Go view this charming little movie for Peter Kuper’s new treatment of The Metamorphosis.
Lambchop and I feel a kinship with Mr. Samsa, as we frequently end up flailing on our backs. Also with Mr. Kafka, as we both have tuberculosis.
-xxoo
Tag Archives: existential crisis
The lights are on, but no one’s home
This is to serve as official notice that I will be off in a Swiss sanitarium for the next few weeks to months. I have a lot on my plate, so much so that I’m practically in need of bariatric surgery. Glarmph.
What to do with this space is turning into a puzzler. Frankly, work sucks, planning a wedding sucks, and there are only so many times one can discuss either of those topics. I’ve also noticed in the stats that this site is read by some people who are in my general orbit but definitely not close to me. They don’t mention that they read it, as close friends will actually do, and that’s kinda creepy. Even total strangers write in and make themselves known. Shouldn’t you people be busy looking for Buffy fanfic or something? This is public, of course, and you have a right to read. This knowledge helps me rule out the extremely personal as fodder. Not that I usually run on and on about gynecological hijinks or the joys of separating my laundry, but it’s nice to touch on actual human experiences now and then. So if my contribution to this site can’t be personal, what does that leave? The topical? That’s sooooo irrelevant.
Indeed, there are enough people doing pseudo scholarly analysis, movie reviews, and in depth-coverage of what they ate for breakfast. Ah, self-publishing at its finest. The world cries out for another pastiche of NYT links!
So I leave you for now in the capable hands of Lambchop. At least until after September 1, when I am absolved of some legal doings and can speak freely about something particularly hilarious. Until then, Lambchop’s wee paws are as soft as a baby’s hindquarters. She’s been soaking in something…
-xxoo
A Day in the Life of a Scrivener
No one ever talks to me here.
Save the occasional directive from my boss.
As he scuttles by my desk and burrows in his office.
But Today
I was cheerfully addressed with some small talk
By a suited gentleman in the elevator
I was grateful.
He had toilet paper streaming from the back of his trousers
I thought “I should tell this nice man and spare him further embarrassment”
The grand atrium lobby was teeming with office workers. It was an ice cream party.
I stopped him before he could enter with his paper streamer
My information made him appear stricken and humiliated
He said “How embarrassing”
I nodded and said “Yes” very sweetly with a glued-on smile and strode off to end the pained moment
I sullied the only friendly interaction I have had here
I should have said
“It happens to everyone”
A totally hypothetical vignette
Hulk go to bridal salon. Hulk try on dress again. Hulk HATE dress. Who will make Hulk pretty now?
Hulk cry.
Why Hulk ever eat carbs? Hulk looking for love in wrong place.
Hulk watch Oprah. Hulk feel empowered, online call other bridal salon who better at fawning in English.
-xxoo
Better off dead
This week is not going so hot.
But on to a much more cheerful topic than workaday doings: death!
On Monday I went to a wake for someone I didn’t even know (extended extended family of Mr. H). I had to fake Catholic or risk looking like some kind of disrespectful jerk. I come from a family that never even attempted any religious affiliation. I was never baptized, and Christmas was distilled to the purest form of commerce. Presents were half-heartedly wrapped in non-Christmas paper, stacked on the couch, and marked with a note that read “from ‘Santa.'” Luckily I went to an Episcopal high school, so at least I know most of the words to all the top 5 prayers.
So I crossed to the left, I crossed to the right, I bobbed, weaved, mouthed a Hail Mary here and there. I got blessed by Officer Nightstick, er, Father Buzz Cut. This guy was right out of a Tom of Finland illo, verrrry studly. When in Rome, right?
The most awkward part was the kneeler at the casket. I’d made it through the grieving receiving line, trying to be as supportive as could be given that I’d never met the ol’ gal. So there I was, next to Mr. H, with an actual dead person right at eye level. I am not particularly upset by death, but I did note that if I am ever to be displayed in death, I would like to make sure my nails are painted. Preferably She-dragon red. It’s just like women and sunscreen: they always forget to do the hands.
“What are you supposed to do up there?†I asked him later.
“Oh, I usually just say an Our Father to get the timing right.†So there you have it.
I have decided that my own coffin will be lined with white fun fur and equipped with a sun lamp in the roof, and I will be sporting a bikini. Lambchop said, “I want an open-toe casket!†So even in final repose, we mustn’t neglect our pedicure. Tropical drinks will be served. Nothing like a little Harry Belafonte to lighten the mood. Coconut shrimp on skewers, bacon wrapped scallops. Mm-mm. Everyone must compliment their neighbor’s attire and say one nice thing about me.
“She always flossed.â€
“She could rip out checks without tearing them.â€
“She really liked cheese.”
Thus shall be my legacy, thus it is written.
xxoo
A good egg
Alton Brown has helped me make this quiz, fraught with existential panic:
Which egg grade are you?
AA – Really perky
A – Just a bit older
B – When twirled in front of the light, it is obvious that the white has broken down
Aiyeee! This morning I’m feeling like a solid B. I have an altogether odious task to complete today, so odious that I will put off doing my hair until it is finished, lest my coiff be ruined in the process. I can’t detail it further, for they are watching.
xxoo
Problem with Pants
Dear Kitty Winn
My husband has this annoying habit of putting bottlecaps in his pockets. Everytime he cracks open a beer, there goes the cap in his pocket. We are talking pockets constantly full of the damn things. Usually nestled in a fat wad of filthy napkin. Sorting out our laundry has turned into a garbage pick, a lint harvest. I have tried coaxing, begging, and screaming at him. Should I sew all of his pockets shut?
-anonymous
Dear Anonymous,
Whoa, have a xanax, lady! I bet anyone who could see the crumpled receipts, cracked powder case, crushed breathmint, and stray hair clips and safety pins at the bottom of your purse would be none too pleased. Your mate suffers a bizarre form of pack rattage, I grant you. Kitty would never lay hands on someone else’s greasy serviette! Not very sexy, either, to have these things emerging from his pants during intimate moments. Sadly, a person cannot be browbeaten out of their foibles. But there are methods of persuasion. Perhaps you ought to suggest that you will be going nowhere near his pants until they are free of such items. A week or two without a) clean trousers and b) blowjobs should be enough to convince your mate to rethink his entire pants-as-receptacle model of the universe.
Trust me. No one knows pants like Kitty.
-Kitty Winn
Gentlemen take polaroids
Dear Kitty Winn,
I sure am all a twitter because of this talk of terrorism. I know, that’s sooo 2001. But the government is going on and on, and there’s those terrible orange flashing lights to remind me I should be scared shitless. We’re at Condition Tangerine Dream, Condition Creamsicle, or whatever, if you hadn’t heard. Do you remember those Flintstones Orange Sherbet push-up pops? I loved those. I also have an orange push-up bra. Now here’s the problem: I would like to go buy a cardigan and a rude t-shirt at French Connection or something, but I am too afraid to leave the house. Which means I have to watch Dr. Phil or TLC all day. And while I love Trading Spaces, I’ll never get to be on it if I can’t walk out my front door! And my neighbors have a butt-ugly couch! This is a matter of the greatest import.
climbing the walls when I should be painting them,
-Betsy Wetsy
Dear Betsy,
Trading Spaces? Why I suppose I do trade spaces, in my own way…the ranch for the chalet, the penthouse for the yacht. So it goes. But really dear, why do the decorating yourself? *whispers, behind hand* There are PEOPLE to do that sort of thing for you! The only valid sprucing up activities should be related to personal grooming or costuming.
So, to that end, Kitty urges you to throw caution to the winds and venture out! Ob la di, life goes on. You will perambulate the shopping lanes with vigor, head held high, tresses conditioned and bouncing. The secret to inner composure is knowing you have a sparky victim tribute photo ready and waiting in case of emergency!
Kitty suggest a 3/4 view for your shot, as it is most flattering. You should also tip your chin down, while tightening the muscles beneath it, and look upward just a bit — never directly at the camera. Kitty learned this from Princess Di, and it never fails. Neutral make up is preferable, with a smidge of extra eye definition. A good brow is key; consult a professional if you are in doubt. You want to look like the very best version of yourself, not a painted whore. Unless you are a painted a whore, and then different strokes, right? Still, Never. Ever. Contour.
Now Kitty also insists that you order from a reputable photographer. You don’t want to see “Olan Mills” or “Lifetouch Portraits” stamped in the corner. Why not just let your mom use that horrid senior portrait then? Your big hair will be your lasting contribution. Maybe she’ll also helpfully give an interview about how much you loved whatever unfashionable band you liked in high school. You know she wants to! So, having a prepared statement is also key. You’ll want to detail exotic hobbies, luxurious interests, etc. What sounds better: “Betsy died as she lived, sunning on the prow of the yacht Serendipity,” or “Betsy was a paralegal, and she enjoyed bowling and was a real big Dokken fan.”
So my pet, image is everything, and it will most certainly outlive you. Feel better? Super! Bellicose? You mean bella cosa.
graceful under pressure,
-Kitty
Chim Chim Cheree!
I cheered myself up last night swizzling champagne leftover from some party and listening to joy division. Depression, sales like doing your hair, viagra is easier when you are a kid. When I was little, all it took during that bleak half hour on a sunday visit to my father while he still slept, to send me careening into hysterical giggling, was playing the Beatles “Honey Pie” on his stereo. (go run-on sentence! go!) One is easier lifted from doldrums in grade school, too. After failing for the Nth time to tackle and smooch jason simonetti in the school yard, I could pocket my bus money and walk home, so i could get a greasy slice of pizza and a frozen coke when I got to Journal Square. You got these long straws with a scoop at the end. Fine, fine! Even with all that high school Weltschmerz, shoplifting would pick a girl right up!
Perhaps I ought to test against disappointment and spleen the power of chewing on a Fun-Dip stick and some Duran Duran.
smooch
Mood Swinging
I have been so angry lately. Ready to put my fist through glass when people talk to me. Well, I can pick a cliché to excuse myself- It’s because I am Irish. It’s because I am a Scorpio. It’s because I am bipolar. It’s because of hormones. It’s because I am just like my mother, who was a bipolar Irish Scorpio with unbalanced hormones. I am glum from waking up from a dream in which a woman in a supermarket was getting on my nerves and I smashed her head in with a can of peas, stuffed her body in my cart, and continued shopping. When the gruesome corpse in Aisle 4 was noticed by others, I was depressed and surrendered myself, weeping.
I don’t think I will be doing any shopping today.
smooch.