Tag Archives: beauty

Glonk

I have to get a “knowledge transfer” today from someone at work. I think that’s like the episode of Star Trek where Spock’s consciousness went missing. A wacky search will ensue, and the knowledge will be discovered in a comely nurse.

Last night Lambchop and I saw Lost in Translation, which was just hot stuff. In a low key, perfectly crafted way of course. Really gorgeous. I wanted to get on a plane and go to Tokyo. It would beat sitting in dreary Boston. Which still beats sitting in Arizona with a stick. The one saving grace of today was buying David Bowie tickets. I could have clued you all in that they went on sale today, but I am selfish, with small beady eyes like a snake.

And speaking of David Bowie, I watched Mr. Pants robotically make his way through a performance on the Today Show yesterday. The camera panned across the audience a few times, and I had to wonder yet again at how the most stylish man on the planet manages to attract fat, unkempt goths as a major part of his fanbase. You’d think these poor sods would take a memo! Mr. Bowie did not get to his present perfectly preserved state without daily jogs, a good cosmetic dentist, hairstylist, colorist, wardrobe mistress, and plastic surgeon. Whatever happened to emulating one’s idols?

-xxoo

Dateline: Bok Bok Bok!

Wherein I fire my colorist and press charges

“You call those highlights? Try GRILL MARKS! FIX THEM!”

A chunk-a-chunk here, a chunk-a-chunk there. Three hours later, I leave, shaking with rage. The hair is moderately fixed. A brief sojourn in the trailer park is humorous, oui, but try doing that 4 fucking days before the most photographed day of your life. Imagine if you were giving birth on The Discovery Channel and your waxer gave you a fucking shamrock instead of the requested star or heart or Gucci logo. Ugh. Just wrong. I consulted with Kitty Winn, and she was properly livid too.

Kitty and I also discussed wedding night lingerie. I said “Tell me, Kitty, what’s a sexy direction? Crotchless maybe?” And she rolled her eyes and yawned, “Oh, honey, he’s already bought that cow at that point. Give it up. You might as well be comfortable.”

So there you are. Oh, and we got married by a JP in lower Allston. The witness was a giant orange cat named Mr. Fluffy. So pop a cork for me and Mr. H. We could have held out til Saturday, but the paperwork for the gay Venezuelan Jew who was supposed to marry us didn’t go through. Imagine Mitt Romney denying such an application. I never. Now we just have to have an anticlimactic dog and pony show, huzzah!

-xxoo

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.

-xxoo

Botox Baby

A scandalous report is apparently being circulated abroad concerning yours truly. From Providence to Boston, it is being whispered

“She’s had plastic surgery!”

For the record, this is the grossest falsehood. I am quite satisfied with the size and relative situation of my features. I can’t seem to find out what miracle procedure I am supposed to have undergone. A little botulism here, a bit of a peel there- giant inflatable pillows inserted neatly into my bottom lip perhaps? Cushions of molded plastic nestling in a pad of fat to give desperately needed shape!

Sorry to disappoint all my little hens, but my cheekbones and worry lines are all my own. If I do decide to staple my face someplace behind my ears or get my tail clipped like a young Doberman, you wee nattering pigeons shall be the first to know. I will send you each a bar of soap rendered from my own fat. Now quietly continue envying me at a distance, please.

-xo

Gay Day

Light the candles, physician delicately scented of hydrangea, health sip a manhattan and nibble at some hot pepper chocolates! In between all the delighted squeals of praise for the Fab Five, I have heard complaints that “Queer Eye” is enforcing the stereotype of homos as refined, attractive, youthful and creative people. Heavens no! I urge anyone who finds this an ill-applied and offensive distinction to march in protest. Please choose a remote location so that I may safely ignore your bloated visage, painful body odor, and the misspellings of your poorly handwritten sign.

Lambchop fully supports myths of beauty. Feel free to assume that I, being female, am perfect in every way. That violets blossom in my tiny footprints as I emerge from the bath like a silken Aphrodite.

The only drawback to being female that I can see is that Carson Kressley will never take me shopping!

-xo

A Memoir

Back in the days of MUDs and alt. binaries.naked.teens Lambchop met Licketysplit on alt.rollyoureyes. After exchanging copious emails on strange diseases and the Pointlessness of Everything, we discovered our mutual love of booze drunk out of paper bags, Edward Ka-spel, gummy treats, and Douglas Sirk movies (same thing). So we arranged to meet on a subway platform. As we hurtled toward the station from opposite directions, we steeled ourselves to encounter a mouth-breathing, hunch-backed, pasty creature with spectacles and bad hair. Covered in eczema. (of course had that been the case we would have both kept walking.)

Needless to say, we passed muster and ran gaily off to consume Night Train under a bridge. These are the things that I think about on a Friday morning when I sit in my silent cubicle with nothing to do, pretending I’m Kafka.

Especially now that our Licketysplit is getting married. I really thought she was kidding. I thought the thousands of dollars she has spent on hand woven baskets and ermine place settings was all an elaborate scheme to make her beaux dance with her, and score a toaster. But her shower is on Sunday and I am very happy for her. She won’t forget beneath which bridge to find me.

-xo

Ooh-la-la, Sassoon


Hello there folks! I trust your 4th of July was painted red, white and blue. My neighbor Flora and I made enough lobster macaroni salad to feed all of Epsom! It gave me a touch of the gas, though. Mayonnaise will do that.

Thel’ has more exciting doings to report- my daughter Jessica got a raise over at the Help Center and she treated me to a haircut at VIDAL SASSOON. “ooh-la-la”, I said! Not since my son was born has anyone but Rosie Fitch touched my hair, but I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth so I called and made an appointment with someone named Giacomo. I was a little bit nervous so I put on my Sunday finest and drove on up to the city. The nice lady at the desk gave me a blue robe to put on and sent me into the bathroom. I did not know what to make of that. I didn’t know if I was supposed to undress or tinkle in a cup or what, so I just threw the thing on over my clothes. Then another nice lady with a very deep voice washed my hair and massaged my scalp! She even offered me coffee. For free!

Then it was time for me to meet Giacomo. Only I was so excited I kept calling him Vidal by mistake. We chatted about my two wonderful kids and his partner while he snipped away like nobody’s business. And well, when he was done, I just loved it! Wait until all the ladies at the Golden Age Society see! Any of you folks out there that have too much hair, should really go to Vidal.

Don’t worry, Rosie, I will be back in your chair come next tuesday!

God Bless,

Thelma Haney

Let me hear your body talk

Murphy’s Law #421: right after you go try on your backless wedding dress and decide, “eh, it looks good but I have absolutely no muscle tone whatsoever,” and vow to do nothing but eat protein and do lat pulldowns til the wedding, there will be a free Herrell’s ice cream buffet in the lobby of your workplace.

But I resisted! I am SUPER HUMAN. In another month or so, I will look like a SUPER MODEL. Yes, I’m shallow. Whatever gets you through. My inner bridezilla has ripped through my chest like one of those acid-drooling aliens. I had one woman down at my feet pinning my hem, and another woman with the most incredible face lift plying me with tiaras and yards of tulle, while still another clucked in indeterminate Eastern European at the one hemming my dress, no doubt commenting on the junk in my trunk. I gazed lovingly at myself in the gigantic mirror, tossing my hair this way and that, pausing only to kick Magda when she slowed her rate of pinning.

My bridezilla is tap dancing with a cane now, “Hello my honey, hello my baby….send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart’s on fire.” It’s oozing a trail of slime behind it as it goes off to form a kickline. I’m sunk.

-xxoo

It must be jelly, cuz jam don’t shake like that

My friend Jim has informed me that its peanut butter jelly time, as they say.

Tonight its Lambchop on toast. I am going to wriggle into a slinky something for the Nick Cave show. Then to an after-party. Its on a boat. See, I told you I would not be averse to a cocktail on Nick’s yacht. I wish you could come, Lickety, you have such a way on the docks! My only goal for the evening is not to get so drunk that I am falling down and acting like a retard. Like most Saturday nights.

xo