All posts by Licketysplit

Leaving on a jet plane

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Well, not really. Not at all. But Mr. H and I are fleeing thickly settled Somerville at long last! We’re moving to beautiful downtown Lowell. Yes, that’s right, Lowell. We just put a deposit on a loft in an old factory. And don’t get me wrong, this is a yuppie loft. It might sound all industrial, but I have no interest in sledge hammering out my own breakfast nook. There are people to do those things, and those people thankfully already did them to this place. Nothing to do but figure out what art to hang on the walls and enjoy paying less than $1 a square foot per month because it’s LOWELL. Also, there is a surveillance system. I’ve always wanted to hover my finger over the button marked “hounds” when various relatives pitch up. Or to be fair, my own relatives as well, although they are easier to anticipate because they are usually blowing on jugs.

I’ve noticed there’s a baseball series of some sort going on, and it seems to involve a Boston-New York rivalry. How quaint! I don’t really follow the sporting world aside from hating figure skating, but I have heard the strident hooting in the streets.

The fact is that I don’t think Boston cares that it’s not New York, and that infuriates New Yorkers infinitely. People who enjoy Boston enjoy it for what it is. It’s city-lite, with just enough historical nonsense tossed in to feel legitimate. I’ve lived in Boston for about seven years now, sticking around after college like everyone else. I’ve lived in the Fenway, in Brookline, in Beacon Hill. I’m an around the way girl. It’s been good, and I am lucky.

So I must recognize some of the acceptable things about Boston. It’s so cute and manageable, so clean. Ridiculously easy to get around, provided you keep your intended use of public transportation to civilized hours. We have adorable miniature similarities to New York things without all the fuss and bother of muggings and traffic. They have Central Park, we have the Boston Common and Public Garden. They have the Statue of Liberty, we have…um…that phallic thing in Bunker Hill. They have the Empire State building, we have (oh jeez) the Pru. They’ve got Chinatown, we have the Fung Wah bus drop off and a stone lion or two. Hey, we’ve got a bridge and a tunnel. We’ve even got hipsters and eurotrash, for chrissakes!

Essentially Boston is like a cunning little souvenir snow globe filled with people with hilarious accents. A snow globe with lucrative employment opportunities and overpriced real estate and bars that close shockingly early. Don’t make it out to be something it’s not, be ye Bostonians or flatland touristers. Boston is forever doomed to be irritating Scrappy Doo, but New York is doomed to be Bluto. Pick on someone your own size for a change.

And…I’ll be in Lowell, opening a Sushi Samba rip off. Hahahahahahahahaha.

-xxoo

Action cat, cat of action

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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

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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

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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

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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