All posts by Lambchop

Deutschland Ueber Boston

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Herr Werkhausen has come to visit me from Berlin, his first trip to Amerika! Two things you can’t find in Berlin are sweet potato waffles and non-potato root-type objects. Fascinating!

There is more Americana in store!!! Long, leafy walks, Thanksgiving dinner, & the Simpsons in English. But if someone really wants to feel like an American, we must teach them how to fritter away their money. I mean spending great flipping wadges of cash on utterly useless items such as rubber goldfish suspended in handsoap, a Dukes of Hazard thermos, a Mr. bubble t-shirt or an issue of Rolling Stone with a List in it.

So I am sending Herr W. back to Berlin with blue bathwater dye. And then we are going to the harbor and eat a nice piece of fish.

Honorable ME-ME-MEntion: the Women’s Art Organization of Berlin has published a new book and it includes the work of yours truly! If you wish to purechase a copy, email Lambchop and she will procure one for you to the tune of a C-note. (Shut up, I had to buy my own copy, too).

-xo

30

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Today is the first day of the rest of my life. So glad i began it by waking up in my clothes, laying in a drooling heap atop my presents. And such lovely presents they were! Thank you all for being my friends and coming out and clinking my glass. And giving me stuff.

And thanks, Licketysplit, for being the best pal ever.

Tonight I am going to road test my birthday present to myself- a gym membership. Yikes. In just a few hours I will be having my body fat circled with a felt tip pen by some horribly buff person. I know what you are all thinking: “fitness is not our lambchop, knocking back gin and eating popcorn while watching 20 minute workourt on tv is our lambchop!” Hrmm, I really can’t argue with that. But I did get impossibly adorable Betty Boop themed workout clothes- they even had polka- dotted sweatbands!

-xo

Jackie O.T.

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Dear Diary,

I have been put in charge of filing the orders of a very important customer. So I ask myself: what goes better with a glittery silver top- glittery silver polish or just the plain silver???

Life is six-cups-of-coffee-by-day,-on-the-rocks-yes-please-salt-the-glass-by-night, kind of good. Now that I am a Drudge like the rest of you, I can see it has some merits. The free flavored coffees, the bad moods, the charmingly misspelled articles in the Metro. I can stand around the copier, plucking at my highlights and talking about the South Beach diet in a South Shore Redux. (the South Beach diet is the one where you eat clam rolls and waffle cones, right?)

Since Helen and I opened the Pandora’s Box of Lambchop and Licketysplit memorabilia, I also sifted through my own box of Stuff That Used to Matter. Among the myriad of fascinating items were (1) a Brownie Smock, (2) a collection of orange Honor Roll buttons (they say “Honor Roll” on them in chunky black letters. This way all non-Honor Roll types can make them out and know they are in the presence of Achievement. I wear these to work.), and (3) a report card that says my long division Needs Improvement (NI) but my Spelling is E for Excellent!

I am going to start issuing Needs Improvement cards to my friends and associates. There really ought to be a system of checks and balances for the faux pas’ of our acquaintance, to address horrible sweaters, placing knees on the table, and interrupting ME when I am saying something fascinating.

The last thing I want to rant about, before I go back to punching holes in things, is a startling new development in Boston culture (didn’t know we had any, did you?). Musical amplification devices and Wind Instruments are strictly VERBOTEN! from subway platforms and trains. No more can that batty old geezer plonk out “Alleycat” on his Casio. And the tortured yearnings of the acoustic guitar player will also go unheard as he whispers, ampless. This is all Licketysplit’s doing, for it is she who went around paying these chaps to STOP playing. The frightening result of all this is that it has opened the floodgates to ACAPELLA. My betteylunchbucket morning commute is now punctuated by the few brave soloists who try their hands at Crooning. The resulting bellows and caterwaul make me feel like Day Room at the madhouse again.

-xo

Oh! Bodddyyyyy!

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Bodddyyyy, clinic why do you always get to kiss the boy?

We are a two man outfit in one sleek, supple vessel. Helen is really the brains of this operation. Our sweatshop in Malaysia was entirely her idea. It was she that earned us those splendid S.A.T. scores, pencilling in those little ovals like a Kennedy. Helen picks out the sweater sets and makes sure the juice boxes are packed. The butterfly tattoo and the cough syrup addiction were my idea. Helen is the one who speaks during Oral exams. I am really much better at flirting with policemen.

If I can prove that I have spent ten minutes of the day in a rational manner, she lets me hold the kite string. Sometimes I think I am a liability in her quest for world domination.

We are coming to your town in mismatched socks.

-xo

…I know, I know, it’s seeeeerious

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I am a single girl and I keep going to parties where I wind up drunk and passing out my phone number like it’s Pez. Then i live for a few days in fear and paranoia that boys with neck tattoos and wives are actually going to call me. Now, this would be my problem, except that none of these bedraggled suitors have even called! What gives?

-I know I’m unloveable

Sheila Take a Bow,

Buck up. Kitty herself was stalked by a mad Russian she entranced while doing a kicky Serbian folk dance at a party. But I mostly find that blacking out has the virtue of erasing all unfortunate acquaintances, and leaving me to start each day afresh, blissfully unaware of the doings of yesterday. You are lucky that Mr. Neck Tattoo does not lurk upon your doorstep- what would the neighbors think of your taste?

I am sure you have many charms in addition to being an alcohol sucking tartlet. If you can name at least two you can stop hurling song lyrics around. Try bowling instead.

-Kitty Winn

LipSmackers

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Lambchop is on strike until she gets a snarky set of lips (or similar) to appear wherever wisdom and poetry fribble from her fain mouth!
Come through, ye gods, with a sticky pawprint for yours truly.

It is matters of gross importance such as this, that consume me as i endure Upper Management training here at the Box Factory. Learning how to sandwich sheaves of yellowed forms into a bulging and creaking drawer so that they can safely be ignored until this whole place goes up in flames, is a vain and tedious pursuit. Five more minutes of this and I will be forced to drill holes in my skull to aerate my brain pan.

Unlike me, I hope you lucky layabouts are all out shooting morphine and diving to the pavement in horrible flashbacks every time a car door slams. After all, its Veteran’s Day, celebrate!

Lunch today is on the Vet,

wonder what we’re gonna get?

Purple Heart Pizza or Missing-Leg Pie,

Filet-of-oh-god-I’m-gonna-die!

Veteran-tastic!

Oh, the Training is about to move on to proper placement of Staples and Other Perforations. My heart weeps. I dream of leaping stallions and roan colored mares galloping through fields.

-xo

I’m Baaaaaaack

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Your intrepid Lambchop finally has computer access because I have been PROMOTED. Here at the box factory, I have been moved from the floor to the FRONT OFFICE. No more tri-folds for me, its strictly applying glittery nail polish and winking at my boss.

Watching my little girl grow up and get married was both delightful and painful. Midnight wedding night saw me clinging to her ankle with a claw up her silky dress, crying “NOOOOOOO!!!” as she and Mr. H. weaved and wended their way to the bridal suite. Later, at home, I fell down the stairs. Now THAT’S a party!

So much has happened in addition to these startling achievements of Lickety and myself. With Mr. Lee dressed to the nines, there were 3am cabrides to Chinatown to partake of sashimi and sake. He chased me through a sprinkler on the last day this year you could still see green leaves on the Bay State Road. Beautiful! There were four new paintings; there was a party for the twins, a party for polka-dots and a party for Pac-Man (it was his birthday). There were some shows and a week straight of Halloween. All this really amounts to is me falling down the stairs in different colored wigs.

Licketysplit and I have often discussed the merits of being totally mad. Permanent lu-lu. I have made up my mind to push the boat off for good this time. I can contemplate shinyness all day. It came to me while I traipsed through Newark on a random Sunday, wearing bunny ears…

…oh there is more…

-xo

Botox Baby

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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