January 26, 2012

Save the Date

Wow. My year just got even busier and more expensive. And also I'm adding another First for me: going to the wedding of someone I don't know. We just got an overly-designed (THREE photos!) save-the-date magnet from one of Husband's co-worker's off-spring, i.e.

Such-and-such date 2010
John and Mary have their first date doing something completely predictible.

Such-and-such date 2011
John proposes to Mary at restaurant I've never heard of.

Such-and-such date 2012
John and Mary get married with you in attendance!

I don't know who this person is. Husband doesn't even ever mention the co-worker in funny work-related anecdotes, and by this, I can only assume that said co-worker is boring, and so is his off-spring, and so will be the wedding. Which is a huge leap but, hey -- I don't have a lot to go on here, so unfair assumptions are the only option.

The only option.

I've never been to the wedding of a person I've never met, paid for by parents I've never met. I can't help but go into this with a total eyeroll attitude. I mean, it's obvious an obligatory invitation. Like, Well, we're inviting A, B and C from the office, so I guess we'll have to invite D and E. And Husband and I are totally F.

Are we really expected to attend? Can I just pick something nice to send them from the registry, or do I have to go sit at a table of Husband's co-workers and make small talk over loud music which I am officially too old to dance to? (Shit, I am now one of those old people who only gets up for the token "Unforgetable" or maybe "Brown-Eyed Girl," if we're really feeling our oats that evening.)

Oh my God, that reminds me of the only fun thing about weddings -- looking at the registry and mocking the things they are asking for! People get soooooooooooo greedy on their registries. I love to act all superior and like, I can't believe they think their friends and relatives can afford that in this economy! Awesome.

And if I'm expected to make small talk with Husband's co-workers, will it be the co-workers that I've come to know and like from the two Christmas parties that I've attended? Or will it be other people too boring to make the cut into Husband's work stories? Or worse, will it be the people that Husband does talk about, but only because they are the most intolerable people alive?

So many questions! So many possibilities! Whatever am I to do?

I know what you're thinking -- Pray for an open bar, Wenchie. But, alas, an open bar is no good to me. I have a one-drink personal limit, which partially comes from having spent much of my formative years surrounded by alcoholics. But the other part is this -- NO ONE wants to see me with fewer inhibitions than I posess on a regular day. I am barely clinging to what shred of a brain-to-mouth filter I have -- and it's getting more and more difficult as I age and get crabbier -- so it would be ill-advised to throw my reserve to the winds when I'm supposed to be playing The Good Wifey.

No, the best I can hope for is a short ceremony, an open dessert buffet, and something inappropriate to blog about.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 06:19 AM | Comments (0)

January 23, 2012

Hapless Prey

Owning a kitchen appliance is like having a spouse -- you ignore the things that you don't like because it's not worth the hassle and expense to get a new one. And when you do get a new one, you're like, I can't believe I put up with so much crap for so long!

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Billi's husband Brad has apparently gotten it into his head that they need **ALL*NEW*STAINLESS*STEEL*APPLIANCES** in their kitchen. And I thought that was hilarious for two reasons. One, their appliances are way newer -- and way better-looking -- than mine, so I can't imagine not loving them. Two, is this something that guys do? Get worked-up about kitchen appliances? Because, in an extraordinary act of table-turning, I think Husband may have to take away Brad's Man Card.

Anyhoo, when Billi told me about their impending purchases, I drooled over their current dishwasher because mine has so many things to hate about it, I can't even start. Don't put a nickel in me! My biggest problem is that it is old and filthy and impossible to clean. And you KNOW how badly that kind of shit sticks in my craw!

And Billi, having a heart of gold, offered me their old dishwasher, once their new one comes. *swoon* A quiet dishwasher without imbedded, 25-year old grime?! Sign me up! I texted Husband immediately with the proposal but never heard back from him because he was in day-long meetings or some blah-blah thing.

When I asked him about it that night, he said, "Well, if we need a new dishwasher, I'd rather just go buy a new one. Do we need a new one?"

"YES." Barely-contained joy!

"Then let's go to Abt this weekend and look for one."

Oh my God! That worked AWESOME! I totally unintentionally tricked him into thinking that getting a new dishwasher was his idea! I am unintentionally brilliant!

We arrived at Abt at 9:30 on Saturday morning, and an adorable older salesman named Will started talking with us. (Not in a pushy way -- Abt salespeople don't work on commission.) By 10:30, Husband and I had decided to get a new dishwasher, double-oven, stove top, microwave and fridge, but to space them out over the course of the next twelve to eighteen months.

By 11:00, we'd added a garbage disposal, new counter tops, new sink, and we're aiming to have to done by the end of February. Yeah, Will is good.

But also, the more we looked at the new, shiny appliances, the less we were able to ignore what's wrong with our current ones. Our fridge routinely freezes anything we put in the vegetable drawers. Of our double-oven, only one of them opens, and that one has a broken handle. Our stove top is rusting. And our microwave is probably giving me brain cancer. (I've already opined about the dishwasher.)

And NOW I understand why Brad is so jazzed about new appliances. He probably went into the store looking for a replacement handle for his oven and fell hapless prey to the shininess of it all.

So, yeah, [un-socially-acceptable overshare regarding our finances] after we pay off our credit cards with Husband's bonus, we're going to rack them up again with a new kitchen. I guess now that I've mentioned it, I'm obligated to do a Before 'n' After blog of my kitchen. Which means that I have to clean it in order to do the Before photos. Dammit. Me and my big mouth.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 09:42 AM | Comments (2)

January 17, 2012

Wenchie's Quest for... Whatever

Okay, I don't mean to get all existential on y'all, but what the hell am I doing with my life? And my blog? Seriously. I am a shallow, self-involved, pathetic excuse for a human being. And I blame Facebook.

I blame Facebook for reconnecting me with people I'd never otherwise reconnect with because they are living awesome, fulfilling lives and don't have time to hang out and eat cheese in yoga pants with me. But they do have time to ocassionally appear on Facebook to remind me of all that I'm not doing with my life... which is at least half over by now, let's face it.

They're either world-traveling artists or teachers of special needs children or professional orphan-and-puppy rescuers or whattheshit. It's completely disgusting. And they all have God's wondrous love to thank for it.

I'm like -- wait a minute. Last time I saw you, you were in a sleeping bag with a bottle of Goldschlagger, a flashlight, and your best friend's brother! What the hell's the matter with you?! You taught me how to smoke and insert a tampon!

Wait, that sounded weird. Those were two entirely different events. I didn't... there wasn't... oh, nevermind.

And this latest one. *seizure-inducing eyeroll* She and her husband just adopted a ten year old orphan girl. From India! Now, c'mon! That's just showing off!

I have no purpose, no direction. I'm never going to write The Great American Novel. No one is ever going to pay to read my stuff. Sometimes I can't even think of a thing to blog about. I just wrote about armpits, for Chrissake! I need to give people a reason to come here! This isn't a cooking blog, or a fashion blog, or a work blog, or a photography blog, or a pet blog. It's not even a Barbie blog! It's just a smörgåsbord blog!

You know, I read other blogs, and I find that the really good ones have a focus. And a production team. But a focus is really important. What do I do best? Why do people come here?

And to add to my looming despair, I also want to COMPLETELY REDESIGN MY ENTIRE BLOG!!! It's not fancy enough. And Heather needs a new pair of shoes. (Heather is my production team.) So I've started playing in the sidebar, which is abating my NEED FOR DRASTIC CHANGE a little bit, but not entirely.

I'm taking this baby to the next level. I mean,... don't hold your breath or anything. But yeah, next level. Me. This. Yeah.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 07:52 PM | Comments (3)

January 13, 2012

Cancer vs. Stench

My dear colleagues,

Thank you for putting up with my experiment, lo, these many months. Oh, c'mon, you know what experiment I'm talking about. The one that has made me smell like the monkey house at the zoo. It hasn't been easy for you, I know, but you've borne it like real troopers. Troopers of tolerance and graciousness.

I was scared, I'll admit. Having two women in my department both come down with breast cancer in the span of six months -- that scared the crap out of me. What if breasts on my floor were being targeted for some reason? What could I do to make sure that mine weren't next?

I decided that I would switch to an all-natural deodorant. After all, putting aluminum and God-knows-what-else on the skin right next to my boobs every, single day was probably not a good idea in the long run.

Oh, sure, I could have chosen to go off the pill or start eating more vegetables, in order to try to stave off cancer. But I'm on the pill for medical reasons (NO, REALLY!), and vegetables are yucky. Switching to an all-natural, non-metal-based deodorant was the obvious choice, since it would make the smallest impact on my hedonistic lifestyle.

First, I tried some fancy-schamncy stuff I got on Sephora, brand name: Clean. Sounds good, right? Clean! It's everything I want, right in the name! I want my pits to smell clean, and my hooters to remain clean of cancer. Yeah, well, Clean made me smell like a bus station by 10:00 a.m. Seriously, the smell was worse than if I'd worn nothing to protect the environment from my b.o.! I must have some sort of supernatural body chemistry that does not behave like a normal human body.

Then I tried Trader Joe's brand. Okay, I'll give Joe the win in that I didn't smell as bad as a Frenchman. However, it still wasn't a good idea to be around me once the afternoon rolled around. I am a super-villian, and stench is my weapon! Fear my fecundity!

One last attempt -- LAVANILA, another all-natural brand that I found on Sephora. I was so hopeful. It has VANILA right in the name! I would smell like a cupcake! A cupcake being eaten by a unicorn on a sunny beach! And I will say that, while it was no unicorn chow, it was the best of the three that I tried, but again -- no match for my otherworldly sweat.

So, my friends, I went back to Secret. Any air wafting past my pits to your nostrils will be Powder Fresh. You're welcome. I hope you're happy. Please come visit me when I get cancer because I'm doing this for YOU.

Love, Wenchie

Posted by Pirate Wench at 06:36 AM | Comments (1)

January 09, 2012

Skimming

I go out for lunch just about every day. And on the rare days that I can't find a dining partner, I go home and eat (thank you, seven-minute commute!). I think I've mentioned it before, my strict rule about not staying at one's desk for lunch. It's bad for you on so many levels!

I have many lunch buddies, including Joan, whose boss is a NAZI HARPIE SHREW and micro-manages the shit out of her whole team. Which means that, when Joan and I go to lunch together, we have to stay very close-by, so as not to exceed the 59 minute lunch hour by one second.

There aren't many great places within a two-mile radius, so we usually end up at the same fast-food chain, the name of which I will not mention, out of respect. (It does not sell burgers.)

About a month ago, something a wee bit strange happened there while the cashier was ringing up my order. When I handed her my money, she was all, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to ring up your drink." But she did give me the empty cup for my drink and gave me back the amount of change that would be correct if she had rung up my drink.

Now, in a perfect world, the assumption would be that she rang up my drink after I'd taken my food and sat down. I didn't see her do it, but it's not my restaurant, and I didn't feel like standing there and making sure she rang up a drink. I did, however, make note of it and file it away in the back of my brain.

On Friday, Joan and I went to lunch again, to the same place, with the same cashier. I was very careful this time to make sure I said, "AND A FOUNTAIN DRINK," very loudly and clearly before she totaled my order.

But she totaled my order anyway. Without the drink. And she mumbled some lame excuse like, "Oh. Sorry. Heh. It's Friday."

Oh, so you only skim money from your employer on Fridays, bitch?

Yeah, bitch is skimming. There's just no way that accidentally happened twice in succession like that. I eat out four times a week, a dozen different places, and the ONLY time I get charged for a drink that the cashier never rang up is twice in the same place, in the same month, by the same person??? No. Not buyin' it.

I didn't say anything then because I didn't want her to associate my face with The Person Who Narked On Her. (And I fo' sho' narked on Little Miss Sticky Fingers.) If she doesn't get fired, I don't want her spitting in my food. And if she does get fired, I don't want her hunting me down and shanking me in the liver.

But before I called the store's manager, I sat on it for a couple days. For my own peace of mind, I wanted to figure out -- why does this particular crime bother me so much? I mean, I could feel my blood pressure go up twenty points when it happened the second time, and I positively obsessed on it all weekend. Without knowing why.

Am I concerned that someone skimming, say, a hundred bucks a week is going to close down one of my regular lunch places? No. Do I particularly give a shit about random petty thievery? No. Am I some kind of zealous justice-seeker who cares passionately about righting every wrong in the world? Honestly, no.

It finally dawned on me Sunday morning -- I don't like that bitch thinking that she pulled one over on me. I mean, clearly she thinks that I have a gullible face because she chose ME twice. And I just can't let that kind of presumption go unpunished. I may have slim to zero street cred, but I'm not completely unsavvy in the ways of the world. I know a skim when I see it, and I knew it the FIRST time she did it. So her REAL crime is thinking that I am DOUBLY stupider than her.

Fuck that. Bitch is GOING DOWN.

I called the store Sunday afternoon and asked to speak to the manager. I told him my whole story, in detail but without using the words bitch, nark or shank. He asked a couple questions but mostly just listened. When I was done, the thanked me profusely, assured me he'd be looking into it, apologized, thanked me again, and we were done.

And I am satisfied. I didn't expect him to be like, "That bitch is toast!" or anything; that'd be unprofessional. After all, he doesn't know me and has know idea that I am both a paragon of honesty and a food service veteran. I'm sure he'll look into it, and I'm gonna give him some time to do that before I go back there again.

When I do go back there again, if she is there and pulls the same crap, I am going to loudly and pointedly make sure I see her ring up my goddamn beverage.

Just because my face is adorable and the picture of sweetness and light doesn't mean that I am gullible.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 06:28 AM | Comments (1)