Tag Archives: liquor

Failure to thrive

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Overheard, stomach competition between two grandmothers. “Your pictures are AFTER UTERO, hers are better because they are IN UTERO.”

So, Thanksgiving, as we do in my family. A lot of deep breathing, counting to one hundred, drinking, and stepping out into the bracing cold, usually to find another family member out there, cradling his or her head in hand. For Christmas, I hope to be on a plane to a place with umbrella drinks and cabana boys. Or I will beat someone to death with a bottle of rum.

-xxoo

You can be NEW

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Gone are the days of me eating cheese and sucking down tequila, falling into some paranoid dream with a full belly and my boots still on.

Well, not OVER. Can’t I be gin-sodden and be FIT? Science is about to tell us this. Last night was my first appointment with Thunder, my personal trainer. It was great! “Feel the burn!”, he said, “Are you sure you have never done this before?” Oh my god, if I had a nickel for every time…

-xo

Bullseye

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Sadly, going to Target is not as high-spirited and monochromatic an experience as the TV ads would have one believe. There are no rockettes or dancing christmas trees, and Mark Mothersbaugh is not hovering up in the front office personally DJing over the PA system. I did not see Isaac Mizrahi either. I believe he is in his lair in Trenton, busy laughing, absolutely splitting a side over all the girls who are hoping “you can have high fashion at Target, really.” You can’t. Please do not embarass either one of us further by pretending it’s true. What are you, a communist? I love a bargain as much as the next gal, but crap is crap. It’s Mom Jeans.

But we still managed to make impulse purchases. How do they do it? I came for packing tape and cat litter, I departed with a fleece throw. I didn’t need a giant Toblerone bar, yet I left with one anyway.

It’s just as well, because I ate a few segments of that for dinner: a new level in culinary incompetence even for us. I thought butter noodles a few weeks ago was the absolute nadir, but I was wrong. We’re moving one week from today, and we’ve gone from eating off paper plates to just not bothering with actual food. Well, we did have some apple pie. That’s half a Cider Jack and half a Harpoon Winter Warmer. Spicy. The traces of apple in the cider will prevent scurvy.

Then I capped off the weekend by working on a particularly wretched DHTML-laden freelance project. It seemed like a great idea back in September, but of course the other parties involved assed around until November, and then the client demanded it be live on the 26th. Because the day before Thanksgiving is such a crucial time for web browsing. Why am I not better at saying no? Oh, right, I’m a whore.

-xxoo

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

Go go gadget gay marriage

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Well…it’s a start.

Massachusetts? Are you there? It’s me, Licketysplit. Why did you persist in electing Mitt Romney, who has gone on record saying he would veto pro gay marriage legislation? Also, God? Why are people still wearing open toed shoes in November? The cosmos is a baffling place. YOU SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED.

In all seriousness, I am strongly in favor of gay marriage. None of that civil union crapola, although that’s a foot in the door. I was allowed to get “married” in Massachusetts outside of the umbrella of religious blessing (a whole ‘nother can of warms). Our actual legal marriage took place at some creepy guy’s house in Allston. We gave him $100 and our marriage license, and after subjecting us to a story about his own divorce and how his cat is his best friend, he said “I now pronounce you wicked married.”

The actual wedding day was another story entirely. It was full of love and joy and burning money and alcohol poisoning, and in attendance were several long term gay couples who didn’t have a shot at doing the legal bit by virtue of the wrong chromosomal arrangement. If the reason to keep marriage between a man and a woman has to do with morality, let me just say that I am weak of character! I enjoy deviant sexual practices*! But I still got a license, no questions asked. May I remind you that there are plenty of het couples who get married and still smush everything in sight. (We’re saving that bit for our five year anniversary cruise to the Mexican riviera. Oy gevalt. Equal opportunity emotional tearing down, please.)

I’ll be watching the development of this situation, and possibly standing outside Tom Finneran’s house in an animal suit. Tom Tomorrow is right, I should have married a goat.

-xxoo

*Er, I mean spooning, mom. Maybe a little closed-mouth kissing.

Get up on this

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So Heather came over tonight. We painted our nails and organized our sticker books. Then we busted out the 40s. Round two pictured here.

All Lisa Frank dreams aside, this picture was taken in 1996. It’s unflattering. We both had to use drastic mezures to hook up in those days. Hence the plastic knives. But that’s in the past, yo. And let the past be the past. Although that’s hard to do when one finds the PHOTO BOX. That’s right, we’re going to be taking a little trip trap through the misty watercolor memories in the corners of our minds.

I have to go take Lambchop’s bra out of the freezer. We havin’ a sleepova.

-xxoo

…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

What would Martha do?

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Ugh. I’ve got a hangover, and I only just started drinking. No, not *that* kind of hangover, a wedding hangover. That’s right, we’re still not done with our thank you notes. So if you didn’t get one yet, that means we dislike you intensely, and we found your gift terribly unimaginative and downright insulting. Oh, I keeeeeed. The list is in fact alphabetical (we are somewhere in the R-S range, we can’t help being popular), and I was foolish enough to think Mr. H might actually help with birthing them.

But then again, I married someone with a limited vocabulary. Hey, I’m not being mean, it’s just the truth. If I were with a man as verbose as I am naturally, we’d never get anything done because we’d be too busy trying to out-conversate the other. Why, it would be like being married to Lambchop. We ruled out same-sex marriage as a possibility years ago. A) she wouldn’t get the donkey dingle graft, and my hips are far too slinky to carry it off, and B) we’d never have sex anyway because we’d each be too busy trying to put on more makeup than the other. So Mr. H and I, we compromise. I explain the big words, like “abutters” and “that other one from the other day he didn’t know,” and he makes dinner. But he does know enough to say “You’d better not be making fun of me on your stupid website.”

Now, Kitty Winn says that the secret to a good thank you note is to create your own custom attractive letterpressed notes, and also to lie, lie, lie. For instance, the truth is not always suitable for print:

“Dear Aunt Hilda,

thank you for remembering us on our special day. I’m sorry to hear that what you purchased to commemorate it is “too heavy to mail,” but I eagerly await the day you drop it off at my mom’s house several states away from me. I am sure it will make a lovely addition to her hall closet, be it a solid block of obsidian or a mastadon femur. I really hope it’s breakable! We’ll see you at Christmas.

kisses,

-Helen & Mr. Helen”

No, no, that simply won’t do. What am I going to say? I have no idea. But Mr. Man also knows enough to open a second bottle of wine, so I’m sure it will sort itself out. If you are in the lucky R-Z last name category, you can look forward to a sloppy, drooled-upon note in a few days time. But we ran out of the nice letterpressed ones, so T.S.. Note to self: next career — purchase letterpress!

-xxoo

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

Please welcome…a Tarantula

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We have a family of spiders living in some ambiguous part of the car. Sometimes they crawl out from behind a visor or across the dashboard. Then we freak out and wave our hands in the air, while yelling “Ahhhh! Ahhh Ahhh!” This does make driving more difficult. Finally, the non-driver scrounges up a piece of paper or an atlas page from a less popular state (like Alabama or Arkansas) and squooshes the brute. This is no small undertaking because these are big fleshy gangly white spiders. They bear a passing resemblance to Dr. Phil.

Today I was wondering how cold it has to get before they die of exposure. I said “I’m going to ask a spiderologist.” Mr. H said “I’M BRIAN FELLOWS.”

So I turned to my old friend the internet. It seems that the organs of spiders just swim around in hemolymph, which is their sorry excuse for blood. They survive during the winter by burrowing for warmth and lowering their metabolic rate. That’s what I’m doing right now. Except my strategy involves a bottle of wine and a plate of pasta and a duvet rather than leaf mold.

We had one more parasitic encounter before we even made it into the house. The downstairs neighbors waylaid us and asked us to look at their computah because they took it to Best Buy after they got it from their brotha, and they put the bits and the bytes in it, but they can’t get on the internet because Comcast says they don’t have enough bits, but they left them a CD, and then they had to call Microsoft, and that cost thuhty dollahs, can you believe it, but they still aren’t on the internet, not the high speed one, and they need a Windows 98 disc because they can’t download the explorer, and their friend Sheryl had a look, and she is so good with computahs, but she couldn’t figure it out eitha, and could we just take a look?

Of course someone at work already basically asked me that same question today, so I was able to answer in no uncertain terms “Find where it says ‘Attachment’ in the menu bar of your email program, then choose ‘Save.'”

Here’s some pictures of spider bites. There are more vile pictures in the lower left nav if you are so inclined.

-xxoo