Tag Archives: advice

Seasick, yet still docked…

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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

Public service

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Lately we’ve been mulling over the fact that, for the foolish, crime just does not pay. Everywhere you look, there’s some poor chump getting hauled off to the pokey. People leave evidence in plain sight, can’t seem to get their stories straight. From Makeshift Chambers of Horror to the obvious purloining of panties, we are awash in incompetence. Why, your lie is as plain as the nose on your face! Do you ever wonder “How’s a poor maroon like me supposed to make a dishonest living these days?”

We’re sick and tired of bungled dirty dealings, and we’ve enlisted a professional to help our readers: Enter Stella Nuance, the amoral Ann Landers, the deceitful Dear Abby, the Heloise of heinousness. Must we disturb the peace with our horrid proclivities? Stella says “No!”

from the vault of Stella Nuance

An open letter to Heidi Erickson, Beacon Hill Cat Lady

Ok, doll, here’s the scoop. Your business, while admirably fiendish, is simply not sustainable. Did you really think you wouldn’t get banned from Boston with a strategy that includes animals that expire so quickly? Boston’s a small town, and people have big yaps. Nothing better to do than flap their gums about your putrid pussies. The key is to move around. Try Reno, it’s a dry heat.

You definitely went wrong with your choice of venue. Why pick a small apartment in a highly populated ritzy neighborhood? You could have rented a whole triple decker in Roxbury for that kind of scratch, installed bank vault doors, sound proofing, and spritzed the whole place up and down with Skin So Soft. No one would been the wiser, and the police don’t even GO to that neighborhood. Hell, you could have even had a little shed out back.

So your choice for a lair was iffy. But you could have still pulled it off if you didn’t get lazy and stack those frozen peas in front of Princess Patty Paw. The Charles River is mere blocks away. It works for disposing of the corpses of crack whores and show cats alike! Don’t forget, weight them down! Failing that, you should have scored some embalming equipment and those pull-out morgue drawers if you really needed to keep those things around. No posh chamber of horrors is without such niceties. Or what about taxidermy? “That’s not a criminal mishap, that’s just Fluffy!”

Finally, when cornered by the authorities, don’t ever represent yourself! If you can’t get Johnnie Cochran, so what, even a public defender knows when to sit down and stand up. For cryin’ out loud, go get a haircut, a smart suit, and shut your pie hole. Lose the pancake makeup, it makes you look like you have something to hide. No one likes a frumpy villainess. Didn’t you see Chicago? Christ. I can see I have my work cut out.

Mum’s the word,

-Stella

Bermuda triangulations

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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

Fashion Police

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Dear Kitty Winn,

Is thong underwear ever suitable for a man?

–anonymous, via internet

Dear Anonathong,

No. No. No.

And No.

Hyper-spanning fabric tucked between a man’s buttocks is something no man or woman wants to see, even if he is in prime physical condition. Which most of you are not. In the worst cases we must picture the sagging, sallow, or thin pancake variety of bottom with this unholy cloth divider. It stares us down like a highway’s no passing lane. Out of the question! Nor do we want our lover’s lovely giblets lazing in a hammock. We want them housed carefully, as though they might be worth something someday.

Crucial as these considerations are, I must return to your question, which does not specifically inquire about the appeal of this offensive undergarment. You ask if they are ever suitable. And there are exceptions, ninety-nine percent of which have to do with gay male pornography. Kitty is at a loss to explain this, the whys and wherefores of gay porn not really being my area of expertise. The remaining cases are as follows:

1. You are a Sumo Wrestler (technically, not a thong, but the aesthetic result is much the same)

2. You never ever ever want intimacy to progress beyond the moment this ghastly sheath is unveiled from your trousers.

There can be no two opinions on this point!

-Kitty Winn

I’d like to thank the academy

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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

Swiss hit-or-miss

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From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

The first question is, why does the hot cocoa making vending machine in my new office keep kicking me in the nuts? Every time I get a hot cocoa there’s a good chance it’s waterier than American beer. Today it almost fucked me by flipping the cup on it’s side and pouring the contents all over the machine. I caught the cup in time.

My second question is, why do I keep using the hot cocoa vending machine when it continually kicks me in the nuts?

Perhaps this is a question that only Charlie Brown can answer.

-Hot for hot chocolate

Dear Hot Chocolate,

Kitty Winn believes in miracles! Charlie Brown is unavailable, but you have come to the right place for 5 cent advice. This problem, while seemingly insurmountable, has a very simple solution.

As to your first inquiry, are you always so very paranoid? Kitty is sure the contraption bears you no personal malice. As to the second, you keep coming back because you want the hot chocolate. Hot chocolate, in theory, is delicious! There is no shame in having desires.

So the temptation to fiddle with that wretched mechanical beast is understandable, but just remember that you are better than that. There are people to do that sort of thing, and they ain’t you, babe. Do everyone a favor, and have your bête noire hauled off to the scrap heap. Thus and only thus will you break the cycle of destructive behavior.

Then have someone else prepare and deliver the hot chocolate to you. What sounds better, a kick in the nuts, or a nice frothy cup of cocoa, made with buttery hormone-free milk and rich Ghiradelli shavings? Perhaps you fancy a cinnamon stick or a dollop of sweetened whipped cream to go with that? Does your office not have an office boy? If there is no intern or other such lackey, perhaps you can intimidate one of the weaker-willed employees to do your bidding. You will recline, feet up on your desk, tugging your suspenders like a fiend, while some would-be hausfrau scalds some milk in the kitchen, feverishly melting the chocolate to your liking.

As for the poor quality of American beer, Kitty can’t help you there. Kitty only drinks champagne. The rumors of her nail polish remover consumption are highly exaggerated. Well, once Kitty drank a Belgian ale called Delirium, and she ended up without her knickers. These things happen, and no photographs survive.

Properly dressed,

-Kitty

Anchors Aweigh!

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To those of you who just tuned in, Dan Savage left our Lambchop in the lurch on a very important intimate matter. But David has come to the rescue. I am reprinting the entirety of the correspondence, which contains a letter within a letter with a letter. As you are all so gosh darned clever, I am sure you can sort through it to get to the Naughty Bits:

“Honestly, I cannot leave you people for a moment. I take one little trip to Arizona to watch my boyfriend get inducted into his high school’s Distinguished Alumni Hall of Fame, and everything goes to pieces.

Here is the sort of thing you were up to while my back was turned:

Dear David,

I must tax you again for your opinion. You see, I wrote Dan Savage ages ago and even asked very nicely a second time, to no avail. I don’t want to plague Dan with some kind of Marathon Man reenactment “Is it safe?…Is it safe?”, so I turn to you for help:

“My friend wants to put me in an empty bathtub and pour bottle after bottle of champagne over me. To which I would happily consent, but I fear injury to my tender bits when sitting in all that alcohol. And though I hate to repeat unsubstantiated lore, I even heard *somewhere* that Natalie Wood ended up in a hospital after springing into just such a cocktail.

So help a young floozy out–is this risky business or can we pop our corks and have at it?”

-lambchop

David responds:

Good lord, I hope my mother is not reading this one.

All right, all right. As you might have suspected, the female anatomy is not something with which I am intimately familiar, so even though I was in the throes of agony recovering from severe dehydration and dashing off my taxes at the last possible moment, I took the time to consult with not one but two physicians on your behalf.

One, a gynecologist, said that nothing should go dramatically wrong, although the alcohol in the champagne might kill some of the beneficial bacteria in your vagina, resulting in a yeast infection. The other doctor said that the bath probably would not cause any harm, but she warns against getting up to any funny business with the bottle, as there have been cases of such things “becoming trapped due to the suction effect.”

So pop your cork, floozy. Christen the ship of love. But if anything unforeseen should occur (Natalie Wood did drown under mysterious circumstances), I trust you will tell the authorities you got this advice from the much put-upon Dan Savage and leave me out of it. ”

Well now, gentle reader, Vomitola has done its part! I bid you all smooth sailing!

xo

¿Donde está la biblioteca?

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From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I am in a terrible fix. As the full time Resident Assistant of my college’s International Dorm I run into many odd but entertaining problems day and night. From Latin Boy Makeout Parties to language barriers, the work never ends and the laughs never cease.

I am having a bit of a problem with the Spanish speaking boys whom I refer to (in my head of course) as Team Don Juan. They seem to wish to dance the ‘merengue’ at the oddest times in the night, blasting their latin beats to a truly earshattering level. I have spoken to them in English, and am considering Spanish, as they nod and make hand motions symbolizing that they understand my displeasure but do not turn down the music.

The ‘Freedom Assistant’ lives below the fellow with the most merengue in his blood and suffers enormously from not only merengue but also the incessant repetition of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Start Me Up’. She claims to have not slept in 26 days and refuses to make croissants for us until this is solved.

As I detest being a nasty spoilsport, I don’t want to start handing out noise violations like tacos on Mexican Appreciation Day. Please advise me on how to turn down their mojo and music in a UN friendly manner.

signed

-Madre de Dormatorio

Dear Mami,

Merenguistadors are a sensitive lot, eh? You are quite right to tread carefully with hot-blooded Latin types. You never know when you’ll find yourself in the middle of a circle, tied at the wrist, defending your life with naught but a switchblade. How are your knife-fighting skills? Start practicing with a letter opener, and work your way up. Kitty personally always keeps a diamond-tipped nail file for just such an occasion as a brush with a recalcitrant foreigner.

If only your young charges were Italian! Then you could solve your issues with the international language: love. Even the cruelest beast understands a batted eye, a flash of ankle. Try wearing more revealing clothing. A push-up bra is a girl’s best friend.

Other than that, the real secret to communication with other cultures is to speak as loudly as possible, in English. Try speaking as slowly as possible too. You don’t want them to miss a thing!

Failing that, hand out the bleeding notices! After all, you were hired for a position which includes being a disciplinarian, or is it one of those permissive hippie colleges that you go to? There’s nothing quite like good old fashioned American intimidation. Ask yourself “What would John Ashcroft do?” For instance, do they know they can’t be deported just for playing music too loud? Of course there are other stop gaps, such as introducing them to better music than Las Ketchup, or sabotaging their stereo equipment, but ultimately you must rule with an iron fist. Tell them they have 15 minutes to comply, or you’re going to form a coalition and go in and do it for them. Of course the French chickadee won’t be into that, but she’ll benefit in the end! Culture should not be a factor in your decision. This is a problem of authority. If you are uncomfortable enforcing yours, surely you have a supervisor who could assist? Doing one’s job never involves being a nasty spoilsport, unless one is a vivisectionist or a secret death squad member.

Now tell me, do the Latin boys make out with each other? Because that would be muy caliente.

Feel free to send photos,

-Kitty

Victoria’s Real Secret

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I’m all for taking a surreptitious crap on the clock, but where does one draw the line? Today I saw a middle-aged woman from the investment banking company across the floor take a newspaper into a stall and prepare to have at it, sighing mightily! I have seen her before, sometimes she talks on her cell phone while she’s peeing. Ew Ew Ew. Sometimes she goes in with a stack of photochopied handouts, which I know some lucky fucker is going to get in a meeting! Should I say something to her? It’s not any of my co-workers who will have to handle poopy pie charts, but it’s the principle of the thing!

-Disgusted at my desk

Dear Disgusto,

Kitty Winn is all for maintaining the Victorian era style illusion that females have no function of the bowel or bladder. Secretion?! You must be referring to that fine mist of rosewater at the nape of our necks. This person is throwing a massive brick of dung through our carefully constructed hall of mirrors. She should be forced to live abroad in exile and squalor. Then again, what are we even talking about? You beleaguer Kitty with such terms as “crap” and “poopy pie charts”. I have no idea what you mean, as I am Female and Perfect.

-Kitty Winn

Problem with Pants

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Dear Kitty Winn

My husband has this annoying habit of putting bottlecaps in his pockets. Everytime he cracks open a beer, there goes the cap in his pocket. We are talking pockets constantly full of the damn things. Usually nestled in a fat wad of filthy napkin. Sorting out our laundry has turned into a garbage pick, a lint harvest. I have tried coaxing, begging, and screaming at him. Should I sew all of his pockets shut?

-anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Whoa, have a xanax, lady! I bet anyone who could see the crumpled receipts, cracked powder case, crushed breathmint, and stray hair clips and safety pins at the bottom of your purse would be none too pleased. Your mate suffers a bizarre form of pack rattage, I grant you. Kitty would never lay hands on someone else’s greasy serviette! Not very sexy, either, to have these things emerging from his pants during intimate moments. Sadly, a person cannot be browbeaten out of their foibles. But there are methods of persuasion. Perhaps you ought to suggest that you will be going nowhere near his pants until they are free of such items. A week or two without a) clean trousers and b) blowjobs should be enough to convince your mate to rethink his entire pants-as-receptacle model of the universe.

Trust me. No one knows pants like Kitty.

-Kitty Winn