams. I am really much better at flirting with policemen.

If I can prove that I have spent ten minutes of the day in a rational manner, she lets me hold the kite string. Sometimes I think I am a liability in her quest for world domination.

We are coming to your town in mismatched socks.


Hot 97

Continuing our riveting streak of self-flagellation, here’s a goth polaroid! Enjoy, eat it up. That’s me on the left, Heather on the right. What is it about teen angst that makes girls press their heads together and take high-contrast self-portraits?

Our thing was looking like we were about to throw up. That’s where the Vomitola name first came about. We used to click off a zillion shots, wait for them to develop, and then cobble them together to make a story, complete with captions. Sample: “Helen spies the bucket…” or “Now it’s Heather’s turn.”

We were also pretty into the two heads, one body idea, as you shall see from tomorrow’s offering.


What would Martha do?

Ugh. I’ve got a hangover, and I only just started drinking. No, not *that* kind of hangover, a wedding hangover. That’s right, we’re still not done with our thank you notes. So if you didn’t get one yet, that means we dislike you intensely, and we found your gift terribly unimaginative and downright insulting. Oh, I keeeeeed. The list is in fact alphabetical (we are somewhere in the R-S range, we can’t help being popular), and I was foolish enough to think Mr. H might actually help with birthing them.

But then again, I married someone with a limited vocabulary. Hey, I’m not being mean, it’s just the truth. If I were with a man as verbose as I am naturally, we’d never get anything done because we’d be too busy trying to out-conversate the other. Why, it would be like being married to Lambchop. We ruled out same-sex marriage as a possibility years ago. A) she wouldn’t get the donkey dingle graft, and my hips are far too slinky to carry it off, and B) we’d never have sex anyway because we’d each be too busy trying to put on more makeup than the other. So Mr. H and I, we compromise. I explain the big words, like “abutters” and “that other one from the other day he didn’t know,” and he makes dinner. But he does know enough to say “You’d better not be making fun of me on your stupid website.”

Now, Kitty Winn says that the secret to a good thank you note is to create your own custom attractive letterpressed notes, and also to lie, lie, lie. For instance, the truth is not always suitable for print:

“Dear Aunt Hilda,

thank you for remembering us on our special day. I’m sorry to hear that what you purchased to commemorate it is “too heavy to mail,” but I eagerly await the day you drop it off at my mom’s house several states away from me. I am sure it will make a lovely addition to her hall closet, be it a solid block of obsidian or a mastadon femur. I really hope it’s breakable! We’ll see you at Christmas.


-Helen & Mr. Helen”

No, no, that simply won’t do. What am I going to say? I have no idea. But Mr. Man also knows enough to open a second bottle of wine, so I’m sure it will sort itself out. If you are in the lucky R-Z last name category, you can look forward to a sloppy, drooled-upon note in a few days time. But we ran out of the nice letterpressed ones, so T.S.. Note to self: next career — purchase letterpress!




Curse it all, but I have to contend with the return of Steele! I tremble equally with awe at his acquiline profile and with rage at how he wrests my friend’s attentions from me! Is there a scientific name for when girlfriends are unceremoniously swept aside in favor of fresh boy?

Oh Lambchop, remember all our good times? Remember when you got into Yale? Who was there with you, under the bridge in the Public Garden, sipping grape-flavored Mad Dog? ME! Remember the time that drunk guy parked his yellow Geo Tracker in front of my balcony and left it unlocked with the keys in it? Who was right there with you, turning it to face the opposite direction? ME! Who was with you when Nick Cave purchased a YooHoo at Christies? ME!

In case you have forgotten, may I remind you of a picture from our girlhood:

Lambchop and Licketysplit in their Exhibition Days

Doesn’t that tug the heart strings? Mom always liked you best! Now I am going to go and fling myself on my canopy bed, to have a proper be-kneesocked schoolgirl tantrum!