Tag Archives: imaginary friends

Dateline: Bok Bok Bok!

Wherein I fire my colorist and press charges

“You call those highlights? Try GRILL MARKS! FIX THEM!”

A chunk-a-chunk here, a chunk-a-chunk there. Three hours later, I leave, shaking with rage. The hair is moderately fixed. A brief sojourn in the trailer park is humorous, oui, but try doing that 4 fucking days before the most photographed day of your life. Imagine if you were giving birth on The Discovery Channel and your waxer gave you a fucking shamrock instead of the requested star or heart or Gucci logo. Ugh. Just wrong. I consulted with Kitty Winn, and she was properly livid too.

Kitty and I also discussed wedding night lingerie. I said “Tell me, Kitty, what’s a sexy direction? Crotchless maybe?” And she rolled her eyes and yawned, “Oh, honey, he’s already bought that cow at that point. Give it up. You might as well be comfortable.”

So there you are. Oh, and we got married by a JP in lower Allston. The witness was a giant orange cat named Mr. Fluffy. So pop a cork for me and Mr. H. We could have held out til Saturday, but the paperwork for the gay Venezuelan Jew who was supposed to marry us didn’t go through. Imagine Mitt Romney denying such an application. I never. Now we just have to have an anticlimactic dog and pony show, huzzah!

-xxoo

Office Space

Fresh from a relaxing sojourn in more troubled parts of the world, say hello once again to your favorite unwholesome helpmate, the Miss Manners of the massacre, Stella Nuance.

from the vault of Stella Nuance

Listen up, ya mugs, I’ve been busy. I scored a pretty sweet consulting gig with Idi Amin. Crazy coot was trying to make a “comeback,” as his people put it. Comeback, what, now he’s Jamie Lee Curtis? What a piece of work. Couldn’t complain about the service at the villa, but try making a suggestion to that guy! I was nice as pie, “Aw, Idi, baby, you hired me for MY expertise, right? And my expertise says you should wear an ascot. NO, it doesn’t make you look chubby.” That sonofabitch wouldn’t know “avuncular” if it bit him on the ass. Needless to say, I had to extricate myself from my contract a bit early. Stella doesn’t take any guff.

So after hiding out for a few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about how a good lair really is the foundation to most of villainy. It’s the seat of professionalism, after all. Who’s going to believe you’re worth the dough if you’re still using a cell phone the size of a brick and loitering in the back of a rusted out Suburban? No way, we’re doing it up right. You need business cards so thick you could use one to slit a man’s throat (I recommend a nice brushed metal), and enough furniture to convince the boys from the IRS that it’s an actual working office.

First stop: a new computer.

Now I fancy this one not just because it’s illegal to export it to certain countries. I’m a sucker for packaging, and this new G5 is clearly a product of an Evil industrial design team. It could also be camouflaged as a microwave oven if one were to be raided for one’s files. Either way, don’t put a cat in it.

I must turn my attention to décor. Crate & Barrel really knows their stuff. Check out these keen desk accessories.

Form AND function! Never miss another message, and no more fumbling around for poultry shears when you really need them, during, say, negotiations with an independent contractor. And those clips have many a use “in a pinch.”

What could be more evil than Pottery Barn? Try keeping one these phones around for an air of legitimacy.

Never plug it in though, the feds will be on that like flies on pig shit. Yeah, I know, “80 clams for a phone, Stella?” It’s a bit steep, but have you ever tried cold-cocking someone with one of those receivers? Effective and unexpected. And the red one also keeps the Cold War excitement alive.

So now that I’ve covered the Do’s, let’s get to my favorite part: the Don’ts. Don’t work too hard. That’s what the help is for. And ergonomics are so very important. Experts recommend avoiding repetitive motions. To that end, for office discipline problems, choose a taser over a flail or a cat o’ nine tails. Don’t skimp on a good chair either. The help can make do with kneeling on the floor, after all, their childish bones are softer! But you should go ahead and spring for the Aeron for yourself. If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Now, now, no need to thank me for this wealth of advice, I’ll have my assistant prepare an invoice. Pepito! Take dictation!

Ciao,

-S.N.

Ooh-la-la, Sassoon


Hello there folks! I trust your 4th of July was painted red, white and blue. My neighbor Flora and I made enough lobster macaroni salad to feed all of Epsom! It gave me a touch of the gas, though. Mayonnaise will do that.

Thel’ has more exciting doings to report- my daughter Jessica got a raise over at the Help Center and she treated me to a haircut at VIDAL SASSOON. “ooh-la-la”, I said! Not since my son was born has anyone but Rosie Fitch touched my hair, but I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth so I called and made an appointment with someone named Giacomo. I was a little bit nervous so I put on my Sunday finest and drove on up to the city. The nice lady at the desk gave me a blue robe to put on and sent me into the bathroom. I did not know what to make of that. I didn’t know if I was supposed to undress or tinkle in a cup or what, so I just threw the thing on over my clothes. Then another nice lady with a very deep voice washed my hair and massaged my scalp! She even offered me coffee. For free!

Then it was time for me to meet Giacomo. Only I was so excited I kept calling him Vidal by mistake. We chatted about my two wonderful kids and his partner while he snipped away like nobody’s business. And well, when he was done, I just loved it! Wait until all the ladies at the Golden Age Society see! Any of you folks out there that have too much hair, should really go to Vidal.

Don’t worry, Rosie, I will be back in your chair come next tuesday!

God Bless,

Thelma Haney

Let me hear your body talk

Murphy’s Law #421: right after you go try on your backless wedding dress and decide, “eh, it looks good but I have absolutely no muscle tone whatsoever,” and vow to do nothing but eat protein and do lat pulldowns til the wedding, there will be a free Herrell’s ice cream buffet in the lobby of your workplace.

But I resisted! I am SUPER HUMAN. In another month or so, I will look like a SUPER MODEL. Yes, I’m shallow. Whatever gets you through. My inner bridezilla has ripped through my chest like one of those acid-drooling aliens. I had one woman down at my feet pinning my hem, and another woman with the most incredible face lift plying me with tiaras and yards of tulle, while still another clucked in indeterminate Eastern European at the one hemming my dress, no doubt commenting on the junk in my trunk. I gazed lovingly at myself in the gigantic mirror, tossing my hair this way and that, pausing only to kick Magda when she slowed her rate of pinning.

My bridezilla is tap dancing with a cane now, “Hello my honey, hello my baby….send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart’s on fire.” It’s oozing a trail of slime behind it as it goes off to form a kickline. I’m sunk.

-xxoo

No, je ne regrette rien

Nous devons apprendre à mourir, et à mourir dans le plus plein sens du mot. La crainte de l’extrémité est la source de tout le lovelessness; et cette crainte est produite seulement quand l’amour commence à s’affaiblir.

(We must learn to die, and to die in the fullest sense of the word. The fear of the end is the source of all lovelessness; and this fear is generated only when love begins to wane.)