Tag Archives: awful people doing awful things

Go go gadget gay marriage

Well…it’s a start.

Massachusetts? Are you there? It’s me, Licketysplit. Why did you persist in electing Mitt Romney, who has gone on record saying he would veto pro gay marriage legislation? Also, God? Why are people still wearing open toed shoes in November? The cosmos is a baffling place. YOU SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED.

In all seriousness, I am strongly in favor of gay marriage. None of that civil union crapola, although that’s a foot in the door. I was allowed to get “married” in Massachusetts outside of the umbrella of religious blessing (a whole ‘nother can of warms). Our actual legal marriage took place at some creepy guy’s house in Allston. We gave him $100 and our marriage license, and after subjecting us to a story about his own divorce and how his cat is his best friend, he said “I now pronounce you wicked married.”

The actual wedding day was another story entirely. It was full of love and joy and burning money and alcohol poisoning, and in attendance were several long term gay couples who didn’t have a shot at doing the legal bit by virtue of the wrong chromosomal arrangement. If the reason to keep marriage between a man and a woman has to do with morality, let me just say that I am weak of character! I enjoy deviant sexual practices*! But I still got a license, no questions asked. May I remind you that there are plenty of het couples who get married and still smush everything in sight. (We’re saving that bit for our five year anniversary cruise to the Mexican riviera. Oy gevalt. Equal opportunity emotional tearing down, please.)

I’ll be watching the development of this situation, and possibly standing outside Tom Finneran’s house in an animal suit. Tom Tomorrow is right, I should have married a goat.


*Er, I mean spooning, mom. Maybe a little closed-mouth kissing.

Well, I swan

This morning Mr. H shellacked my quaint old Carrie Bradshaw PowerBook with a slick coating of Panther.

“They’re going to run out of cat names soon, huh?” I said. “Jaguar, Panther, what else is ferocious? Puma?”

“Um…Tiger?” said Mr. H. “They already used Puma. I think the next one’s going to be Tiger. And then they could do…what’s that one that’s like a mountain lion but out west?”

Cougar-Mellencamp, dear. I guess there’s always Cheetah and Lion. I would hate to think Apple would have to stoop to something like Tabby or Ocelot.

I hope they go with a solid regimen of dog names for the next incarnation. Dingo, Hyena, Chihuahua, Melvin, Goblin. Or dinosaurs. I’m always partial to the velociraptor.

Then I logged into iChat and found that my usual icon was magically replaced with a pink lipstick smooch on a white background. They did it for me, all for me! How did they know? So I went to the Lisa Frank site for old times’ sake. Yup, still scary.

But even the dastardly Ms. Frank could not have orchestrated the wedding I went to yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I like the happy couple. But I would have fired the DJ on the spot. The guests were each forced to take out a dollar, hand it to their “table captain,” and pass the wad around the table to music. Then the lucky soul left holding it was impelled to dance around the table, passing it to the person in front of them when the music stopped. Finally, the ordeal ended, and the “captain” was awarded the centerpiece (which involved a pumpkin), and all the captains descended en masse to the head table to shove the dollar bills down the bride’s top.


Action cat, cat of action

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.


Something’s come along, gonna burst our bubble

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!


The business of strange people

According to the ol’ Crate & Barrel registry, we are at t-minus 12 days until W-day. Please God, we mutter, make it come even sooner. Sure, the favor tins haven’t been dropped off at Teuscher to be filled with sweeties, my harlot dress is still hanging in an alterations shop, and Mr. H is a rugged wooly mammoth in need of a visit to his stylist. The florist hasn’t been paid, the programs aren’t written, nor are we exfoliated. But I’d show up in pajamas, my hair crusted with ape dung (aren’t you glad I specified just which kind?), if it would stop the constant flood of bizarre questions from assorted helpless out-of-towners.

N.B.: for the purposes of wedding etiquette, ‘out of town’ also includes people who live 20 minutes away and typically know how to help themselves. There is surely nothing someone who is in the throes of planning a major event would rather do than book other people in for manicures! This is the beauty event of my young life, now please do endlessly explain what YOU plan to wear. Not to worry, the photographer has been armed with a “do not commemorate” list, much as the band has their “do not play” list.

And apparently being married across Boston Harbor is practically a scene right out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, with guests forced to hop across from the mainland on floating chunks of ice while being pursued by slavering hounds. “I saw the water taxi is going to stop running, can I take a regular taxi?” We picked the spot for the stunning view of the city skyline, but had I known I would end up having to hire an amphibious assault vehicle, or heaven forfend, tell people to take the damn T, we might have made a different choice.

My standard answer to these nervous nellies is much the same as my code for living: “Ask the concierge!” Although somehow they have mistaken ME for the concierge. Is it my silly little hat? My wing tips or name tag? What gives me away, I wonder. A pox on them.


Deep breaths. True, all I accomplished on my day off today was fielding endless calls and emails (and eating 2 pudding cups). But I did have a swell weekend, thanks to the undeservedly fine weather. We were lured into South Boston by the jutting bones of the new convention center. After a thoroughly random drive, we ended up at Castle Island, loafing in the shadow of the giant fort and watching planes take off. We enjoyed greasy ridged fries from the snack bar and meeting friendly dogs. File it under things I never fucking knew about, and go see the Harbor Islands website.

Later that day we sprawled out in the shade in Columbus Park, full of orange gelati from the North End. Life is good even if having a wedding isn’t. But it’ll be quite the bash. We picked the single worst song ever written for our first dance: “I can’t stop loving you,” by Phil Collins. Relatives will probably wonder why all of our friends are laughing uncontrollably. Then we drink, straight on til morning. I hope someone remembers to put us on our plane the next day.