Tag Archives: travel

Come away with me… to Erotic Ireland

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Pointless search terms clip show, past month or so:

bea arthur

girlhood

john currin

kitty winn

a magzine about littering

boymeat

brazillian flip-flop

conway savage

cowgirls

curlers

dior ipod cover

green tea anal leakage

guatemalan ponchos

hello my honey hello my baby

how to get lizzie mcguire hairstyles

how to papasan chair problem cushion slip

carson kressley horse

marabou christmas tree

pink marabou tree

nine layer dip recipe

snake and jake’s

pop you in the pooper

3 dots on knuckle tattoo

fair spanish ladies

a list of all the lipsmackers

boston cat lady heidi erickson

amex centurion card picture

If there is a rumor about Carson Kressley and a horse, please send me detailed mail. I am all a-twitter, does it mean Catherine the Great style cavorting, or a heroin problem? Although I doubt Carson would do anything so bad for the complexion. If you find out how to do your hair just like Lizzie McGuire, let me know that as well. If your papasan is slipping all over the place, try not having sex in it. And remember, we are tops in anal leakage.

-xxoo

bang up indeed

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I beg to differ, Lambchop, Allston did not used to be Berlin. That is wishful thinking on Allston’s part. But everyone knows that Lowell is the new Prague! I am trying to convert people to move up there and open a transvestite disco with me. And I say “up there” like it’s the great Arctic circle or something, really it’s 30 minutes from Boston. Why, you could all hop on the train and be wearing a lampshade in my living room in no time. As soon as I have a living room. And some lamps. Speaking of lamps, Happy Fun Lamp has a spiffy new design.

Also, Lambuel forgot to mention one other shared fond spot for us: drinking under bridges. Why, when she was accepted into graduate school at Yale, what did we do? We shared a bottle of grape-flavored Mad Dog in a paper bag, nestled under the Swan Boat bridge in the Public Garden. Also, we had plastic knives. For protection. We met a lot of wackos that day, go figure. There was the guy who staunchly believed in the Kirlian camera. A brigade of fur-coated women mincing along with tiny dogs glared at us.

Oh, and then the next week there was an official celebratory brunch. We stayed up all night doing things that are bad for us, and popped out for the New York Times and a box of Munchkins as the sun rose. As the various roommates woke, we were doing the crossword puzzle and polishing off our 40s. Then during the brunch, the omelettes started talking to me. I had to excuse myself.

-xxoo

Big Science

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I broke the blog. Sorry! We are back now. In other news, I haven’t tweezed my eyebrows in two weeks on accounta being sick. I glimpsed myself in the bathroom mirror, and it was like staring at a Yeti. I have managed to totally discipline one brow, but the other is like some sort of bizarre control group.

other ephemera:

Now I am a Commuter, on the Commuter Rail. So you’ll pardon me when I cut out early, saying, “I have to catch my train.”

I am listening to Laurie Anderson again. Aw, just like high school.

My bachelorette party is finally scheduled for January 30th thanks to my friend Melissa. Yes, I did get married 4 or 5 months ago, but who had time then? See me for details if you want to go, there will be flaming drinks and flaming men.

Oh, and another thing about that commute…

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I queued up for the train as always, healing like a concession of defeat. The colder it gets, physician the larger and more desperate this mob becomes. This morning I was part of a faceless torrent of blighted souls, like a yuppie death march toward Dunkin Donuts, hunched over and lurching forward. I dropped a glove and thought I might be trampled if I bent to retrieve it.

While release from the train may be ecstasy, we are swallowed instantly by the cavern.

This is what I feel like:

OOH, congratulations to Licketysplit for achieving, uhhh, something.

-xo

‘Tis the Season to be Tipsy

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It was a brand new freezing day and even though I said NEVER AGAIN, I still came to work in that blighted vessel of the damned.

Last night was my swell roomate’s office xmas party. Thanks for inviting me guys, in spite of my propensity to make out by the copier! (note:I did no such thing. I don’t even think they have a copier.-ed.) Tonight is my firm’s party. I plan to chew and screw. Who needs to get drunk and chatted up by the guys from the mailroom or those screwheads in accounts payable? More to the point, I don’t need my boss to see me acting like an idiot.

Get well soon, most beloved Lickety!

-xo

She’ll Drive a Big Car

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Oh God how I hate the motherf@#$ing B. (For those of tuning in from a safe distance from Boston, the B is a hulking, train-like object that crawls down the street crammed with the dense folk that populate Boston University). I thought it was bad in the summer, all those chunky college girls in low slung spare-tire-pushup pants. Rolling bare guts everywhere. When I got a seat they would surround me at eye level. I felt like I was trapped ina bag of marshmallows.

Oh but winter promises a crushing of the soul. The morning train is packed and its all elbows and humongous backpacks and cellphones. It fills me with hatred for my fellow humans. It laces my inner monologue with a frenzy of “motherf@#$er” I take deep breaths- its not their fault they are two human sizes too large and they have to read Lord of the Rings with their elbows planted in the small of my back. Of course one must flip their waist length hair with one’s hands, even if it lashes into my eyes and mouth.

I wish I were a Woodsman by trade. Then I could board the train with an axe slung over my shoulder (and a jaunty feathered cap!)

I took a taxi twice this week. What bliss! I sail into work on time with well-groomed fingernails and a broad smile. I talk to Greeks, Haitians, Dominicans, Trinidadians. We laugh and agree that life is short so fuck it. I admire the skyline, I tip well.

I can’t help it that I was also born a human, but I just can’t take Satan’s Herd!

-xo

The Simpsons Are Going to Japan

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Thanks to my pal Thrifty J for pointing out the stupid cheap $360 fare from Boston to Tokyo! Huzzah. Turned out to be a misprint (it normally would have been $3000 for us to fly on those dates), but American honored it anyway. When I called to finagle it, the world-weary Texan lady who answered said “Oh, the Boston thing again.” Sigh. And now it’s gone, and someone probably got fired. I can’t wait for April. We’ll pirouette ‘neath daintily falling cherry blossoms, and I’ll croon “Hot Child in the City” with some drunken businessmen. Mr. H is all hot to go to a country n’ western bar.

Other than that stroke of luck, today was a major ass-ramming. And not in that good way. Just as poor Heather suffers from ailments of the tract, there seems to be a capricious gnome squatting in my chest. His friend Stabby lives in my throat. Maybe it’s rabies. I’m about to hit the Nyquil pretty hard.

We took Spare Cat (a stray who lived on the front porch) to the animal shelter last night, and he savaged us right and proper. I understood, I really did. I don’t like to get crammed in tiny boxes either, even with my very small frame. You’re right, I *can* curl up into a very small ball. Oh no, you flatter me! It didn’t help that Spare Cat had space madness from being stuck out in the cold. In a triumph of my mother’s meddlesome DNA, I made him a wretched little insulated hovel on the porch, which is how he survived the past week. If anyone is interested in a handsome devil of a white cat (with big blue eyes and an extra toe), I can point you in the right direction. Unfortunately he does not play well with other cats, which is why we couldn’t keep him. And he’s got a meow like a rusty hinge.

-xxoo

Jackie O.T.

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Dear Diary,

I have been put in charge of filing the orders of a very important customer. So I ask myself: what goes better with a glittery silver top- glittery silver polish or just the plain silver???

Life is six-cups-of-coffee-by-day,-on-the-rocks-yes-please-salt-the-glass-by-night, kind of good. Now that I am a Drudge like the rest of you, I can see it has some merits. The free flavored coffees, the bad moods, the charmingly misspelled articles in the Metro. I can stand around the copier, plucking at my highlights and talking about the South Beach diet in a South Shore Redux. (the South Beach diet is the one where you eat clam rolls and waffle cones, right?)

Since Helen and I opened the Pandora’s Box of Lambchop and Licketysplit memorabilia, I also sifted through my own box of Stuff That Used to Matter. Among the myriad of fascinating items were (1) a Brownie Smock, (2) a collection of orange Honor Roll buttons (they say “Honor Roll” on them in chunky black letters. This way all non-Honor Roll types can make them out and know they are in the presence of Achievement. I wear these to work.), and (3) a report card that says my long division Needs Improvement (NI) but my Spelling is E for Excellent!

I am going to start issuing Needs Improvement cards to my friends and associates. There really ought to be a system of checks and balances for the faux pas’ of our acquaintance, to address horrible sweaters, placing knees on the table, and interrupting ME when I am saying something fascinating.

The last thing I want to rant about, before I go back to punching holes in things, is a startling new development in Boston culture (didn’t know we had any, did you?). Musical amplification devices and Wind Instruments are strictly VERBOTEN! from subway platforms and trains. No more can that batty old geezer plonk out “Alleycat” on his Casio. And the tortured yearnings of the acoustic guitar player will also go unheard as he whispers, ampless. This is all Licketysplit’s doing, for it is she who went around paying these chaps to STOP playing. The frightening result of all this is that it has opened the floodgates to ACAPELLA. My betteylunchbucket morning commute is now punctuated by the few brave soloists who try their hands at Crooning. The resulting bellows and caterwaul make me feel like Day Room at the madhouse again.

-xo

Go East, Young Strumpet

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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

Coming to Amerika Update

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Wow. A job AND a place to live. It almost seems like too much to ask. I am going to have the poshest pit in town. (as soon as I can scare up enough dosh to replace the suitcase in which I sleep with an actual bed. Hurray for both large suitcases AND compact women!)

My new room is pink!

Forces conspire against a body- i am skint, I am grateful to work in Siberia, my plate seems always full of something of something tasteless, the weather is very swimming pool-like, and I locked myself out of the house-sit around midnight. There I was, out in the swimming pool night on one side of the door, convulsing, sweating and jerking futilely at the handle, while on the other side a comfortable bed and two attention hungry, squalling cats. Hurray again for compact women (and unlocked kitchen windows)!

Did I mention I am skint? Nary a pot to pee in!

As depressing as one’s bank balance and minimal decorating style may be, I am glad to be in the Americas. My friends have given me money and food and taken me to see awful films. They have listened to me grind my teeth and chew my nails and weep. They have stood by me while i unleashed obscenities at locked doors at midnight. They have made me laugh and gotten me drunk. And most importantly of

all, they have Given Me Money.

Hurray for Amerika!

(tank you very much)

-xo