Tag Archives: sexy sex

Is it time to eat again?

Germ warfare continues at our half-packed hovel. Yesterday we managed to pack two whole boxes between coughing fits. Then we took a break to eat whatever was in the freezer and watch a movie featuring attractive people and improbable gunplay. Glamour, story glamour everywhere.

One church billboard has updated ahead of schedule. It reads “When doing heavy lifting, bend at the knees.” My first thought was that this was some sort of sex tip, but then I realized they were talking about praying. Oh. The other billboard rallied with something about casting your cares onto the Lord. Hang on, Lord, get ready to help me pack the spice drawer.

Yesterday in a-w-k-w-a-r-d

Mr. H made the fatal mistake of allowing a checkout clerk into our lives. The insolent whelp commented eagerly on our selection of a pre-made pot pie, and Mr. H allowed that it did, in fact, look good. This led to a tiresome diatribe on the type of pot pie made by the clerk’s mother, and her gravy recipe to boot. His mother’s gravy is quite creamy.

Mmm-hmm, said Mr. H. I cringed as the worm cast an eye towards our pasta sauce. “Wow, only $3.49. Is this any good?”

While waiting for the card approval, the clerk stretched theatrically and asked “Does anyone want to walk on my back to get this knot out?” I decided this would be a great time to make sure the floor was properly tiled.

“You know, I used to have a friend who had his girlfriend walk on his back wearing six-inch pumps,” he persisted.

“Wow, usually you have to pay for that,” I said. The clerk stood there agog, as if I were suddenly the offensive one. Mr. H started snuffling, and we grabbed our bags and ran for it.

I’d like to build a value chain, in perfect harmony

Bitches, this is the year I need to monetize all my channels. Because other bitches straight up do not pay on time, even bitches that are normally totally good for it because they have, I don’t know, comptrollers or CFOs or whatever. I do not know what the problem is. Everyone must be off making New Year’s Resolutions like “get organized!!!!” on little Post-It scraps. Mine is “I will bury you.” I had to cancel all charitable giving, and a guy is going to repossess my floors and key my car if you all don’t pay by the end of the month. So watch out, Big Content. I am going to “blog” every day, and I am going to put ads all over the place. You will like it. There will be mention of gumjobs. I might even start spellchecking for you.

All the folks in my life are mystified because Mr. H and I do not exchange Christmas presents. These are the same folks who will go on to ask me “Is he/she a good baby? Does he/she sleep?” And then I’ll have to say “Naw, he/she is a total douche bag of a baby.” I answered the “what did you get for Christmas” question by staring blankly. Sometimes I would grudgingly say “…a house? impregnated?” People. Honestly. We have no money, like orphans! Mr H. had to give the guy at Home Depot a reacharound in exchange for a laser level. I guess his Christmas present was when I explained what a “rusty trumpet” was. Don’t say I never told you nothing.

C’est si bon

Flying does not make me nervous. Mr. H closes his eyes and grabs my hand when we take off, but I am usually scrambling to turn the video screen to the channel that shows the under-plane camera and jamming in ear plugs so I can start ignoring fellow passengers. However, on the return trip, I am paralyzed with fear as soon as I get off the highway within five miles of my house. I call this “The Zone of Ironic Death.” I have no qualms about being vaporized at 35,000 feet over some place exotic, but to get hit by a garbage truck around the corner? What a waste of my victim tribute photo that would be.

We had a lovely time in Spain. The food was soooo delicious. We ate at Pizza Hut, Subway, KFC, Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Burger King, and McDonald’s. I am totally kidding. There are 14 McDonald’s locations in Barcelona alone, and there is no way we had time to go to all of them. We counted 10 Starbuckseses too.

As usual, the only people who annoyed us were other Americans. There was the spoiled college girl loudly espousing her life philosophy and complaining about having to fly back for her cousin’s Bat Mitzvah in Connecticut, and of course we spotted people wearing sneakers and sweatshirts and braying about the prawns having heads. Luckily, we passed for European of Indeterminate Origin, so Americans wearing fanny packs asked us directions, shouting at us so we’d understand. Donde esta THE TRAIN STATION. I always lied in broken English. No wonder Americans think everyone else in the world is out to get them.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and my soul was nearly crushed by the lack of delicious yogurt. I came outside only to find that some intrepid soul had managed to use his vehicle to ram a shopping cart into my passenger door. I dropped to my knees and swore bitterly. Clearly America does not want me. To add insult to injury, the paint smear indicated that the cart must have been one of the blue ones from the Wal-Mart across the plaza. Poor people indirectly touched my car!

I am still hunting through photos, trying to find the ones where we are wearing pants. Control yourself, Internet.

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

Dressing for Excess

I have just heard that dress code infractions at the ol’ McJobby Job le Job are to be noted by the receptionist and reported to HQ. Does this mean no more feather boa? Is my tweed cap to be silenced? So I am working on my resume, which causes me to think in bulleted lists of the Things I did Yesterday:

*eat a canoli

*watch a film about noodles

*read a book about waiting, entitled “Waiting”.

Buy a copy of Wired magazine and note that the aforementioned trio Freezepop have a full pager in there. I am preparing myself for them to be hugely famous so that I can write a tell-all. I better start stealing their underwear.

I asked everyone at dinner if they were to be inducted into the Make a Wish Foundation through clerical error and not, say, leukemia, for what would they ask. We had two Bowie-related requests (I would do an exhibition with the Man in Pants. Picture me quaffing wine at our opening, full of mutual adulation!) One wish was to go on tour opening for Duran Duran. Another would modestly wish for a house. Asians are so practical!

And strangely of all, one of us would like to be nine years old. Permanently. Which sparked a lively discussion on the value of consciousness and creativity versus an unconscious sort of happiness.

Personally, as much as I am avoiding adulthood, I would never return to the age of nine. My paintings are better now. Oh, and so is the sex.

-xo

Valentine’s Day Round Up (on President’s Day)

Valentine’s Day is indeed our new favorite holiday- it has all the perfume and red fur you can ask for. The trick to avoiding any nauseatingly contrived sentiment is to celebrate it like we used to in the third grade, with little cards and candies for our friends (plus that doughy kid with the big ears our mom wouldn’t let us exclude). So there were hugs and little gifts and red stillettos all weekend for me and Clammy, and all our pals. (Note: if you invite me to your house anytime ever, make sure you keep some martini glasses on ice, so I can fix myself a Kitty Dukakis.)

I feel a bit holiday’d out from Friday the 13th- President’s Day. But it got us all to thinking about the special meaning of friendship and sharing as we dove into our chocolate raviolis on Vday. And me and Clammy realized just how lucky we are to have such swell pals and lovely profiles. We could not help but take a moment to feel for our less attractive brethren, who sit friendless and in need of a skin peel on this Valentine’s Day. And we thought, “why, there must be a holiday for the these people…a chance for us to give something back to nature!” Hence, “Have Sex With An Ugly Person Day” was born. Come April 5th, when for us the warmth of spring generates excitement for summer parties and flirtations, we must think of those less fortunate. And have sex with one of them.

I don’t get into Presidents Day at all. I don’t even have a driver’s license!

-xo

Romeo and Juliet, they never felt this way I bet

Now I bring you garish tidings of the Valentine’s Day candy retailing season. Vomitola loves you.

In other news, the Golden Globes were on last night! I think some people won some stuff. I was too busy eating my weight in cheese fries at the Outback, like a good American. Or as Mr. H said, “a good Australian.” Lambchop obviously didn’t catch the awards fever either, she was watching Das Boot and brandishing a trident. In the two seconds that I did see, Sofia Coppola accepted an award wearing flat shoes. Kudos.

I hope Nicole Kidman did not win anything for that wretched Cold Mountain. Mr. H has taken to mortifying me in public by repeating that clip where she says “I marry you, I marry you, I marry you,” replete with bad falsetto southern accent. He doesn’t understand why they keep showing that particular clip.

His take: “Is this movie about a retarded hot chick? Jude Law is thinking ‘This hot chick is retarded! I am going to score!'”

I guess it’s no more annoying than when the DeBeers ads are on around the holidays and he feels the need to hoot “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!” in parking lots.

-xxoo

Vomitola offers you Meat

Dear Kitty Winn, health

Someone made this photo-collage of me and sent it to my email account. Should I imagine that I have enemies? Or is it in good humor? Paranoid in Montana…

Thanks, decease

“Richard”

(Note to the dear, malady gentle Reader- the photo-collage in question in question actually depicts a great, tumescent Schlong, so be warned if you are tuning in at work, or simply do not like to look at great, tumescent Schlongs.)

Dear “Richard”,

I see you are wearing some sort of sports cap. Apparently a Boston Red Sox cap. So humiliation and loss is something of a badge for you. You also admit to being both paranoid AND living in Montana- I could spend all day on this complex little nugget, but I will stick to your question, as I have a mimosa turkey brunch. So your face appears as a dainty cap, a Jimmy Hat as it were, on a massive Schlong. But this is not so much of a “letter from a foe”, as a friendly reminder that you are a Big Weenie.

gobble,

Kitty Winn