July 03, 2009

Introduction to My Boss

PhD Boss: Wenchie. C'mere.

PW: [grab my pen and notepad, go sit in his cube] What do you need?

PhDB: What's your favorite candy bar in the whole world?

PW: Um... Rolo Bits, but they don't make those anymore, soooo probably Milky Way.

PhDB: Wrong. Twix. Is the best.

PW: Um... okay.

PhDB: ...

PW: So, what do you need?

PhDB: Nothing.

PW: You called me over here to ask me what my favorite candy bar is?

PhDB: Yes.

PW: Because... you're going to buy me one?

PhDB: No.

PW: Okay, don't ask me for anything else for the rest of the day.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 10:52 AM | Comments (0)

July 01, 2009

Round Food and Low Expectations

I am the only one in my department today. PhD Boss is in Columbus, Ohio. Rev. Boss is in Detroit, Michigan. And Executive Administrative Assistant is in bed, I hope, because she sounded like crap yesterday. Either way, she's not here spreading her germs, and that's what counts.

Well, actually, the Intern is here, but she's so tiny and adorable and passive, she's barely even a blip on my radar. And she certainly doesn't have the balls to tell me to stop painting my nails (mirror-finish baby pink!) and surfing Facebook, so she's basically a non-entity.

Husband is going to give a presentation at Vacation Bible School this morning. I don't know why. I mean, besides the fact that he was asked to. He doesn't bible-school-aged children anymore. I think he just likes talking about plants. He's going to teach them about growing tomatos or something. My eyes glaze over at the very thought, so I don't know how the young 'uns are going to take it. Two minutes of plant-talk, and I'd be BEGGING to build a diorama of Noah's ark.

Anyhoo, his presentation was at 10:00 a.m., which means that we could go out to breakfast together without fearing recourse from our jobs! This concept is rare even on weekends, and unheard of on weekdays.

So, we went to the Pancake House. (Not to be confused with International House of Crapcakes, which I will not even dignify with a link.)

My entire breakfast was round this morning. I got ten silver dollar pancakes, two sausage patties, and orange juice, which comes from a round fruit. It was very Sesame Street-esque. Are coffee beans round? Because I had two cups of coffee, too. And now I'm waiting for the bathroom to be vacant so I can go poop in the round potty.

Today's blog was supposed to be about the Gay Pride Parade, which I attended over the weekend. But I have a TON of photos to go through. So you have that to look forward to.

What I'M looking forward to is painting our butt-ugly powder room this weekend. And in order to find a previous post on said powder room, so that you can see photos of it and shrink in terror, I typed in "bathroom" in my blog's Search box. It came up with 81 blogs containing the word bathroom. I may have some sort of fixation. Anyhoo, here's the post, so you can see why I'm so eager to change the walls.

In theory, it should only mean one trip to Home Depot for paint and a new light. The foil actually comes off the wall very easily, leaving only the backing to scrape off. And with the help of toxic chemicals, that should be a breeze. And then we paint, and I can hang pretty things on the walls! Yay!

Now, I can't argue that we could -- and should -- get rid of the tile on the walls. And the floor. But frankly? I'd rather spend the money on a 50" t.v. than a whole remodel. I can live with partial-ugly. And with my standards set so low, I should be able to fit in a nap on Friday and still be done in time to watch a couple epsides of Burn Notice before betime.

And now I've just jinxed us by talking about what a snap it will be, so we'll be divorced by Monday, surely.

Posted by Pirate Wench at 10:27 AM | Comments (1)

June 29, 2009

The Return of the King

When Billi and her kids left my house last weekend, the state of things were... pretty chaotic. Now, this isn't to say that Billi's kids are destructive or ill-behaved. No, the real problem is that these are not my children, so I pretty much let them do any damn thing they want.

MY children wouldn't be allowed near my Barbies, and they would be taught that rule immediately upon exiting the womb. But I routinely allow The Spare to pull my most expensive Barbie down from the shelf, while I wince and smile indulgently.

"It's only a doll," I tell myself. "I love him more than I love a doll. Letting him touch it a couple times a year isn't going to kill me."

Every time The Girl Child walks in my front door, she makes a bee-line for the Juicy Coutoure Barbies. Because they come with accessory dogs. But this time, in an unexpected departure, she asked to play with my Lord of the Rings Barbies. (I have Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas and Galadriel.)

After warning her that their clothes and accessories are NOT to be removed, I let her have at them. She also helped herself to Celtic Princess Barbie, Harlequin Romance Barbie, Isobel Barbie and a Superman Ken that I've dressed in a handmade Henry VIII outfit.

The Royal Court of Barbie kept her busy for quite a while. When Billi and the kids left, I was shocked to find Aragorn and Galadriel locked in a lovers' embrace.

Good Lord! I almost turned around and hurried back out of the room! Clearly, I had interrupted an intimate moment. It almost made me a little uncomfortable to look at them. And bare in mind, Girl Child is eight.

And then I noticed his hand in her hair.

Well! Galadriel is just moments away from getting herself ravished right on my desk! Man, Arwen is going to fuck her up.

[Bonus points to the commentor with the best Narsil or Anduril joke!]

Posted by Pirate Wench at 08:41 AM | Comments (2)

June 26, 2009

W.W.J.D.

Okay, I already love this new department I'm working in. Not only can I give my boss Ultimate Verbal Shit and he doesn't denounce me to Hell, he gives it right back to me! It's awesome.

Also awesome are some of the people who are on the various committees we're in charge of.

Take, for example, this email from one such committee member to me, my boss, and my boss' boss. I especially love his salutation:

Greetings, Holy Triumverate!

I have a "minutes" question. I will be receiving electronic minutes from Will. I will be keeping the minutes I take on my computer. Should I keep also a hard-copy file? Do you keep a copy of the minutes from the Network?

I know that when Jesus returns, He will want a copy (unless He will bring His own flash-drive).

Thanks & peace - Tom

Hee!

Posted by Pirate Wench at 07:50 AM | Comments (0)

June 24, 2009

Caer Ibomeith

I believe it means "love unrequited" in... faerie. Or something. I don't remember; it was over twenty years ago. It's the name of a poem I wrote on Valentine's Day of 1988, about a painting a saw in a book. The painting is La Belle Dam Sans Merci (The Beautiful Lady Without Pity) by Sir Frank Dicksee.

Please bear in mind that I was eighteen and terminally retarded when I wrote this drivel. Feel free to skim.

* * * * *

The trees gleem bare and black.
The earth is white and still.
'Tis the season of mists,
and a solitary knight
wanders the Kentish Hills.

He is still a very young man,
but his gait is shambling and slow.
The once-handsome face
is now strained and pale,
sunken eyes hold no more glow.

In the summer of that year,
the land was perfumed and hazy.
The air was laden
with the scent of primrose,
the dawn was as bright as a daisy.

One bright morning, he set out
the join the army of the king,
but the lanes were quiet,
so he slowed his horse
to listen to the blackbirds sing.

When into his dreams came a noise,
a fluttering near a tall oak.
He dismounted his horse
and strode to the tree,
yet no one replied when he spoke.

"Come out!" he called to the laughter.
And a woman, with eyes like a fawn,
stepped lightly before him
and stood in the lane.
She seemed to be clothed with the dawn.

Her robe was made of rose petals;
her head, crowned by fiery hair.
With a gaze as shy
as a wild forest creature's,
she met the knight's loving stare.

All thoughts of his duty then vanished.
His journey had lost its true course.
She willingly came
to his outstretched arms,
and he lifted her onto his horse.

In a language he'd never before heard,
she whispered, and the horse turned its head.
Towards sunny meadows
that lay beyond,
through the trees they started to thread.

They traveled that way for hours,
now in forest, now in field.
From time to time,
the lady spoke softly.
The knight plucked the meadow's fair yield.

From his flowers, she fashioned a garland,
a crown for her blazing red hair.
When the sun shone high,
she began to sing
to the knight who accompanied her there.

She leaned down and peered into his eyes,
with the afternoon sun at its peak,
and the look was of such
an absorbing love
that his longing forbade him to speak.

She continued to weave her net
of melodies 'round the knight,
who forgot all caution
and blessed the heavens,
forseeing none of his plight.

With the afternoon drawing to a close,
she spoke, and the horse stopped its pace.
In a small group of birches,
he lifted her down
and gazed once more into her face.

He saw there inexpressable saddness.
Tears glistened in her moss-green eyes.
He kissed her then,
but she drew away
and sang him her grieving good-byes.

Light as the mist, her voice coiled
around him; his eyes fought to close.
He swayed for a moment,
then sank to the ground,
but he just couldn't leave his fair rose.

He glimpsed, for a moment, her draperies
and the bright tendrils of her hair.
She bent to watch him,
the leaves spun above,
so he closed his eyes and slept there.

Dawn came, and the knight awoke
with a premonition of dreadful grief.
The lady was gone,
having taken his heart--
an aching her could not believe.

Each hour, he knew, would be empty.
It was as if he had watched her die.
A life of yearning
was all he would know,
of calling to hear no reply.

Sick with desire, he rose
and searched through field and pine,
retracing their path
again and again,
but still he could find no sign.

The first day passed, and the next.
The flowers faded in the fields.
The birds ceased singing,
and still the knight wandered,
while the farmers harvested their yields.

Through the long months, he hunted,
a silhouette, frail and gaunt.
The pale, winter moon
barely lights his way,
bereft of hope, but not want.

Now, he can walk no further,
drained of all youth and power.
He finally lies down,
the wind starts to moan,
and he dies, all alone, that same hour.

The farmers who find the body
say little, their faces set grim.
But safe in their homes,
they whisper of magic
and the love that had victimized him.

Mortal-Fairy love run deep.
Of its current, you'd best be wary
and speak with fear,
as all mortals do,
who speak of the powers of Fairy.

* * * * *

Oh my God, it just goes on and on and on, doesn't it?! Yes, Wenchie used to be a hopeless romantic. Try not to faint.

I imagine this is what it was like for Bruce Campbell when he and I first met...

Posted by Pirate Wench at 08:43 AM | Comments (1)