Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Slutty holiday costume alternatives to the standard Slutty Santa

Slutty gift-wrapped iPad

Slutty latke

Slutty canned cranberry sauce

Slutty generic "season's greetings" card

Slutty menorah (group costume)

Slutty family fight about why the damned brand new iPad won't synch up with the PC

Slutty lamb present for the birth of Jesus

Slutty manger

We three sluts (group costume)

Slutty non-denominational Winter Solstice person

Thursday, December 8, 2011

3 Tips for How to Be a Savvy, Sexxy Recession-ista!

1. Exfoliate that complexion with cat litter!
2. Pumice those dry heels with cat litter!
3. Eat cat litter!

Monday, December 5, 2011

More Fox News Hypotheses about the Muppets

Pepe the King Prawn – Illegal alien
Grover – Sexual deviant
Oscar the Grouch – Homeless laze-about
Miss Piggy – Feminazi
Snuffleupagus – A real "Ru Paul" type, if you follow.
Count von Count – Illegal alien
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem – Hippie scum
Elmo – Red
Swedish Chef – IKEA-mongering illegal alien
Dr. Bunsen Honeydew – Godless global-warming-monger
Rizzo the Rat – a real “Jon Stewart” type, if you follow.
Statler and Waldorf – Medicare leeches
The Yip Yips – Illegal aliens

Monday, September 26, 2011

Question: How much Trader Joe's Trail Mix is enough?

Answer: Impossible to know until you have a stomachache from eating too much.

Monday, August 8, 2011

S&P On A Downgrading Roll.

Great Danes downgraded to Fair-to-Middling Danes

Best Western downgraded to If You Ask Me, It's Just Okay Western

Museum of Fine Arts downgraded to Museum of All Right Arts

Great Wall Of China downgraded to Extra-Long Rock

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

My Olive Loaf, Myself.

Every time I visit a farmers market, it gives me hope that I’m on the path to becoming The Person. The Person is that person who wakes up at 5 am every day to do yoga on the porch, the type of person who makes her own clothes and knows exactly how much sodium is in everything, ever, the type of person who’s dresser drawers are neatly organized by color and have little handmade scented sachets inside. Then I buy an olive loaf at the market, and have to literally beg myself not to eat the entire thing in one sitting. And I realize.

It's normal to have stabbing nightmares featuring prominent convicts at age 11, right?


When I was a kid I used to have this dream that Louise Woodward, dressed in a princess costume, came to my house and stabbed me.

The dream would start in true Elm Street fashion. I’d rise up in my top-bunk, in the dark, as if I was waking up for realsies (DO NOT BE FOOLED, AS I ALWAYS WAS, HOWEVER: I actually was dreaming). I’d look out my open bedroom door, and see a shadowy figure. With a delicate, pointy hat. I’d think, “whatever,” and start to climb down the cold metal bunk-bed ladder. I needed to go downstairs and get one slice of American cheese out of the refrigerator, obviously. I anxiously walked by the shadow, with the sort of butt-cheek-clenching tenseness you experience when you walk by an ex-boyfriend at a deli, hoping he won’t recognize you.

When I got to the kitchen, I’d see her again, this time slightly closer, but in the next room over. Louise was a much more Michellin Man-ified version of herself in my dream, and she loomed puffy in the dark. The sequins and tulle of her costume glinted in the moonlight. Her squidgy face leered at me like a rancid hunk of pizza dough. I’d think in my dream-mind, “boy, this is awkward. Just don’t look at her.” I’d slink away from the fridge and climb back into my top-bunk.

Eventually, Louise came to my bedside. Her dough-face would be inches away from mine. I’d feel her crumpet-scented breath on my cheek. (When I was a kid I thought British people’s diets consisted entirely of crumpets. Even though I had no idea what crumpets were.) I had no choice now, I had to look at her.

At the moment I turned to look, she’d stab me in the arm with a kitchen knife, plunging it into my arm in slow motion. I’d feel the knife go into my arm, but not in a painful way. More like in a “ew ew ew there’s a bug on me, get it off!” kind of way. But you know, with a knife.

Anyways. That’s basically how I feel about this whole Casey Anthony thing.

Oh and hey, Lionsgate Studios, you are welcome to contact me about optioning this story for a major motion picture. May I suggest “Hell-ma And Louise” as a potential title.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Catherine Greig’s Recent Tweets

In the market for some quality, itch-free wig adhesives. Money’s no object. Any suggestions?

Morning walk on the beach with BF. What a blessing that the cankle lipo left my feet completely numb... no icky feeling of sand between my toes.

BF feels distant. Sometimes I wish he could just talk to me, without worrying about where he’d bury my body later. #amirightladies?

Lobster rolls smell WONDERFUL, making me regret the tongue-reduction surgery that took my sense of taste!!

J/K it was worth it obviously ;).

Cheering up BF w/ a play list. So far I’ve got “White Christmas,” “White Wedding” — hint, hint ;) — and “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)”...

Anyone know a good song about the sweet taste of revenge? Maybe a Sinatra B-side somewhere?

Getting distracted... anyone tried this new ribcage removal procedure I’m seeing all over the lipo blogs? It sounds WONDERFUL!!

At some museum with BF. Yawn. Fingers crossed I get a surprise ear-lobe-botoxing out of this...

Ever tried replacing your BF’s Cialis with baby aspirin? Secluded vacays are romantic, but I can hardly walk.

Looking for a reputable local dermatologist who takes cash. I am so over getting hounded by credit card companies... #goinggreen

BF came home from CVS with Clairol A134. How could he, when I’m clearly a Winter? Sometimes it’s like we don’t even know each other...

Missing all the salons I can no longer be seen at. #nostalgic

~*~If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain” Dolly Parton~*~ #truth

Won’t be tweeting so often :(. Any advice on what sort of makeup palate a Winter can wear with electric orange?

Monday, June 20, 2011

Things that still wouldn’t shock and disgust me more than the young, east-coast-raised, college-educated casual racist I’m sitting with at dinner.

A nearly dead squirrel, maimed by a truck on I-93, vomiting half-digested old diapers onto the gravel.

Sweaty jock straps full of rotten milk, covered in centipedes. Plus the centipedes are also vomiting.

Being trapped in a diving bell full of Rush Limbaugh’s farts.

Tucker Max dating a close friend.

Someone poking their own eyeball.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

The Scarlet H.

There’s really no better way to say “hey, I want to include more real-life content on my internet weblog” than with a story of the Boston Public Works Department accusing my household of putting human shit in our trash. Am I right?

Here we go.

A Friday a few weeks ago, I came home to everything in order. I found a coveted parking spot right outside the house, the tulips were looking especially not-dead, and I was eager to get inside and commence Friday-evening-relaxation activities like eating cookies over the sink while I read Boston Globe Direct coupon booklets. My dog licked my ankles as I strolled over to the kitchen table. A bright orange envelope caught my eye.

“Your trash was not picked up today,” it stated in Times New Roman seriousness. “For the following reason(s):”

A list followed of pre-printed items, accompanied by check boxes, such as “too full” and “incorrectly sorted.” There was also a box that said “Other” at the bottom, with a small line for the party to elaborate. This box was checked. Neatly printed on the line next to it, in all capitals, read “NO HUMAN WASTE.” (see: fig. 1)

Fig. 1


HUMAN WASTE!












There was also a piece of college-ruled white paper attached to the orange notice (apparently, human waste is a topic that cannot be adequately summed up on the pre-printed card). On it, someone wrote with the sort of impeccable cursive handwriting that had to be the result of years of being whacked with rulers by nuns...

Fig. 2


My trash will have to STAY.






As you can see, his/her tone was coarse. His/her signature, illegible (though, I admit, very fancy).

My boyfriend had found the pair of notes in our mailbox. The delightful penmanship just made the note all the more insulting. Now, as all this washed over me there in my tidy kitchen, my first thought, of course, was “I didn’t know scientists worked for the Public Works Department!”

What, did they send the questionable material off to the lab for analysis? I don’t mean to say “a lot of things in this old world look like shit that actually aren’t shit,” but well, I guess that is exactly what I’m saying. Anyone who’s seen the Baby Ruth scene in Caddyshack knows I’m right. I was initially horrified at their lack of slack-cutting. The "human" part is what amazes me the most. They immediately skipped over all other reasonable possibilities and just went ahead and assumed the absolute worst. What could they possibly have found in my trash that made them all shake their heads in disgust and say “now THIS, this is definitely human excrement. And this is just where our department draws the line”?

But seriously, we’ve got a dog, and so do our neighbors. While we always diligently bag the doo-doo, I started to wonder if maybe a renegade poo had escaped its Stop & Shop bag confines within our garbage bin. If that is what happened, I definitely agree that it’s unintended yet unpleasant, but I hope I don’t sound too privileged-white-lady-ish when I say I kind of think that’s still within the realm of responsibility of a public city inspector, with better heath insurance and vacation time than me, to deal with. When your job is to INSPECT CITIES, how can you expect not to come across some doody at least once in a while? I mean I don't inspect the city, I just live here, and I still feel like I'm knee-deep in human excrement. Just try walking around near BU dorms on a Saturday night.

Even still: I don’t have 24 hour surveillance set up around my trash bins like some sort of eccentric genius who also has a robot that makes her breakfast in bed. The bins sit outside, in our yard but near the curb, in a sometimes-sketchy Boston neighborhood. Any number of passers-by may toss God-knows-what into our receptacle, at any time. A homeless dude may have spotted our trash receptacle across the way and, with hearts in his eyes à la Pepe Le Pew, thought to himself, “that looks like a wonderful place for me to take my morning crap.”

Now this is obviously a ridiculous story, destined for dramatic retelling at parties, but there was a part of me that couldn’t just laugh this off. It’s just the degree of high-judgy-ness that came with the note that really set me off. It didn’t read, “please don’t put human waste in the trash,” it read, “what sort of monsters are you people?”

Human waste.

HUMAN WASTE!

Who puts human waste in the public trash? There’s no way to not feel ridiculously defensive when a government agency accuses you of crapping in your trashcan.

Of course when my boyfriend called the city to tell them that, yes, we are the proud owners of indoor plumbing and we use it frequently with delight and aplomb, they told us they’d “look into it” in the sort of casual tone that makes you wonder what sort of malarkey they are used to hearing. You’re not at ALL intrigued by my harrowing tale of human waste allegations? What sort of grotesque stuff do people call you about everyday?

They called back a few days later to report that what had been found was a crumpled bottle filled with what “appeared to be urine.” (Definitely not lemonade or any other yellow beverage, no, it was certainly urine. Human urine. Definitely.) They apologized and assured there would be no interruption to our trash removal service.

But that’s not as hilarious a resolution as a homeless dude crapping in trash receptacle to exact his revenge on society, so you know, we’ll pretend it was the latter one.

I mean. Shit.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

My Netflix "Top Picks" Categories, as of Late

Campy Comedies

Sitcoms Featuring a Strong Female Lead

Suspenseful Reality Programming Featuring Food as a Main Character

National Geographic Documentaries About Medium to Large Sized Fictitious Mammals and/or the Mayan Calendar

Feel Good Kids' TV Shows From the 1970s To Be Viewed Ironically at Parties

Period Dramas Featuring Overuse of the Word "Agreeable"

Cynical Takedowns of Religious Zealots, and Other Features in Which Bastards Totally Get What They Deserve

Horror

Monday, January 24, 2011

My excuses for slacking, and the subsequent judgmental face my dog gives me.



ME: Eddie I'm just going to run out to find a used copy of the ballet-themed dramedy Center Stage. I can't justify paying full price for it, but I reeeally need to watch it right now. For creative reasons, obviously. Especially the scene where the all the ballet students learn how to let go by dancing in a salsa club. So. I'll be back in like four hours, sound good?

EDDIE: (see photograph.)

ME: No it's just, I need to check eBay every hour for research. What if someone posts the perfect onyx bangle, and I miss it? I need to have a jangly piece of jewelry to endearingly get in my way as I scribble my John Hancock on the inside flap of my successful Erotic Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel set in post-apocolyptic Argentina. I'm telling you, it's going to be a huge hit, as soon as I write it. Okay?

EDDIE: (see photograph.)


ME: Now Eddie, don't get upset but I've decided to volunteer at the MSPCA cat shelter this afternoon. I've decided to write a psychological thriller based on the musical Cats!, and since we don't have any cats I need to go watch how they sing and tap dance and talk to each other. It's a little thing called research. All right?

EDDIE: (see photograph.)