Tag Archives: beauty

Happiness Song

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lambchop

Am I the only person that imagines, when i walk past a hair salon, that the stylists are turning their heads and wondering who my hair designer could be and are gagging to have a crack at my locks? I hoist my pixie nose in the air and march on by, as if to say “No! Never!”

Vanity is truly a consuming hobby.

My darling Stu sang me the Happiness Song because he hates to see me all mopey trousers.

“Whenever I’m feeling down and blue

And sorry for myself

I get some staples and some glue

And I’m happy as an elf!”

smooch

in Just- spring

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A young woman’s fancy turns to shoes. Sassy wedges, kicky slides. My kingdom for a pedicure! Oh, to a find a crooked surgeon who will amputate my little toes in a cosmetically-appealing fashion and ply me with narcotics. The better to cram my wee goat feet into the casual buckle-detail mules.

My weekend was a sad ordeal through no fault of my own. I didn’t do anything fun like take candy from babies or set women in fur coats on fire. There were no acrobats, no jugglers, no mysteries of the trapeze. Instead there was a lot of driving. And listening to bad radio stations. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, together at last… If you haven’t heard that painful spot of nouveau country, consider retiring to a remote mountain cabin posthaste!

I’m still in a foul mood, no way around that. So I had some more coffee and put on some show tunes! Broadway right in my living room, promises the cable radio display. Seems I can add jazz hands to my own personal raft of the Medusa (er, the couch with the puffy pillows) with the click of a button! Some Bernadette Peters sure soothes the savage beast. At nine, Bernadette received her Equity Card. At nine, I was still biting my sister.

I used to work at the Art History department at BU, and we called the circulation desk cubicle in the slide library the Raft of the Medusa. The work wasn’t bad. Filing, reminding professors that the little dot on the slides went to the upper right. Occasionally overhearing students pleading about grades, or even faculty pissing contests. I almost got a degree in Art History, but I realized that would lead to years more of expensive graduate education, not to mention the emotional price of seriously discussing Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst. I did write a rippin’ good paper of the “storms of fortune in the paintings of Poussin.” hoo dee doo. I’m sure continuing to do such things would have been ever so financially compelling. Thank god I’ve always been more motivated by cold, hard cash.

-yr dime a dance gal

Mutton dressed as lamb?

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I was sorting through my wardrobe today and looking over my snazzy collection of miniskirts — leopard, glitter, pinstripe, houndstooth. But then I got to thinking: I just turned 31 and I don’t want to end up like one of those garish middle aged hags you see on the subway in ankle boots, dripping mascara and showing off leathery, sagging thigh. When do I know when to say when with flashy clothes and glittery makeup? I am a tramp with Dignity!

-hot diggety

Dear dig dug,

Kitty thinks you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. You’re never too old for glitter! Sagging breasts? Just think of that as feature-length cleavage. Kitty looks forward to seeing the old whore who lives down the street waiting for the bus, as do the neighborhood school kids. You should hear them call out in their cheerful childish tones!

Really, cupcake, you should dress in a way that makes YOU feel good at the time. Damn the feelings of others! Vogue magazine might tell you to invest in a closet chock-full of Escada and a platinum Rascal scooter, and these harpies will tell you What Not to Wear. They firmly decree that “No woman over 35 should wear skirts above the knee.” So you have a grace period of about 4 years! Problem solved?

But Kitty feels confident that there are no definitive rules, with the one exception being that VPL is déclassé at any age! Pull up your pants, Paris Hilton!

That old whore from the bus stop is happy, and that’s good enough for Kitty. Kitty personally can’t wait to age another 20, er, 40 years so she can really work the “whatever happened to Baby Jane?” look. Scarlet lips lined outside the natural border, eyebrows plucked off and drawn back on? The stuff of legends. Add an ivory-tipped cane, and you’ll be rapping the knuckles of orphans in no time!

You might try to pick a role model for your impending golden years, someone you feel oozes class and style, and hop that train. Joan Crawford? Debbie Harry? How about the Queen Mum or Mrs. Hannigan? Loni Anderson? Ah, or Vegas Ann-Margret.

Anyhoo, dignity, schmignity. After all, you don’t want to cheat your loved ones out of a Jenny Jones appearance? See You’re Too Old, You’re Somebody’s Mom, That Sexy Gear Is NOT The Bomb!

Once more into the bleach,

-Kitty

Hungry for love

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a relatively new boyfriend (six months) and an even newer bit of pudge. I have begun to exercise because I am not into it. But how do I find out if he thinks I am fat?! You can’t just ask!

I have to know!!

-can’t sleep (no trouble eating, though)

Dear Sally,

Au contraire, mon cherie, guys love it when you come right out and ask! Repeatedly. Try to cry while inquiring.

Wait until you are slated to head out for a big night on the town. Put on an especially form-fitting frock and collapse in a heap of smeared lipstick and Lee Press-Ons, drumming your feet on the divan until your mules fly off. He’ll ask “What’s wrong, darling?” and you can yank back the curtain from your fun house mirror of body image!

Actually, Kitty will let you in on the secret to men: Everyone likes a little junk in the trunk. You must learn to wave it like a juicy filet before a hungry dingo. If this guy’s not into it, you can surely find someone who is!

And why aren’t your budoir antics enough to keep off the pounds? No woman worth her weight in Fracas should have to suffer the indignity of exercising, especially after only six months of lovin’. Is this the real heart of your problem? Is he a dud between the sheets?

Let’s get physical,

-Kitty

Can I have some more, please?

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I wrote to you a few weeks ago and your advice about the breast implants was swell, but I must admit that I knuckled under and paid off my credit card debt instead. But I do have a few bucks left, just not enough for elective surgery. So I’m slinking back to you to ask how I should fritter $1,000. Is it time for a vacation? Some shiatsu massages? Or should I be practical all the way and tuck it back in a musty bank vault? And then there’s always charity. Surely there’s some starving children somewhere. Is Biafra still trendy? Kitty, you’re my last resort since I usually do all my financial planning in a whirl of penitence following a drug binge. And I’m out of drugs!

-Mo’ money, mo’ problems

Dear MoMo

Now I know how the workhouse master felt when Oliver Twist asked for seconds. We don’t double dip in askery here. Do you think Dan Savage has to sit around all day, dreaming up new places for his readers to stick their rude bits? Well, I’ll take this indignity on the chin since you have caught me at a blank in my schedule. That impossible black hole when Rockford Files is over and Magnum, P.I. won’t be starting for another 40 minutes.

However I think you will find you have answered your own question- what you really seem to need are drugs. And if crawling around on the floor for a couple of days, playing with scotch tape and string cheese while blaring Scott Walker does not give you any ideas, well, you will be out the money anyhow. Tidy, isn’t it?

Now go away.

-Kitty Winn

Responsible Journalism

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Licketysplit

I’m a magazine junkie. My first Vogue subscription was right up there with getting my driver’s license. Technically, I even have a degree in magazine journalism. That wasn’t too hard to do, as you might imagine. I know a magzine is called a book, and the area with the stories is called a well. But other than that, the curriculum did not live up to my expectations. I dreamed of prancing around in sky-high stilettos, nabbing emu muffs from the freebie closet, maybe fetching Anna Wintour or Liz Tilberis some passion fruit tea. Or infant blood. I would toss off opinions on the bag of the season, foment Halston revivals, and take to hurdling over fire hydrants to escape Bill Cunningham constantly photographing me.

But then I realized that a) I kept having to take crappy newswriting classes to fulfill core requirements, and b) I would make about $25k starting out on staff on a fashion mag. And I wasn’t already independently wealthy enough to afford the requisite wardrobe and the crappy NY studio at a good address. And I got so fed up with the newswriting classes that I just wanted to start making shit up. It’s not like I invented a heroin-addicted tot and started a national outcry, but I nearly had one professor convinced that street luging was Boston’s underground sport of choice. Then I had one whole class on how to “Boston Herald-ize” a headline. A reputable paper says “Nightclub fire kills 90?” The Boston Herald says “DEATHTRAP!” This was not what I wanted to do in life. And I only had a semester left to get my degree! If I had it to do over again, I would have picked a different program at a different school. Seventeen-year-olds should not be allowed to make momentous decisions that will eventually cost them much aggravation, not to mention a hundred grand.

Since I was clearly no good at creative non-fiction unless I was making it up, I gave up on writing for a living and went for the cheap, easy loot of web development. Ah, the late 90’s! Hell, back then I could afford the clothes. Nowadays I still buy all the magazines. Not Glamour, not Cosmo, not In Style. Lucky? Doesn’t turn my crank. Just the ones with really inaccessible fashion layouts. I have piles and piles littering my apartment. This morning I was flipping through Elle, and I ran across this bang-up piece on Matt Dillon, by Rachael Combe. Basically she lured Mr. Dillon back to her apartment and cooked up dinner on the pretext of interviewing him. Then she let the steak catch fire! He had to wield an extinguisher!

Now I’m cradling my head in my hands and thinking “Oh, I’ve wasted my life” (using the voice of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons). If only I had known that the secret to journalism was putting celebrities in peril. To think that I could be luring a drunken David Bowie to my rooftop plunge pool right now! I could be scattering ball bearings in the foyer to welcome Ashton Kutcher or Adrian Brody. Think Misery. Think shoving Christopher Walken from a ski gondola. Am I ever on the wrong track….

C’est la vie.

xxoo

Hurry up and wait: a travelogue

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The two feet of snow Boston received a few days ago are still snarling things. Last night it took a full hour to drive from zee Back Bay to Mr. H’s house in Slummerville. There was honking and gesticulating, and failure to yield to emergency vehicles. And then there were the other drivers, ba dum dum. No, I’m teasing. Of all the rages I am known to enjoy, road rage is not among them. I did read about one severe case of snow rage. In Framingham. Isn’t that the town where people kill each other at their kids’ hockey games? Go figure.

And I won’t even get started on the T. The rage has disipated to a collective ennui. If it had a sound, it would be a low-pitched whiny “nnnnnnnnnuuuuuuhhhh.”

It’s finally warm enough to go out without gloves and a ski mask, so to celebrate living through a hellish drive, we walked to Rudy’s Cafe, the margarita mecca of Teele Square.

On the way back, I noticed a salon called “Skin Skedaddle.” What is the meaning of this? “We extract to the point of disfiguration. People will skedaddle when they see you!” That’s almost as good as Hair-azz, which briefly existed next to the Outback in Burlington. And let’s not forget what always, always cracks me up in Porter Square: “Long Funeral Service.” It used to be Long-Hurley, which was passable, but I guess there was some sort of schism.

But yes, I’m just rambling. Must be hibernation wearing off. Must focus. On…who won the Bachelorette! I’m going to subtitle this: And Shamu makes 3

Good God, who would have thought she would choo-choo choose Ryan?  He’s a poet, and he don’t even know it. But Charlie, Charlie had a serious hair problem. I kept flashing back to the footage of melancholy sea birds after the Exxon Valdez. Anyway, any guy who can tolerate the booming cadence of her biological clock totally deserves her. My stomach crawled up into my throat during the scene where she and Ryan, or maybe it was Charlie, were feeding bread to ducks. She cooed “Ready? Over here!” and I could picture her perfectly in maternity overalls, herding tow-headed children around on an “educational” experience.

I topped off my evening with a nightcap of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Melissa Rivers blinked back tears as she realized she was there to be “humiliated” by having creepy crawling bugs and rats stuffed down her pants. Zen. And you bet your ass I will also tune in tonight to watch the Bachelor “follow-up” with Aaron and tearful Helene. I’d like to say I have something better to do, but somehow this has become important to me.

xxoo

chop change chop

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vomitola

I don’t ask Kitty Winn for advice. The solution to all that ails me lies in re-sculpting my eyebrows, a new shade of lipstick and a behemoth cup of sumatra- preferably with an espresso dropped in (there’s a spiffy name for that- something to do with guns, i think). I live on the edge- note how I ended a sentence with a preposition back there.

So I was out shopping for clothes today for work. Smart new grey trousers and some shiny new ankle boots. I didn’t let it put me off in the slightest that I haven’t got a job. The point is, I can picture myself in a tie and vest with a silk hankerchief in the breast pocket, telling people what to do, twirling a telephone cord, and having sushi for lunch. Now all I have to do is choose a calling and find a job, preferably one in which I will be in a position to fire people. I better get some silk stockings. I don’t know about you, but I can’t send a man packing in a cotton/lycra blend. I’m a professional!

What did I come in this room again for? Was I looking for something, or was I going to do something?

smooch

get fit for life

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I have been avoiding it, talking about being sick, detailing the contents of my hanky with comments like “i didn’t know that shade of green existed in nature. not in my nature, anyway….” But dammit I am flu-ey and really bored of it.

So i was fiddling with the velcro closure on my new medical brace (its an elastic thing that holds things together in the event of abdominal muscle failure. it’s padded on the outside which makes it also look like a shield, if Gaultier made them.) when I came across this article about infanticide. And it interested me because lately my ideas about the nature of beauty and weakness and their counterparts have moved into the suggestion of physical defects or conditions. My head is full of thick shiny braids and warped spines and the possibility for happiness.

xoxo

rocks and hard places

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Today I have to go to the bank and the dentist. I can’t decide which is worse. Having teeth drilled can actually be less painful than sitting in a cloud of imitation Givenchy and watching those horrible french manicure press-on nails clacking over the keyboard, and tapping on the desk and that becoiffed gold braceleted nightmare still has no idea how to do electronic transfers to the united states. My stomach acid increases just thinking about it. Anyway, I was just at the dentist 10 days ago- she only wants to see me again because she likes me. We sit around and talk about how fine it is to be great looking, we talk about the scene in Marathon Man, she looks at my mouth, admires her handiwork and lets me take a bunch of the shiny metal gumball machine rings that she gives to the kiddies.

Licketysplit used to be a bank teller! I remember well the days when she was darting off to copley in a peach colored suit and gold earrings. She would pass me by as i spent my filthy unemployed hours on the slab on newbury street, sipping iced coffee and waiting for something to happen. She would pop by afterwards and regale us with tales of incompetence that made stuffing the mattress with cash seem like sensible financial planning. Say, Lickety, what was in that suitcase anyway?!

smooch