All posts by Licketysplit

T*ts or GTFO

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In no particular order, I blame the Mayans, HAARP and the New World Order, Punxsutawney Phil, and Charlie Sheen for all this snow flying around. We’re getting into that treacherous Laura Ingalls Wilder territory, where the snow prevents the opening of doors, and we have to eat the horses. Or something. That all happened in those books, right? We make our own bullets, fight bears, and bide our time while not being selfish little girls.

As winter advances, I grow restive. No longer content to wallow in a puddle of my own adipose tissue, I marshal my last shreds of life force and prepare for spring. If I have to bite your head off while snowbound during the “Groundhog Day Massacre,” which has already started today, making it only fitting that we will repeat the whole process again tomorrow, so be it. My jaw will be limber and my teeth sharpened and all the more ready to tear into groundhog flesh.

I blew my annual chance for rage-free days by going to Florida when it was too cold and overwhelmed by washed up man-o-wars. We caught the last non-cancelled flight home just in time for more snow. All I have to show for that trip is a sunburnt part line. I also have a new prescription for a drug that may give me a fatal rash. Since I have made it my life’s work to try as many drugs as possible, I am trying to take that last bit in stride and instead hope it cures my fantasies of strangling passersby. Oh, not you. Maybe YOU.

Right now I am snowed in at home with Mr. H and the child, and we have to shout to hear each other because it turns out adding an industrial blower to your home makes it difficult to hear. The pipes decided to burst yesterday, and the ceiling rained iced tea and possibly blood. I choose to believe that the events of this entire winter to date are an analogue to that story about the wise man who tells the family to add a goat to their overcrowded hovel to induce harmony. When you remove the goat, or in my case, the snow and the industrial blower and the urge the strangle, my life will fall into balance for 36 minutes.

Living in the ice age

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Who wore it better?

Of course Pete Burns wore it better. If you didn’t know the answer, you have no business reading this site.  Get off our lawn. This is America, where we settle things with incoherent YouTube channels and extended ammo clips. Just to be clear, since we are on a national stage, Vomitola’s position has always been Make Love (with a suitably attractive person), Not War. This position is also known as “ankles aloft.”

I am on a rather trying regimen of regular exercise, no alcohol, and plenty of sleep, and while it does a body good, it still offers ample opportunity for mischief. There I was at the gym, trying to unfreeze my brain, when on comes “Atrocity Exhibition” on the iPod. Meanwhile, cable news flah flahs in the background (some other humanoid thought it was a good idea to attend the gym at the same time as me), and I wonder how relieved the cable news caption writers were that both Tucson and Tragedy start with a T. What if another city were involved? Would they have had to run with Slaughter in the Southwest? It’s no Horror in the Heartland.

So I kept flipping through my iPod looking for something peppier, but it seems I was destined for an extended Joy Division-Leonard Cohen jam, punctuated with zingy captions crawling by on TV. And they say exercise is good for depression? I’m going to go weep in the shower.

Well…

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Just because.

We could all use some PANTS in our life. Operation emaciation continues around here, as Mr. H bravely staves off Snapple, and I retain no interest in eating most foods, especially if they require opening or preparing. Except last night, Mr. H made pizza, and I had to make an exception.

I am hoping the rest of this existentialism shoves off soon enough, and then my pants won’t be so saggy. I could just buy smaller pants, but that costs money, and we also need to hoard that, because we have a loft worth 75k less than we paid for it. Surely we can make this amount up in no time by making pizza at home instead of ordering out. I would like to discuss this with Barack Obama and maybe Yoda.

But by the end of this month, sunset will be pushed back all the way until 4:56 PM, and surely that will be cause for frolic in the streets. I’m holding out for March 13, when sunset careens ahead to 6:47 PM! I won’t be able to handle myself. If only Lambchop and I could schedule another relaxing weekend to dunk ourselves in Key West right after that. I’ll always fondly remember The Weekend Without Rage: 2009. Also known as The Only Weekend of My Life Without Rage.

I am going to Florida in a few weeks, but my whole family is also going, minus my dad, who is 2 kool 2 grope. Hey, when they grope you, do they bother to look in your mouth like prison? Just wondering.  At any rate, I predict not necessarily rage, but chaos, and possibly the renting of a mini van. I’m going back to bed now.

Licketysplit’s Rear End Review

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Ah, the end of another year. Time to order the Chinese food and open the cans of champagne! What has Licketysplit, the royal we, accomplished in 2010?

January: We recovered from ruining Christmas and surgery; considered painkiller addiction. Mr. H took two back-to-back overseas trips for work. We remained behind for snow shoveling duties. Child did not eat our eyes while he is gone, but she did call her cousin “a fucker.”

February: We have no recollection of February. Oh right, we were embroiled in a doomed real estate transaction.

March: Real estate transaction officially fell through. That gentleman opted to buy another unit in the building formerly occupied by a man who committed suicide and was not found for two weeks. Truefax, he left the windows open to hide the aroma, and he was only found when maggots started coming out from under the door. To each his own. We mulled our options; drank heavily.

April: Interviewed a parade of prospective renters for the Indian Burial Ground. Judged them all to be insane, grudgingly decided to move back to the loft. Accused of child neglect by an insane vindictive neighbor. Three-year-olds occasionally scream for no particular reason, so it happens. Colonoscopy.

May: Interviewed contractors; plotted revenge against insane neighbor. Mini breakdown. Cleared by child protective whoosits! Sister’s bridal shower!

June: Child had three or four birthday parties. We moved back to the Indian Burial Ground without using movers. Mini breakdown.

July: Drove to Maryland for sister’s wedding! Fought with condo board over prospective height of our new walls. Summered in Maine.

August: More summering. Construction took place after many threats. Had surgery at the same time as construction. Brilliant idea, repeat as soon as possible. Diagnosis? Torn abdominal muscle. You know how sporty we are. Resolution to 7 years of unexplained pain.

September: Attempted to adjust to life with walls. Realized place still too small, school districts terrible. Will have to move again. Started 19 online businesses.

October: Brief detour into mania. Attended V2 Summit with Lambchop. Went to Virginia for some reason.

November: Descent into existentialism. Total creative block. Quit drinking, leading to pregnancy speculation from the peanut gallery.

December: More existentialism. 3 Christmases. Kicked some psych meds thought to largely account for the mania/existentialism combo of October-December. Does this eye twitch make us look like a pirate?

In the new year, we plan to NEVER DO ANY OF THOSE THINGS AGAIN. Except have birthday parties and visit Lambchop and Summer. And we suppose the mania was kind of nice, all things considered. We only regret that it fizzled before we got a trip to Fiji out of the deal.

For clean minds only

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We are starting our New Year’s resolutions early around here! Mr. H recently was weighed at the doctor’s office, and when they started calling local vet offices for livestock scales, he got the point. Now I can stop leaving Post-Its and fortune cookies around, which is just as well because he would eat the fortune cookies whole and miss the message completely. Picture the treat tossing action at Sea World.

Oh, I am pulling your very shapely leg. He merely needs to practice a tiny bit of slimming for heart health, and since he is a man, this means he will switch to Cheerios for breakfast and stop drinking Snapple and magically drop 30 pounds in one week. I’ll wake up one day and wonder when I married Christian Bale in The Machinist. Then I’ll probably poke him in all his visible ribs. Wouldn’t you?

The New York Times, always on the cusp of trends like people having blogs or knitting or finding apartment hunting trying, has mentioned a diet long touted by Vomitola: the Imagine Diet. Lambchop cited this diet in 2004: Never Say Die-t! Lambchop 1, Science 0.

Lambchop and I have tried many diets over the years, including the Spit It Out diet and the Despair diet, and while all of those work, there can be downsides. What happens when you become just too attractive?

Once we tried subsisting on Brain Wash soda, a heady confection of sugar, stimulants, and jalapeño oil. It also came in the flavor red (not pictured). It burned as if you were being cleansed by God.

We were but neophyte sommeliers, so we used to try gauche little pairings for our beverages all the time. Gummy worms really brought out the undertone of civet cat musk, and Sour Patch Kids brought out seizures. Swedish fish dialed up the shoe leather and berry notes. Pop Rocks caused an actual blackout. Combine this with a regimen of occasionally nipping at the steam trays and frozen yogurt machine in the Warren Towers cafeteria and marching from Chinatown to Allston while hallucinating vigorously, and we were fit as fiddles!

Oh, to be young again!

Dee Lusions, American Beauty Queen

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As a symptom of existentialism, I have taken to berating myself for not accomplishing X or Y. Why haven’t I sold a screenplay yet? Oh, you have to write one first. But I have so many ideas! Can’t people just sense their genius and fill in the blanks?

So I have lowered my sights. I am going to do absolutely nothing with my life. This, now this is meat I can sink my teeth into. This is a caribou, freshly killed by a Palin. ATTACK!  Right now I am in bed, eating chocolates, without a care in the world! It’s amazing what adjusting one’s expectations can do. I had best expect not to gain weight from these chocolates. Life’s a beach!

Killer in the Home

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Two thirds of my household has been stricken with a plague, much like our poor Lambchop, and the other third has been stricken with large capacity existentialism.  As a result, we all very much want to lie down, thank you. Except the child, who prefers tearing around, no matter how high the fever. Her brain must have already melted, poor little sprocket.

Maybe our problem is actually carbon monoxide, not mono. I have detectors propped in each bedroom since I was all worried about the fire department’s inspection of our construction, but the guy didn’t even look at them, so I never bothered to add batteries. Deceit!

Finally, a poll: Who thinks marsala mushroom sauce is a good idea to pair with filet mignon? Answer: not me. But that could be the existentialism talking. And talk it does! On and on in my ear.  Nothing seems like a good idea, and since I typically trade in bad ideas, this should not be surprising, yet somehow it is a handicap.

Can’t keep a good lunch down

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My fellow Americans, I am ill! I went out among you, and what did I find? You still have no idea of the benefits of properly heat styling your hair, you cannot fathom the number of calories in an Outback menu item, and your feet are featureless blocks of concrete that even Michaelangelo couldn’t chisel and rasp back into shape. You can’t open your garage door because the garage is too full of Costco leavings. Your S.U.V. is cold out there in the driveway!

Making New Year’s resolutions that you won’t keep is only a month away, so why not start now, so you can feel bad about yourself for longer? Do you want me to carve some suggestions onto stone tablets? That worked out well a few thousand years ago, but even those have finally worn off. I’ll see what I can do. Does setting your Christmas tree on fire count as a burning bush?

Ho ho, as you can see, I am in what can clinically be described as a bad mood. I have post-holiday letdown. Thanksgiving is really the only good holiday. Christmas is the more stressful also-ran.

Look at it from my perspective: the kid gets 8 days off from school in December! On yet another day, I have to show up and act like people while the kids do some tappa tappa singa sing or something, and my own child will refuse to give me the present she made in front of the whole class.  Also, I have been commanded to transport a flan on a 3-hour drive! Do people not realize how sensitive and temperamental pumpkin flan can be? Lives may be lost.

And then there’s this:

Scanners

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I went to the airport, and it turns out you have to have a ticket to be groped! Pay for play unfair! What if I just want to be sure I am not a threat to myself in my own home or car? Who will think of the children? And grope them.

If you’re going to be gadding about in a metal bird of death this holiday season, or if you’re going anywhere near North Korea, you’d be wise to study Kitty Winn’s victim tribute photo tips. To add a touch of modernity to Kitty’s sage advice, I suggest uploading a few flattering shots at print resolution and making them into a Facebook album called “OK to use in the event of my exotic death.” Some people just can’t see the forest for the trees.

Now go forth and conquer! My flan is done. Let it be known.