Tag Archives: beauty

Better off dead

Licketysplit

This week is not going so hot.

But on to a much more cheerful topic than workaday doings: death!

On Monday I went to a wake for someone I didn’t even know (extended extended family of Mr. H). I had to fake Catholic or risk looking like some kind of disrespectful jerk. I come from a family that never even attempted any religious affiliation. I was never baptized, and Christmas was distilled to the purest form of commerce. Presents were half-heartedly wrapped in non-Christmas paper, stacked on the couch, and marked with a note that read “from ‘Santa.'” Luckily I went to an Episcopal high school, so at least I know most of the words to all the top 5 prayers.

So I crossed to the left, I crossed to the right, I bobbed, weaved, mouthed a Hail Mary here and there. I got blessed by Officer Nightstick, er, Father Buzz Cut. This guy was right out of a Tom of Finland illo, verrrry studly. When in Rome, right?

The most awkward part was the kneeler at the casket. I’d made it through the grieving receiving line, trying to be as supportive as could be given that I’d never met the ol’ gal. So there I was, next to Mr. H, with an actual dead person right at eye level. I am not particularly upset by death, but I did note that if I am ever to be displayed in death, I would like to make sure my nails are painted. Preferably She-dragon red. It’s just like women and sunscreen: they always forget to do the hands.

“What are you supposed to do up there?” I asked him later.

“Oh, I usually just say an Our Father to get the timing right.” So there you have it.

I have decided that my own coffin will be lined with white fun fur and equipped with a sun lamp in the roof, and I will be sporting a bikini. Lambchop said, “I want an open-toe casket!” So even in final repose, we mustn’t neglect our pedicure. Tropical drinks will be served. Nothing like a little Harry Belafonte to lighten the mood. Coconut shrimp on skewers, bacon wrapped scallops. Mm-mm. Everyone must compliment their neighbor’s attire and say one nice thing about me.

“She always flossed.”

“She could rip out checks without tearing them.”

“She really liked cheese.”

Thus shall be my legacy, thus it is written.

xxoo

Seasick, yet still docked…

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a hangover the size of a Buick Espace. The I-hate-myself-maybe-I-ought-to-hang-myself kind. What should I do?

-drowning girl

Dear Drowning,

I hope you are not waiting for word from Kitty before you begin to introduce your body to water! You clearly need copious amounts of it. In fact, go sit in some. And while you are there, look to your arsenal of skin and hair products for your redemptive ablutions. Once you are soft, warm, and lightly scented, you will begin to love yourself again. Unless you are horribly unloveable, in which case neither Kitty nor Sephora can help you and you should probably fix yourself another drink as quickly as possible. Hair of the Dog, as they say!

Most importantly, do not despair! If Kitty thought of topping herself everytime she woke up dry mouthed in a spinning room with her boots still on, she would be as tiresome as a Smiths-loving teenager. You’re going to have to take this on the chin, love.

cheers,

Kitty Winn

Bermuda triangulations

From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I just got out of a relationship, and have been playing the field, so to speak. My question is, whatever happened to pubic hair?! All of the young women of my recent acquaintance have either had none, or the most miniscule of landing strips. And they weren’t even strippers!

-just curious

Dear Curious,

So let Kitty get this straight, you’ve just been allowed back onto the field after a time out, and you’re going to complain about the length of the grass? Kitty simply cannot believe this impudence! A penalty flag is in order! Would you prefer astro turf?

Kitty is also perplexed by your wording…by “young women,” Kitty assumes you mean damsels of your same age, ostensibly adult. You wouldn’t by any chance be trolling grade school yards or anything of that nature? Because that might account for your findings right there.

Antipodean grooming is really a terribly personal choice. Kitty has heard of the Brazilian this, the Flemish that, even the Flying Swede, and while she may not personally buy in, who is Kitty to tell anyone what to do?

*Kitty unleashes a tinkling peal of laughter*

At any rate, a true lady should never reveal these delicate areas to anyone not prepared to fully appreciate them, no matter what the state of the flower bed. If you were more successful pitching your woo, you might convince a lass to leave a few weeds on the lawn. Until you are able to sustain an intimate relationship, Kitty suggests that you purchase a copy of the oirginal version of The Joy of Sex if the hirsute are your thing. Now trouble Kitty no more, you insolent snip!

Taxiing to Runway 3,

-Kitty

I’d like to thank the academy

From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,
In a few weeks I’ll be graduating from college. Normally, I skip tiresome ceremonies, but my own dear

school has sweetened the pot by offering a nice cash prize to the graduating senior with “the best literary

instincts.” Naturally, the winner is announced at the very end of graduation, so there’s no sneaking out the back if one doesn’t get it.

It’s a small class, and while I’m no Eudora Welty, I’ve written a thing or two in my day, and there’s maybe a

20% chance I’ll win. Every year, camera crews descend on the winner. Mostly, they’re from no-account local papers, but depending on what else is going on in the world that day, wire services and sometimes even TV networks pick up the story. I’m nervous, Kitty. I’ve never dealt with the papparazzi before. Please give me some pointers on how to display a heartfelt and photogenic reaction to good news, should

I receive it.

-Inkstained and eager on the Eastern Shore.

Dear Eager Beaver,

Kitty has cracked this nut wide open: you must repeat to yourself “What would Anna Wintour do?” Make sure you get your hair blown out, and wear large dark glasses. That way, even if you have to fake a smile, no one will see that the muscles around your eyes are not crinkling appropriately. And really, even if one is overjoyed, why court premature aging?

Kitty assumes that wardrobe is not an issue because you will be wearing some sort of cap and gown ensemble? In that case, focus on selecting a good pair of shoes. If they are open-toed, be sure to get a pedicure. Of course you will want a manicure, the better to grasp your oversized novelty check. You’ll want to wear a spot of makeup, to look fresh and vibrant, baptized with the dew of youth. But too much makeup could indicate you whorishly slept your way to the prize! Remove the foolish hat before being photographed.

Take a lesson from the recent Nicole Kidman Oscar speech fumbling: prepare a few gracious remarks in advance. Something along the lines of “I lead a charmed life, this is to be expected.” Or “I always knew I was better than everyone else; vindication, at last!”

All kidding aside, it is sometimes a good ruse to pretend to be choked up. You can dab daintily at imaginary tears, press your palm to your chest, and whisper “I am so touched! Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. This award truly belongs to all of my fellow contenders, who inspired me greatly.” Note that you should not actually give them a damn cent. Also, don’t forget to thank the faculty, unless you’ve already paid them off. Should the press continue to hound you, you must smile wanly and say “Thank you again for your kind interest, but I must celebrate with my family now.” Your family will want to dump a cooler of literary Gatorade on you at that time. This could affect your blow out, but could make for a good human interest shot.

In case you don’t win, the pressure is still not off! Try not to let your face freeze into a rictus of horror at whatever illiterate cretin is selected. This is also where the dark glasses come in handy. You’ll want to give an awkward little hug. Again, don’t waste an eye crinkle on this person.

Finally, you will want to review Kitty’s Victim Tribute Photo Tips:

Kitty suggest a 3/4 view for a head shot, as it is most flattering. You should also tip your chin down, while tightening the muscles beneath it, and look upward just a bit — never directly at the camera. Kitty learned this from Princess Di, and it never fails.

Onwards and upwards,

-Kitty

International man of malaise

Licketysplit

Ah Melvin, that callous libertine. A lovable scamp with a heart of arsenic. He’s wormed his way into the filthy, undeserving hearts of quite a few readers, that’s for sure. Just know that he will always loathe you, no matter how much affection you heap at his well-manicured feet. Please feast your eyes on the new Galerie de Melvin, permanently located in the side bar.

Speaking of manicures, sandal season is upon us. Ladies and Gentlemen, start your pedicures! For the love of all that is right and good, pumice. Seek professional help as needed. But do not take your grooming to the extreme, I don’t want to see any more nail clipping on the subway.

xxoo

A loosely connected series of topics only interesting to me -or- I wish I had a miniature secret camera

There, you can’t say you were not warned. First, I successfully underwent highlights. I can assure you the results are most subtle indeed. I believe that this technique ceases to be known as highlights when jarring stripes of contrasting color are observed. Then it becomes something else indeed; I have a few names for it myself.

Yesterday saw the completion of an errand under some duress. In the interest of returning to work in a timely fashion, I stopped at McDonald’s and got a Happy Meal. As I was walking to my destination, I approached a very large young lady coming my way on the sidewalk. Not to offend any pleasingly voluptuous readers, but she was of the build where her head looks startlingly small in the context of sitting on top of her body. Arms could not be placed comfortably at the sides. In other words, freaking humongous. She started veering towards me, and she was definitely eyeing my paper sack.

I thought “Oh crap, she’s going to ask me for money,” but instead she gestured towards the bag and asked “Where is the McDonald’s where you got that at?” Phew, off the hook!

“It is back about two blocks that way.”

“JEEZ,” she sighed, “that far?”

I thought about just giving her my bag and running away, really fast. Fast enough to get to my target heart rate!

In other news, I’ve decided my true career calling lies with the CIA. Here’s their list of open positions. Of course I’m most attracted to Clandestine Service, but I fear I would not pass the background check necessary to get a security clearance. Also, I do not speak Korean, and they seem to be pretty hot on that. Wonder what manipulation of international policy we’ll be embarking on next as a nation?

Really, though, you’d think lying, cheating, and stealing would be what would qualify me for the job. That, and I’ve never been caught doing anything bad. I was always the sneaky one. My sister would tattle on herself when we were kids. But no amount of cajoling would ever induce me to release incriminating details. The secret to lying is to lie big. And you must believe your own lie and be able to produce genuine indignation if your story is ever challenged. But I suppose there is a down side to CIA life. For one, I’d have to live close to NoVa when I’m not off poisoning people with asps in backwards nations. And the traffic in Northern Virginia just blows. Still, they do get plenty of sick time, and there is access to two gyms. Sweet.

Anyway, by linking to those pages, I’m sure I’ve put myself under tight scrutiny and will definitely not get a clearance now. Dammit. I swear I would be really, really good at the job. Call me, you should know how to find me!

Corrections, mea culpas, addendums

Licketysplit

It has been brought to my attention that the proposed title for my novel, Portrait of the artist looking real fine, is one of the most egomaniacal monikers since Peter Murphy had the spleen to name an album Deep.

I certainly do not mean to toot my own horn. I would be writing about hypothetical (yet comely!) characters. It’s not like I’m Peter Murphy, presumptiously assuring you that I am DEEP, and my intellect is VAST. I’m not even like that Zadie Smith, running on about my flawless dental hygiene. I shudder to think.

Aaron piped in again to tell me more shocking separation of church and state news. Those folks who were so into the national day of fasting? Their resolution PASSED! By a huge margin! Do email your local wonk and tell them you are most terribly distressed if they voted for this. We go on and on about theocracy being so terrible in Islamic countries, but what are we shooting for here? It’s A-OK to dictate the religious actions of an entire nation as long as the god in question isn’t swarthy? People may certainly pray and fast all they want, and I’m sure every little bit helps if such things are possible. But please don’t tell me how, when, and where to beam my own brand of goodwill into the cosmos! Although I prayed just this morning: “Dear lord, please let me always be able to afford professional hair color.” I’m just kidding. Sort of.

In other news, I got highlights.

xxoo

Portrait of the artist looking real fine

Licketysplit

There’s my title, now all I need are some characters, a plot, and umpteen thousand adjectives, verbs, and conjunctions. Oh, and articles, both definite and indefinite. Maybe some adverbs or prepositions. Punctuation. Why, this practically writes itself!

My younger sister is writing a book. And she’s not even out of college yet. I have scarcely the motivation to write a check to my mobile service provider, and there she is, poised to be the next Eggers, Eggers, Leggo my Eggers. See, I suck. I even stole Leggo My Eggers from her. Ah Grasshopper! The student has surpassed the teacher.

Anyway, she suggested my book should be about a post-bohemian self-actualizing in the face of a life-changing event. OF COURSE she was kidding. Still, I think I’ll just write about how annoying hipsters are. Po-Boho. Huh huh, Beavis.

Oh, a few housekeeping announcements, then on with the news of the day! You may notice a strange new box on the left. A coalition force from Amazon.com seems to have installed it in the night. Please use it to buy lots of things, as hosting costs money, and so do tampons and Lee Press-On Nails.

Secondly, we have secured the services of a music critic! Mr. Howell Fairly will debut shortly. I believe he’s working on a review of the new EP by Snout, a promising group of tow-headed, tie-wearing youths. Also a real think piece entitled “Emo: Tears like grapes squashed on the supermarket floor.”

Now for the news: Aaron tells me that some wackadoos from particularly fundamentalist-leaning states have proposed a resolution asking the president to designate a national day of fasting and prayer, so that God may shine his heavenly light of favor on America.

In other masticating developments, New Yorkers are staying home from restaurants [NYT, reg. req.]. People are opting to stay at home, eating massive quantities of cheap takeout, keening softly until they fall into a bloated slumber. Heather was just saying that the new trend won’t be Terror Sex, but the Terror 15. See, that’s obviously where the fasting and prayer is supposed to come in! “I pray my ass won’t spread as I watch all this war coverage.” Balance in all things, we say.

I checked my favorite snack portal, Taquitos.net, to see if they have any stress eating data. They don’t. But they do have this article about Krispy Kreme’s inexorable advance into Massachusetts, a topic near and dear to my ass.

Oh, for the record, we are not a bunch of bulimics just because we like to keep slim and trim and happen to have a site called Vomitola! I know the deck appears to be stacked against us, but we are prepared to be hated for our natural beauty. That’s nothing new anyway. If we don’t exfoliate, the terrorists will have won!

xxoo

The humanity

Licketysplit

In these times of “AUGGGHHHHH,” it is somehow less appealing to natter away about boys and makeup and low-fat yogurt, but I’ll just have to give it the old college try. I just got an email about a mass “die-in” scheduled for this Saturday in the Boston Common. Hoo boy. Guess I will be avoiding that area. So much for walking uninterrupted between my house and the gym! Shouldn’t I be fit in case I’m called to serve my country? Perhaps in the Miss World pageant, or an international swimsuit model-off? Americans have the poweful Mother of All Bikini Waxes on their side. Not to mention Pilates and numerous Sephora locations. It would be a slaughter.

But the gym is depressing. Everyone stares bug-eyed at CNN on the individual TVs on the cardio machines. It is pretty hard to slack off when you’re watching marines slinking around on their bellies via a night vision cam. There is nothing you can possibly think but “Damn, do I have it good right now. Now I must PAY.” So everyone is limping pitifully when they get off the machines. And no one is obviously picking each other up, phooey on terror sex.

My actual opinion about current events changes every 10 or 15 minutes. I am in no way an accurate barometer of American pacifism or jingoism. Right now I’m wavering in the camp of “Enough of this shit, I’ll personally go over and rip off some moustaches and berets.” Just get it over with. I know people who are serving in the middle east, and I’d quite like to get them back. The TV news is also stepping up Iraqi human rights atrocity footage. The best story so far was unquestionably the human meat grinder with direct outlet to the sewer. You have to wonder how much is true, but Barbara Walters has recruited a prodigious amount of people with hideous scars. I am certainly all for ending torture (who isn’t! Well, maybe Barbara Walters.), but we are establishing a dangerous precedent of intervention, and we all know that Iraqi human rights are not the real motivation for this war. Ugh ugh ugh.

Oh, what was I talking about? Makeup! Yes. I may have to totter over to Sephora at lunch and spritz myself with various fragrant potions ’til I reek like a French whore. Or I could just sniff this whiteboard cleaner….mmm tolulene. I believe that’s the stuff that melts styrofoam.

Ah, but let’s not forget my real port in a storm! Heather has introduced me to Steele’s twin brother Sloane. Sloane is a pillar of the community. He looks good in bike shorts. He makes a stunning spring vegetable risotto. Sloane is always available for consultation on matters of fashion. He plucked my eyebrows the other day, and I must say he uncovered a natural arch I never thought possible.

xxoo

Case in pointless

from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

The leader of my nation is poised to start some WWIII-type shit. I am scared and embarassed. I signed all the petitions, and I half-heartedly stood around with some protesters. I thought about emailing my senator, whoever that is. Now I’m sort of informed, having watched the president talk on tv and looked at some scary infographics on the ABC network. The technical explanation I heard was “we’re gonna pound em.” Kitty, what can I do to take control of this situation? I’m frazzled and perplexed!

-scaredy cat

Dear Scaredy,

You’ve got nothing to fret over. Remember, nuk-yoo-lar weapons can’t hurt you, only the nuclear ones. Sit back, apply some soothing cucumbers to your eyes, and wait for the next Golden Girls rerun. Oh wait, or did you vote for Ralph Nader? In that case, a special detail will be by in fifteen minutes to impress you into the Navy. You’ll be taking control of the situation, all right. But don’t worry, chicks (and lots of fellas) dig uniforms!

At any rate, it’s horrid and scary. Kitty would advise against stress eating, as no one likes a chunky monkey, and nail biting is out as well. Think of your manicure! You could devote yourself to tooth whitening or promiscuity. Those are really the only acceptable options. Oh, and hoarding. Stop driving your confounded SUV and walk to loot the grocery store. But French wine and bon bons are out, as are French cheeses. And stop saying “zut alors” and “c’est la vie.” It’s annoying anyway.

Kitty will be hiding under the bed if you need her. But she’ll be wearing a fabulous negligee!

bunkering,

-Kitty