Tag Archives: financial planning

Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty

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No, I still don’t feel like setting up the voicemail service on our new phone line. People might leave messages. Ugh! People! Dropping their messages like so many errant pigeons. And I would have to record a greeting, and when do I feel like greeting anyone? Why do I have a phone at all?

I was out today, as is my custom, and I noticed that Lowell seems to have bus service. The bus doesn’t have a number. Instead, one is greated by a scrolling marquee that reads DOWNTOWN CIRCULATOR. Indeed. Take that, Baltimore.

I wonder if I can write in essay form ever again? Probably not. Blast you, internet! I have the attention span of Mr. H or that dog across the street. Now I am thinking about hash browns. I am remembering song lyrics. Hmmm, hashbrowns again. Am I hungry? Maybe I am. Should I buy a plane ticket to Hong Kong? Internal bad idea meter says Yes! Christ. The mortgage underwriter wants proof of my income for the last few years. Dur, don’t they know everyone lies on those applications? How much could I make selling a kidney in Hong Kong? This could be an investment in my future. Dear Lord, deliver.

Supertanker

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Internet, let’s talk about my hair and hard times. Normally I prefer to frequent a salon where they bring you espresso and dole out near-orgasmic scalp massages. It is the happiest place on earth. However, the repeated experience sets me back over a thousand dollars a year, and I’m not even including parking or gasoline mileage. And color is another several hundred at least. So I realized this all makes me a Bad Person, and here I sit with grown out layers and visible white hairs. I am going to the cheapo local salon to have a white stripe dyed down the middle of my head, like skunk. The savings are substantial.

Suffering from existentialism also costs money. Did you know I used to be crazy for free? I know, like peasant. Weekly therapy is fifteen bucks a whack, plus fifteen for the psych-pharm guy, plus thirty-five for assorted medications. If I went back to just lying on the floor and kicking when I felt extra anxious, I could save over $100 a month! I think I will get right on that. Poor decisions are my right as an American. Drink more potato wine, peasant.

My eyesight is terrible in my old age. I cover up by buying enormous sunglasses so no one can see me squint. This also saves on Botox. Also, I don’t eat unless someone makes or opens the food for me, so that cuts down on the food bill. I have a system here, people.

What do you do to save money? Expired can goods? Unlicensed plastic surgery? I want to know!

Vomitous

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Well, bokka bokka bokka. I am waiting to hear back from the mortgage people to see if Mr. H and I are worthy of helping to tip the American housing market completely into the toilet. This is rather nervewracking, as if I were waiting for free clinic test results after sleeping with all of BU. Or perhaps Bennington. I am in full “what have we done?” mode. I want to throw up. But I won’t, because I didn’t eat breakfast yet. Maybe after. Guess I won’t have oatmeal, that would just be gross.

The Vomitola domain expires in a few months. Should I keep it, or should I pick something new? www.OMG.com is taken. This is a hard choice, people. I want my “personal weblog home page on the information super highway” to reflect my unique personality. I think my blinkie gallery goes a long way towards that goal, but I don’t know if my love for dogs is showcased enough. Oh, and my jokes page could use a Swiffering. When it rains, it pours. There has got to be a New York Times article about just this modern situation.

Inspiration Pointless

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Meet new people, even if they look different to you

I went to the mall the other day. It seems public shopping arenas become crowded in proximity to forced calendar holidays. I asked the saleswoman in Bath & Bodyworks for gift suggestions. “I guess I’m after something that says ‘Now that you’re fat!'” No, I’m just being outrageously mean for no reason. It’s helping me get over a tough headache. I actually said “I need something for a new mom who doesn’t have a lot of free time.” Apparently, new mothers need spa slippers. And they need to exfoliate. But then, who doesn’t need to do that? What a freaking brainwave. I was informed that the mom in question would like sleep and liposuction, but would settle for a #1 Mom pendant and a card that reads “Your a great mom!” Sigh.

Also, I am trying to determine if selling ad space on a controversial website is a viable business model. Surely NowThatYoureFat.com would get me flogged on The Today Show eventually, even though it’s clearly satire. What does a truly evil organization, like the Klan, do for an online revenue channel? Oh my stars, they have a gift shop! I’m not linking to it, as that’s too horrible even for me, but I am sure you can figure it out. Hmm, is there a market for Vomitola sorority sweaters? Eta Pi Vomitola!

-xxoo

Coming to Amerika Update

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Wow. A job AND a place to live. It almost seems like too much to ask. I am going to have the poshest pit in town. (as soon as I can scare up enough dosh to replace the suitcase in which I sleep with an actual bed. Hurray for both large suitcases AND compact women!)

My new room is pink!

Forces conspire against a body- i am skint, I am grateful to work in Siberia, my plate seems always full of something of something tasteless, the weather is very swimming pool-like, and I locked myself out of the house-sit around midnight. There I was, out in the swimming pool night on one side of the door, convulsing, sweating and jerking futilely at the handle, while on the other side a comfortable bed and two attention hungry, squalling cats. Hurray again for compact women (and unlocked kitchen windows)!

Did I mention I am skint? Nary a pot to pee in!

As depressing as one’s bank balance and minimal decorating style may be, I am glad to be in the Americas. My friends have given me money and food and taken me to see awful films. They have listened to me grind my teeth and chew my nails and weep. They have stood by me while i unleashed obscenities at locked doors at midnight. They have made me laugh and gotten me drunk. And most importantly of

all, they have Given Me Money.

Hurray for Amerika!

(tank you very much)

-xo

For whom the dole tolls

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Dear Kitty Winn, check

I hate my job, ailment but it keeps me in mascara and Marabou mules. Sleeping under my desk has failed to score me an unemployment check, drugs and I am uncertain as to how to proceed with something so tiresome as “My Future”, were I to simply quit. What should I do?

signed

unskilled at all things legal

Dear Unskilled,

Something has been dreadfully amiss in your education. Why do you not know that mascara and mules are things that men pay for?! The fiscal responsibility for your loveliness belongs to your clock punching love monkey. Must Kitty draw you a road map to his wallet? Job, indeed. The only reason for having one of those is because we look so smart in tweeds and it is occasionally good to have to rise before noon.

If work is getting you that down however, it is time to inform your mate that you will be staying at home until Fox offers you that special you have been talking of. Be prepared to offer him something in return, however- it might be as workaday as frequent fellatio, or as demanding as you getting sprogged up. Kitty Winn is not a huge fan of infant spew, teletubbies, or the handling of rubber feces-filled pants. But that is a very personal choice.

Good luck and let me just add “Gold Card”.

-Kitty Winn

I am not afraid to try new snack foods

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I have frequent opinions, and I love giving them. It’s even better when I am paid to do so.

See, I was walking through Faneuil Hall, and I saw that a crazy lady up ahead seemed to be stopping people. I was about to scuttle by and avoid her, but I was arrested by her line of questioning: “Do YOU eat yogurt?” Why yes, yes, I do.

“Do YOU want to make $15?” Once I ascertained that it would take about ten minutes and not involve photography or removal of clothing, I could honestly say “Why yes, yes I do. ” Self-interest really is the key to any sales pitch.

So I was ushered up into an office above the F.Y.E., and filled out a short demographic questionaire, on which I lied flagrantly. Then I was taken to a conference room. The table was covered in empty yogurt packages, all different brands. My interogator came in, bearing a tray of dixie cups and little baby plastic spoons. She made me identify the yogurt brands I currently purchase, those being Stonyfield Farm and Colombo. She seemed pleased. Then she hauled out some Stonyfield Farms cups with new packaging. The first one was a chocolate flavor, and it featured wavy grass with some chocolate chips in it, being surveyed by some omnipresent cow head.

I started laughing, because I am exceedingly juvenile. “You must know what that makes me think of,” I said. Oh Lawsy, what a design mis-step. I hemmed and hawed, mentioned that they had better add a dewy sheen to their fruit photography, and I want to see some fruit cross-sections, damn it, and that the ivory plastic looked more hippy-dippy recycled than the white plastic, which is what they are going for, right? Then I had to go through a tedious evaluation of competitor packaging. As a general aside, I will say that those Yoplait whips, custard yogurt infused with air, have got to be the nastiest thing every invented. Carbonated milk curd, mmm.

Finally, on to the taste-testing. And the first flavor was…banana-vanilla. I fucking hate any unnatural approximation of banana. I politely gummed around a spoonful, trying not to gag. “Well, it tastes like some ungodly bastard offspring of a tropical Starburst with an infection. I wouldn’t buy this in ten million years. What were you thinking?”

Next, blackberry. Hurrah, why not. It was pretty good. A little too sweet. I was given water and made great show of cleansing my palate. What fun. “Wait, wait, let me SWISH.” Then I tried some other stuff which was basically flavors they already have reformulated with that franken-fiber, inulin. Whatever. “Will this make me poop a lot?” Enquiring minds want to know!

Finally, “So when do YOU eat yogurt?” Ummm….when I’m crash-dieting? I mean “as a healthy snack to supplement meals.”

Soon I was being hustled out the door, $15 in cash in my sticky paw. I also got a whole bunch of coupons. Whee.

After I spotted this link on Rebecca’s site, I realized I had been a part of the ground-breaking “Trends in Yogurt Consumption” study. How monumental! If I could only secure employ doing a survey every hour. That’s $15 an hour, plus I would never have to buy food again. Sure, the sour cream survey could get a little hairy. Don’t get me started on the prospect of the hot dog survey. But I would be doing good in the world, as banana-vanilla has so far stayed off shelves, clearly all thanks to my vehement protest.

-xxoo

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

A broth of a different color!

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One of the best parts of my day as an underling for an international soup concern has got to be dealing with the foreign language stuff. Today I had to swap out a picture of a can of soup for…a new can of soup. All the writing is Japanese, and it’s a brimming bowl of yellow liquid. I started tittering at the possibilities. Let’s play “What’s! In! The Can!” shall we? Could it be…Cream of Dog? Tincture of Eel? Extract of Cock? Or, as my office pal suggested, that old standby, Rat Oil. Mmmm!

You’d think there would be exotic products like that, but actually it’s just boring shit like clam chowder and chicken noodle. Ho hum. So much for diversity. I guess I could link to the humorous foreign soup pages, but I’d probably get “canned.” Ahahahahaha. Then how would I pay for my drugs?

Yes, Lambchop, work is a funny thing. You used to make fun of me for wearing sneakers with my suit, but once you tried it you admitted there was no going back. The world of banking was not for me….I could write a novella out of my failed careers. Soda Jerk, Grease Monkey, Exotic Dancer, Roustabout. I really lost the love for the hot $9/hr world of bank tellering when I realized you are behind glass not so much because of the threat of robbery, but because people spit at you!

Sample Workaday Dialogue:

Me: How may I help you today?

Disgruntled Vagrant: I wanna take out all my money

Me: Account number please, and I’ll need 2 forms of ID.

DV: ARGHRRRPHHMMMPHPHHH! Cunt! Whore!

I can’t tell you what was in the briefcase. But just the other day I saw a guy handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton monogrammed case. In the checkout line at Stop n’ Shop. I wouldn’t fool about something that weird.

xxoo

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