Tag Archives: on the job

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

Uncategorized, , ,

Poor Licketysplit is floundering in a sea of tulle and chintz! Bridal fittings are not for the faint-hearted. They require the desire to stand for hours in the center of a puff-pastry-like object, facing the mirror, and barking orders in manner of Leona Helmsley to the fawning sprites with mouths full of pins. Our Lickety has that sort of courage…screw it, we are calling on Gaultier! Then she can sit on a sofa eating chocolate cherries while Heidi Klum manxes around in various outfits until lickety has found the one that rings her bell.

I attended a wedding on Sunday in Andover, the place where White People were invented. This was my first voluntary wedding, and I was only on my second drink when I was surprised to be overcome by a feeling of joy and pleasure while watching my friends shake hands with their guests, looking happy but confused. Who knew there was something else to be done at a wedding besides cringe?

Congratulations, J&J!

While others are joyfully uniting, I am afraid I must part from my daytime swain, Mr. James Rockford. I have finally wormed my way into some kind of job. It requires trousers with a crease and non-threatening footwear. It also requires punctuality and attention to detail, so I hope you will all include me in your prayers or bag-waah or whatever the hell it is you people all do when you aren’t watching people humiliate themselves on tv.

-xo

Unemployment Haiku

Uncategorized

Lambchop knows many people are out of work these days. Some of you are sitting in your underwear all day and sobbing. Others are enjoying noon cocktails and cashing a check. Still others are scouring want ads and pressing their trousers daily, full of vain hope. We can all agree that the great thing about joblessness, is Jim Rockford.

Cap’n Crunch with Jim

Is the best part Of My Day

Breakfast, 3pm

-xo

Tequila Sunrises and other forces of nature

Uncategorized, , , ,

Your intrepid lambchop is still in search of gainful employ. Walking through Post Office Square at lunchtime is like entering a yuppie petting zoo. If only there were dispensers of kibble. I take heart from the monument to the Hungarian Revolution on Kilby Street. It looks like a woman holding up a baby and the plaque quotes Kennedy “it was a day of courage, conscience, and triumph…” Looking for work does not have much in common with bloody uprisings (no threat of evisceration, really) and yet i mutter this phrase to myself before every hearty handshake with a prospective employer. Which is very likely the reason I am still looking for a job.

I should just change my title to:

flaneur \flah-NUR\, noun:

One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.

The studio practice is back in full swing. Stay tuned and see!

Yesterday I was on the loose with my pal Stu. We drove through perilous lightning and cracking thunder. We drank pink gin and tonics with our friend Mr. King and wrestled on the wet asphalt. We took turns racing Mr. King’s bicycle down the rain slicked street and Stu came up bloody. We thought he was kidding. Sometime around four it began to rain again and we just stood in the street getting rained on.

xo

Blow me up Buttercup

Uncategorized, , ,

So, the project I’m dealing with is now officially in “flaming barge of school children heading right for the Statue of Liberty” mode. Did I mention the kids have explosives strapped to them? And head lice? In other words, an unmitigated disaster. Only Spiderman can save it now. You think I’m kidding? Well, someone just asked me a question about an “XML std.” Uh, that person meant dtd, but I’ll take all the comic relief I can get. Now I’m just going to sit back, put my feet up, and wait for the FBI and possibly the ATF to contact me regarding my earlier gratuitious analogy with the school kids. And tomorrow I’m going to call out sick with a bad case of the “XML.”

Speaking of firearms, I have a new hobby a’ brewin’. Target shooting with small side arms. With a wedding gift haul of unwanted Precious Moments figurines just a month or so away, I’ve got to learn to shoot. A friend has promised to buy me and Mr. H a gun for a wedding present if we get our licenses to carry. We actually hope we get some sad-eyed angel figurines now, so we can take them to the range and pick them off one by one. The destruction will be filmed. Sometimes just returning something to the store is not spiteful enough!

I’m feeling especially entrepreneurial lately, as I wile away the hours thinking of how to get out of this job without being totally poverty stricken. So Mr. H gave me the idea for “blowyourshitup.com,” an extension of our own awful gift disposal plans. It’s a niche market, to be sure. Newlyweds unfortunate enough to not receive wads of cash will mail us their stash of useless crap from Things Remembered, and we’ll do the rest. Just choose “shotgun,” “steamroller,” or “sumo” from our destruction menu, and your commemorative DVD in a flocked velvet box will arrive in 4-6 weeks.

But really, my true calling is designing escape fantasies. I’m a natural. No, really. It’s my number one export these days. The gross national product of Licketysplit.

On a much more positive note, Lambchop has landed! There was a sighting today on Newbury Street. It was hard to tell it was her at first because of the huge dark glasses, but the fawning throng that assembled gave it all away. So she’s back in Boston, and you should beep her 9-1-1 and call her on her cell phone. Meet her by the friendly-ass bear.

-xxoo

Annie got my gun

Journey to the New World

Uncategorized, ,

I wish I could get Irish Backs of Steele to transport my meager belongings across the Atlantic for a few coppers! A solid week of sifting through my possessions and staring balefully at the mounting collection of boxes has caused me to convert the half of it to garbage bags. Who needs Stuff anyway?

Me, that’s who! Me! Me!

Don’t worry, lads and lasses of the Colonies, I will not be disposing of anything particularly fetching. I will be living under that bridge in the Common. And as Mother always admonished Father, “Just because you are a Bum, is no excuse to dress like That!” Surely I won’t be a public nuisance for long. One of you fine folk are bound to fill my biscuit barrel with cash, in return for me doing mostly nothing. My resume is lined with fascinating and useless items! I am trained in falafel making and creative napkin folds. I am also a skilled liar. Opportunities abound!

Lambchop and Licketysplit used to rule the Boston airwaves, lollipops in hand. Lickety, while I search for my passport and try to match up my socks, do be a dear and find something else for us to rule. Or at least someone to lord it over.

xo

Swiss hit-or-miss

Uncategorized, , , ,

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

A loosely connected series of topics only interesting to me -or- I wish I had a miniature secret camera

Uncategorized, ,

There, you can’t say you were not warned. First, I successfully underwent highlights. I can assure you the results are most subtle indeed. I believe that this technique ceases to be known as highlights when jarring stripes of contrasting color are observed. Then it becomes something else indeed; I have a few names for it myself.

Yesterday saw the completion of an errand under some duress. In the interest of returning to work in a timely fashion, I stopped at McDonald’s and got a Happy Meal. As I was walking to my destination, I approached a very large young lady coming my way on the sidewalk. Not to offend any pleasingly voluptuous readers, but she was of the build where her head looks startlingly small in the context of sitting on top of her body. Arms could not be placed comfortably at the sides. In other words, freaking humongous. She started veering towards me, and she was definitely eyeing my paper sack.

I thought “Oh crap, she’s going to ask me for money,” but instead she gestured towards the bag and asked “Where is the McDonald’s where you got that at?” Phew, off the hook!

“It is back about two blocks that way.”

“JEEZ,” she sighed, “that far?”

I thought about just giving her my bag and running away, really fast. Fast enough to get to my target heart rate!

In other news, I’ve decided my true career calling lies with the CIA. Here’s their list of open positions. Of course I’m most attracted to Clandestine Service, but I fear I would not pass the background check necessary to get a security clearance. Also, I do not speak Korean, and they seem to be pretty hot on that. Wonder what manipulation of international policy we’ll be embarking on next as a nation?

Really, though, you’d think lying, cheating, and stealing would be what would qualify me for the job. That, and I’ve never been caught doing anything bad. I was always the sneaky one. My sister would tattle on herself when we were kids. But no amount of cajoling would ever induce me to release incriminating details. The secret to lying is to lie big. And you must believe your own lie and be able to produce genuine indignation if your story is ever challenged. But I suppose there is a down side to CIA life. For one, I’d have to live close to NoVa when I’m not off poisoning people with asps in backwards nations. And the traffic in Northern Virginia just blows. Still, they do get plenty of sick time, and there is access to two gyms. Sweet.

Anyway, by linking to those pages, I’m sure I’ve put myself under tight scrutiny and will definitely not get a clearance now. Dammit. I swear I would be really, really good at the job. Call me, you should know how to find me!

Victoria’s Real Secret

Uncategorized, , , ,

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

Run roughshod over me

Uncategorized, , ,

Licketysplit

I just called someone an “imperious whelp.” That was satisfying. I’m getting a lot of mileage out of that one lately. And I just may have procured a new love seat for my office. You know, for office love. If I have actual furniture, I may have to finally decorate beyond pasting up the ready.gov print-outs. Some flounces over the window, perhaps a bear skin rug… a cone of silence!

While checking out the recent search strings for Vomitola, I discovered the following alarming morsels: gumjobs, bronze buttocks, anal leakage iced tea, and perhaps most disturbing of all: “bridesmaid shoes in color teal.” Sweet frosted globes of the virgin! The gumjobs are perfectly understandable. That’s a Lambchop term if there ever were one. I’d better sneak in a manchowder mention while I’m at it. Bronze buttocks, well, we can’t help you there, unless you were looking for a peek at Steele’s hindquarters. I can’t personally attest, but I’m sure Steele’s rump has a sheen like a new penny. Anal leakage iced tea? Dear reader, if you find out which brand causes anal leakage, do alert me.

Now, the bridesmaid shoes in color teal…those are a real atrocity. I am getting mawied in a few months now. I may have mentioned “wedding” at some point. Certainly I’ve mentioned shoes. But I can’t help you in your misguided pursuit. I wouldn’t tell you where to find those even if I did know! My one or two pals who will stand next to me have been instructed to “wear whatever the hell you want.” I’m not saying it won’t be a posh affair, but I trust in their impeccable taste and have no need to make them wear taffeta ruffles in the color of Circus Peanuts. I don’t need a photo of myself surrounded by grown ladies decked out like Easter Peeps. Matching is way overrated anyway. If my own socks do not match, how can I insist anyone else make such a concession?

Anyway, assembling the trappings of a garden-variety wedding isn’t really that bad. It isn’t that good either. I am not into weddings. In fact I pretty much loathe weddings. I never sat around dreaming of mine when I was a wee be-ribboned tot. But unfortunately the person I am legally and fiscally allying myself with did. Dream of his perfect girlish fantasy wedding. 😛 If I had it to do over again, I would stomp my feet and howl until I found myself boarding a flight to Vegas. But as soon as I start drinking, I am sure to enjoy myself. Most of the niggling details are out of the way, or left up to Mr. H. And registering is FUN, man. I only wish it were not limited to housewares. If I could register for a home submarine kit, or his n’ hers pith helmets, we might be on to something. Or sidearms, those could come in pretty handy these days. I thought a nice concept for the invitation might involve letters pasted together ransom note-style to say “SEND CASH. UNMARKED BILLS.”

xxoo

in Just- spring

Uncategorized, , , ,

A young woman’s fancy turns to shoes. Sassy wedges, kicky slides. My kingdom for a pedicure! Oh, to a find a crooked surgeon who will amputate my little toes in a cosmetically-appealing fashion and ply me with narcotics. The better to cram my wee goat feet into the casual buckle-detail mules.

My weekend was a sad ordeal through no fault of my own. I didn’t do anything fun like take candy from babies or set women in fur coats on fire. There were no acrobats, no jugglers, no mysteries of the trapeze. Instead there was a lot of driving. And listening to bad radio stations. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock, together at last… If you haven’t heard that painful spot of nouveau country, consider retiring to a remote mountain cabin posthaste!

I’m still in a foul mood, no way around that. So I had some more coffee and put on some show tunes! Broadway right in my living room, promises the cable radio display. Seems I can add jazz hands to my own personal raft of the Medusa (er, the couch with the puffy pillows) with the click of a button! Some Bernadette Peters sure soothes the savage beast. At nine, Bernadette received her Equity Card. At nine, I was still biting my sister.

I used to work at the Art History department at BU, and we called the circulation desk cubicle in the slide library the Raft of the Medusa. The work wasn’t bad. Filing, reminding professors that the little dot on the slides went to the upper right. Occasionally overhearing students pleading about grades, or even faculty pissing contests. I almost got a degree in Art History, but I realized that would lead to years more of expensive graduate education, not to mention the emotional price of seriously discussing Tracey Emin or Damien Hirst. I did write a rippin’ good paper of the “storms of fortune in the paintings of Poussin.” hoo dee doo. I’m sure continuing to do such things would have been ever so financially compelling. Thank god I’ve always been more motivated by cold, hard cash.

-yr dime a dance gal