This afternoon, we’re embarking on a regimen of ice chips and massages from swarthy latin boys. The tattoo sessions did not go as planned…
-xxoo
All posts by Licketysplit
Just meeeee for you, and you for meeeee
Things are looking up. I finished the wedding thank you notes that so plagued me. Sample: “Can you believe we haven’t even thrown these at each other yet? I am sure they would hold up admirably even if we did, owing to the high quality.” I resisted the temptation to say “Thank you for contributing to our wedding slush fund. We used your generous check to pay some teamsters to deliver the garden chairs.”
And the book deal, well, snap, that was easy! I should have tried getting one years ago! Lambchop and I are kicking off the writing process with a viewing of Mean Girls. Then we’re getting matching tattoos. I got the idea for the design from the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living. You’ll have to buy the book to find out what it is!
-xxoo
To do, oh, what to do
I made a “to do” list the other day, titled “Things hanging over my head.” It started out innocently enough.
1. Roll over errant retirement accounts from two jobs ago, which involves contacting people in jail
2. Finish wedding thank you notes, now that “the gift too heavy to mail” has arrived
3. Purchase more attractive filing cabinet, file random pieces of paper
4. More fucking laundry
It devolved from there.
5. Figure out life’s “special purpose”
6. Purchase first home in a state where a shitty ranch is still 450k
7. Get own TV show
8. Reproduce, or not
9. Vomitola book deal
10. Get job, any crappy job
11. Stop occasional weeping fits, they tax delicate undereye skin
12. Give up on all of the above and purchase Baskin Robbins franchise
13. Figure out what to make for dinner
These are in no particular order, but you get the idea. Most logically, we would get the book deal before the TV show. I’m just saying. You know where to find us.
-xxoo
Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space
A week ago, I was lolling about in a foreign land, as the natives pushed each other aside for the honor of turning down my bed. I might eat a prosciutto-wrapped fig if I felt so inclined, or dip a toe in my private plunge pool. The coffee came with a single perfect rose on the tray.
Today, I am sitting on my couch after a rousing session of “kill the bugs that come in when it rains.” The highs, the lows. I am also nagged by some sort of illness. Once it turned out not to be SARS, I lost interest, but still it persists, like a dense pimple-ridden suitor. Someone has suggested that I have “allergies.”
Allergies? Those are problems for OTHER PEOPLE! I thought I was breaking new ground in the inconvenience department when I became the first person in the entire world to suffer from jet lag, but this, this simply will not do. I have placed a call to my attorney, my plastic surgeon, and the liquor delivery service.
Speaking of other people, and their horrid little problems, some of you might remember that April 5 was to be “Have Sex With An Ugly Person Day.” Well, Lambchop and I tried. We honestly did. But we couldn’t find any of those poor unfortunates in our immediate circle. So we placed paper bags over the heads of our regular duty roster members, and gamely tried to look away from the still visible taut abs. It was a disaster. We felt robbed of a sense of giving. Here we thought we could be Ghandi for a day, only to take yet another turn on the usual golden lap. It breaks our heart still more to know that scores the world over will never know what it’s like to bed an attractive person! I weep; Lambchop weeps.
-xxoo
Its the little thing’s
I am sure 10% of the reading audience just clapped hand to breast and shrieked. The other 90% plodded on, unruffled. Most likely the members of the majority are foreign, or perhaps just American. You hurt mama when you misuse punctuation.
The it’s/its quandary, which really isn’t much of one, is oft-tilled ground. Yawn. When you feel a burning need to write “it’s,” read your sentence aloud using “it is.” Does it make sense? “The bird flapped it is wings.” No, that is unacceptable. In that case, use “its.” “It is time for tea.” OK, go nuts with “it’s,” you have my blessing.
What truly baffles me is the folks who have started stuffing extra apostrophes into plural nouns, as if they need dressing up. Example: “I bought some new skirt’s.” “All the other mother’s want to have lunch.” In the latter case, it is possible that the writer meant “All the other motherfuckers.” I might let that slide.
In any case, here’s a handy cheat sheet for forming plurals. Click on “English Plurals” for pictures of cute animals. Please note that the plural of “dog” is “dogs.” Not “dog’s.” “Two dog’s did not go to the park.” Do not try to tell me otherwise. I will kick you in the shin’s.
In short: I blame….Dick Cheney, you, your parents, my parents, Big Tobacco, television, Big Food, and the fact that every single thing that appears on the intarweb is a first draft. Including thi’s.
NEXT WEEK: Everyday is not like Sunday, but every day is.
-xxoo
Meta Fo Feta
Mr. H and I are back. We hope to sleep through the night again some day.
Big American face
Tsukiji Market
Work
Shibuya side street
Wonder Wheel
Shimbashi Station, shop towards Ginza
View from our hotel room
After a while…
-xxoo
Good evening.
As you have requested privacy, we were unable to gain entry to your room. Please call Housekeeping if you would like your room refreshed or your bed turned down. Thank you.
—
That’s right, I vant to be alone.
-xxoo
I’m not going on vacation
I’m going on the lam!
See you next week, unless I deign to entertain you from Tokyo. In the meantime, watch out for falling 777s and downed power lines.
-xxoo
What day is it? Thursday again!
I got to thinking about how good Mr. B manages to look these days. I am sure he has a whole team to work on him, drugs like a NASCAR pit crew. I was racking my brain as to how I could emulate all this good grooming, and it hit me: botox! I already work out, have a more than competent hairstylist, and I’d like to think I’m not a terrible slouch in the fashion department. But I am starting to wrinkle a bit, and that one stubborn wrinkle between my eyes really bugs me.
This idea got my home dermatology juices flowing, so I looked up how to make botox. You really can find anything on the internet. It turns out it’s mostly denatured alcohol, salt, and egg white. You can approximate the paralytic effect of the toxin with pyrethrin, which is a common pesticide ingredient! Thus began the bathroom chemistry. It looked pretty gross, but I dabbed some on with a cotton ball and waited a few minutes. It burned like a sonofabitch for a bit, but eventually the whole area went numb! Unfortunately there was no discernable visual change, so I figured you really do have to inject it, it’s not going to get through to the muscle otherwise.
I have a syringe that I scammed off my diabetic pal. I use it to refill my one nice fountain pen, and I figured “if that moron can inject herself every single day, surely I can master this.” I spent the rest of the afternoon practicing on an orange, with an Allure Magazine spread on botox for reference. Not too hard really. I braced my elbow on the toothbrush holder in the bathroom for steadiness and gave the wrinkle a poke. And… it hurt. A lot. The end result is a giant weeping sore. Bugger. I don’t think I’ll be going out this weekend, unless Mr. H makes me go to a doctor. I am half-tempted to post a picture and get everyone’s best amateur medical evaluations. So far I’ve just been spritzing on tea tree oil, like every fifteen minutes.
-xxoo
Pants descending a staircase
Lamby and I had a delirious time doing the Frug with Mr. Bowie last night. That man is the epitome of “well-preserved.” A work of art. I wish I could say the same for the crowd. Everyone else apparently trucked in from Worcester. It is quite possible that they were expecting a Monster Truck show. It is also quite possible that they were all a bunch of randy bi-sexual drug addicts 30 years ago, as they sat stolidly through newer material but popped up like weebles for “Ziggy Stardust.”
I am adopting a new world view, a real seismic shift for me. It is tentatively titled “What Would David Bowie Do?”
Example:
Me: I don’t feel like going to the gym today.
Me: *snaps rubber band on wrist* What Would David Bowie Do?
Me: Houseboy, summon my personal trainer, and my cosmetic dentist, just for the hell of it!
This is sure to work wonders. Let’s try that again.
Me: I don’t have enough money
Me: *snaps rubber band on wrist* What Would David Bowie Do?
Me: I know, I’ll IPO!
To that end, I’m going to start selling Vomitola.net email addresses and premium memberships at $100 a pop. Look for Lambchop and I at the next show in June, waving a glittery pink banner reading “PANTS.” You could join us!
-xxoo