March 31, 2005
Pimpin' In My Hooptie
I spilled two pints of milk in the front seat of my car. Like, on the actual seat. It makes Husband gag just thinking about it. So I took it in to get detailed, and, like everyone who needs a car, we don't turn to friends or siblings, we turn to our parents. And why is this? Because our parents don't go anywhere.
My folks have His & Hers Lincoln Continentals. They are old people, they live in the suburbs, and yes, they own the road. Dad's is a 2000. Mom's is a 1988. I posed my request, hoping for the former, and got the latter. But not without some thinking aloud from Dad.
"Enh... well... yeah... there's a crack in the windshield..."
Wait, what? Crack in the windshield? Has Mom been off-roading in the Lincoln?
"But it should be okay."
Am I in some sort of peril here? Okay, tell me what's more likely to happen, just so I can brace myself. Breaking down in the middle of a busy intersection during rush hour? Or the car disintegrating around me so that I scooch to a halt on my smoking buttocks, legs splayed out in front of me, still holding the steering wheel, a la Wile E. Coyote?
"Maybe you should take my car. Yeah. No... Mom's car still runs pretty well. It's not that old."
Not that old? Dude, they melted down the Colossus of Rhodes to make this thing!
It's really unbelievable. It's like driving a living room, with a ping-pong table strapped to the front. The rust spots can no longer be ignored. The inside of the driver's side door has been repaired with brown electrical tape -- dark brown, so as to blend better with the deep burgundy leather interior. Classy.
Driving it is a real trip. I mean, for all it's ridiculousness, it's damn comfy (PERFECT for car $ex!!!), and seriously, I shouldn't be trusted with something that has this much horsepower. The only handling drawback is that I have to spin the wheel fourteen times to turn a corner.
But the crack in the windshield -- you can't see it in the picture, what with the morning sun glinting off the front acreage -- it's horizontal and travels the entire expanse of the glass. Ooooh, attractive and safe!
God, I never realized how ghetto this car is until I was forced to drive it. I gotta buy Mom a new car. Then I can pour a forty on the curb for this car cuz, dawg, it is whack.
Posted at 01:39 PM | Comments (3)March 30, 2005
Random Crap
You're getting random babbling today because, although I have an actual post drafted, it must wait for a photo. The photo is key, because sometimes, even I can't do something justice with words. One hint: it's not a sweater or a dog. Hopefully, if the photo monkey at Walgreens cooperates, you'll get it tomorrow.
The icon in the upper righthand corner of my masthead is ME, courtesy of The Mini-Mizer, which you can also find to your right, under the heading "Links," a.k.a. Compelling Ways To Be Unproductive.
However, as Heather pointed out, I'm "not really fat and blocky." And for that, she gets an extra portion of gruel lowered into The Pit this evening.
The featured Barbie icon is "Fashion Model Lisette."
So there's a BBQ joint across the partking lot from where I work. Anne, Nicholle and I are there at least once a week, usually on Fridays, for the past nine months.
And every single time we walk in, the host(ess) asks us, "Have you been here before?"
YES, we've been here before! MORE OFTEN THAN YOU, apparently!
And we noticed that this place seems to have quite the turnover rate. We very rarely see the same people, which is weird, considering how often we're there.
I miss Danny. He was tall and kinda cute and had his name tattooed in big, curly letters ON THE SIDE OF HIS NECK. I'm assuming he's now in prison, or he left the state in order to avoid child support payments to his babymama.
Nicholle goes, "I'll bet this is the kind of place where they chop up their employees and feed them into the fire."
And Anne goes, "Yeah, definately."
What? Nicholle makes one of her trademark ridiculously paranoid statements, and Anne agrees with it? Okay, that's unsettling.
When Nicholle says something retarded about catching bird flu from the finches in the building atrium because she read an article about it on the internet, I can easily dismiss it because she's insane. It's what makes her so charming.
But when Anne agrees, then... it must be true. Because Anne knows stuff.
Poor Danny. All he wanted was to run the Guess Your Weight booth at the carnival. But he ended up being part of the hickory smoke that made my burger so dang tastey. God bless you, Danny, wherever you are.
Posted at 01:23 PM | Comments (2)March 29, 2005
Worthy of the Shaven Leg
So this morning, I'm having breakfast, and Husband is taking the dog out, and I go, "I need the checkbook today so I can pay Heather."
"Friend Heather?"
"No, Masseuse Heather."
So I'm in the shower, and Husband is shaving, and I go, "Dude, you used all the hot water, and I have to shave my legs for Heather!"
(Yeah, I don't care if I'm a friggin' yeti for my husband, but God forbid my massuese touches leg hair. These are my priorities.)
"Did I? Sorry." Pause. "Are you having dinner with Heather or at home?"
"What? Noooo, Massuese Heather!"
"Oh."
Dude! I just told him five minutes ago that I was going to see Masseuse Heather, and he forgot. But that's not what made me pause mid-stroke.
What made me pause was that he thought I was shaving my legs for Friend Heather,... and he apparently thought nothing of it.
Now, given the implications of me shaving my legs for Friend Heather, I figured he'd either have his BVDs plastered to his abdomen, or he'd be insanely jealous that I'm doing something with a non-Husband, non-Massuese person, during which my legs will be bare and touched.
But no. The prospect of Friend Heather and my silky legs didn't phase him either way. So...
DID YOU HEAR THAT, FRIEND HEATHER? WE'RE TOTALLY IN THE CLEAR!
Posted at 10:49 AM | Comments (3)Who's My Cute Wittle Babyface? You Are! Yes, You Are!
Yeah, so, I love my camera, and I love dogs. Hence the inevitable result.
This is my dog, Daisy the Shedomatic. Last year, she ate the fuzzy bunny ears, so now she's forced to pose with stuffed bunnies and basket.
Nice try, Wigglebutt, but you're not getting out of it that easily! I've got a pirate costume with your name on it for Halloween!
Note the worried look on her face, like, "Oh, God, are the other dogs looking?"
Here she is in all her regal glory, basking in the sun from the kitchen skylight. Note that this time, the look on her face says, "You don't have to worship me. Adoration will suffice."
Last but certainly not least, unless we're talkin' size here, Lucy. She looks so innocent without The Boy Child's head in her mouth, doesn't she?
But don't be fooled! She's evil, I tell you! Eeeeeee-viiiiiiiilll!
Posted at 09:48 AM | Comments (0)March 28, 2005
My Easter Story
Okay, I’m gonna do that thing again where I get all sappy on you for one post. I apologize in advance.
I used to teach Sunday School. (I know, surreal, huh?) I did third grade for a year and then decided I relate better to kids who don’t eat glitter glue on a dare. So I “taught” the high school. It wasn’t so much teaching as it was sitting around talking about stuff, but I think, for the age group, it’s a much better approach.
And I got to know some really great kids as a result. I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but c’mon, everybody does, and Aaron and Janet (siblings) were totally mine. I even had them and their friends over to my home, which says a lot because I’m totally anal about my home and everything that goes on inside it.
At this point in history, I was also singing in the church choir. (It just gets weirder and weirder, I know.) Aaron, Janet and their mom always sat in the front pew by the choir. Janet always looked adorable and managed to hide her boredom. Aaron, however, was another story.
His hair was so long it hung in his face. He’s 6’4” or something and, at that age, totally didn’t know how to dress, so his clothes never fit him. Like many teenaged boys, he just looked… goofy. And over the course of the service, it was funny to watch him slump over further and further, until he was practically on the floor, crippled under the weight of his own disinterest.
But in other ways, Aaron’s not at all typical. He’s an artist. And I don’t mean he can draw a kickass Black Sabbath logo on his math folder. I mean he’s fucking gifted. Drawing, painting, sculpting –- dude can do it all, and with a sensitivity to his subjects that is unbelievable for one his age. He blows my mind, and I’m not easily impressed.
I’m gonna assume it was financial need that made him join the Army to be able to go to college because he’s so not cut out to be a soldier. Not that he lacks the intelligence or they loyalty or the ability. I just don’t equate the Army with art, ya know?
Anyhoo, you can see where this is going. He was sent to Iraq. For twenty months. I was devastated. It hit me way harder than I expected. I wrote him twice a week and cried at least that often. I don’t know why. It’s not like we were dating, or related. I’d only seen him once or twice a year since he got outta high school. Perhaps it was because my parents lost a son years ago, and I just didn’t want Aaron’s family to have to go thru what my family did? I don’t know.
Church was especially hard. I’d see Janet there with her mom, but no Aaron. And I’d sit in the choir loft and obsess about how much they must miss him, and how the next time we were in church, it could be for his funeral. I drove myself nuts. I’d sit there and cry in church, and I’m sure people thought (or hoped) I was moved by the Holy Spirit or something.
Aaron got home in August last year. And although I got a letter from him, I hadn’t seen him since he was home on leave in January 2004. Dude’s got shit to do after a twenty month absence. I understand.
And so it’s Easter. And what did I get for Easter? I got to see Aaron’s whole family sitting together in church, two rows in front of me. And I got a hug.
PURE AWESOME.
Posted at 12:50 PM | Comments (0)March 25, 2005
When Doves Cry, It's Because of This Sweater
I would totally wear this exact sweater, size men's XL...
... if it were 1986, and I was also wearing it over a white t-shirt, with my acid-washed Guess? jeans that zippered at the ankles, with cobalt blue socks and white canvas Keds. And of course, big-ass blue triangle earrings.
This sweater is older than J's children.
Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (3)March 24, 2005
Yes, It's All About Anne Lately
So Anne goes to her assistant, MA, “I need the thing for the place.”
And MA gets up, goes to a drawer, pulls out a set of keys, and hands Anne the exact key that she needs.
Did you just get chills? Me, too.
It reminds me of the time I was at Older Sister’s house, sitting on the couch watching t.v. with her husband, when she screeches from the kitchen, “Who put stuff in the here and didn’t do this?”
And immediately, her husband answers, “Oh that was me!”
I had to ask him, “Are you just saying that, or do you really know what she meant?”
His answer? “She said, Who put food in the garbage disposal and didn’t run it.”
Spooooky.
But Anne can take it one step farther. She can say to MA, “I need a thing,” while making some sort of rock-paper-scissors hand gesture, and MA will go to the supply catalog and order precisely what Anne needs.
I guess all those years of Charades are really paying off.
Posted at 01:34 PM | Comments (0)Follow-up by Anne
So instead of adding a comment here, like a normal person, Anne always feels compelled to email me. Here's her thoughts on yesterday's post:
(And, yes, I write about Anne alot. No, I'm not dating her. She's just funny!)
O.K. I've been know to mutter, "Is that all you've got?" after an 8 inch drop. But how about we not tempt and/or taunt Mother Nature on the 23rd of March. If we get an April blizzard, I am blaming you.I will call NBC with the story and they'll broadcast your name and address so you will have TP'd trees to clean after you have shoveled your driveway. And your sweet neighbor boy won't do it because the snow will have been enough to kill his little league game but not enough to close the school and he'll be mad at you.
It is irresponsible to bring the wrath of Nature down on us all because you are irritated with the driver of a little car.
Yes, Nature will totally obey me. I have that kind of power. FEAR MY WRATH!
Posted at 08:26 AM | Comments (0)March 23, 2005
Oh, the Weather Outside ISN'T Frightful
God, Chicagoans are getting soft.
A light dusting of snow this morning, not even enough to cover the grass, and people are driving 10 miles under the speed limit. It's not pudding on the road, people! Jesus, it's barely discernable as snow!
The Blizzard of '79, man. Now that was snow! We jumped off the porch roof of our house into it! Schools and businesses were closed for days! When the snowplows finally started clearing the streets and pushing the snow into huge piles on the streetcorners, we didn't go over it or around it, we tunneled through it!
We need another winter like that to remind us of who we are. We're Chicagoans, dammit! We laugh at snow flurries! We put cement blocks in our trunks and chains on our tires and cry to the grey sky, "Is that all you got, bitch? You call that snow? I can still see my garage! BRING IT ON!"
I'm driving behind a Camry this morning doing 30 mph in a 40 zone, and I'm just embarassed. What have we become -- Floridians? Are we gonna stop wearing shorts and bring out the Gortex when the temperature dips below 65?
My dad used to build sledding hills and ice skating rinks and igloos in our backyard. Igloos, people! BRICKS OF SNOW! When was the last time we had a winter like that? And you know what else? Snow is pretty!
Mother Nature, hear my plea. I know you're a vindictive bitch. I know because I planned my wedding for June 1, knowing our church isn't air conditioned, but thinking, "How hot could it be June 1?" Yeah, 90 degrees hot!
So don't act like you can't hear the collective Windy City whining when the weatherman mentions two inches of snow. Don't pretend like you're not preparing a smackdown. Put us over your knee and teach us the meaning of the words WINTER IN CHICAGO. We deserve it.
Posted at 01:08 PM | Comments (2)Lucy and The Boy Child
It just doesn't get any cuter than this.
Posted at 08:22 AM | Comments (1)March 22, 2005
An Intellectual Discussion
After my St. Patrick's Day post, Anne emailed me and started arguing about the validity of the claim that the Irish are special, citing historical blahbity bleeh blah bloh. And I played along for a bit, but mostly, I just wanted to be annoyed and leave it at that.
And Anne was like, "Oh. I thought you wanted to have an intellectual discussion."
And now you're wondering why the hell she would think that's even possible with me. And normally, I'd call you all asshats,... except that you're absolutely right. She's insane for thinking I'd rather have a well-thought-out discourse than just be pissy.
But that's why I love Anne. She continues to give me the benefit of the doubt, no matter how often I prove I'm an idiot.
So here's what we chose to debate at length instead: frosting.
Me: So. Sunday is [older sister's] birthday, and I'm making her cake. We always do angel food cake with chocolate frosting.
Anne: That's a really heavy frosting for angel food cake.
Me: I know. Most people do fruit or glaze, but we're freaks. Anyway, I'm excited because, instead of struggling to make one tub of frosting cover the whole cake, I just bought two tubs!
Anne: Yeah, I would imagine that would be hard. Can't you just buy one tub and thin it or something?
Me: Well, then it would be runny and not set up and bleh.
Anne: Hmm. I suppose you could whip it with some marshmallow fluff...
Me: Oooh! Then I'd have TWO jars to lick!
Anne: ... but that would alter the taste too much. What about the whipped frosting? It's more spreadable.
Me: I hate that whipped frosting. I mean, they're whipping air into the frosting, so you get less frosting, but you're still paying the same amount! It's a rip-off!
Anne: See, I have a whole other attitude about the whipped stuff. It's the same tub of frosting, but with less fat and calories.
Me: It's an interesting approach, but I just can't get behind it. It's the principle, dammit!
Anne: Well, you could always just buy one tub of the regular frosting, then whip it yourself.
And that's when it dawned on me -- Anne is a goddamn GENIUS.
Posted at 01:15 PM | Comments (0)Words Fail Me
Top Ten Key Search Phrases for PirateWench.org
1. skanky wench
2. pirate wench drawing
3. cosby sweaters pics
4. carpdeus
5. define wench
6. pirate wench wheel cover
7. masturbation blogs
8. wench attire
9. barbie watch delphine
10. soccer moms tied and gagged
I love the idea that I "define wench" for someone out there. Yes, I am the epitomy of a wench. Watch and learn, my pretties.
Posted at 08:12 AM | Comments (1)March 21, 2005
Sorry for the Incoherent Rambling
I’m so not motivated today. I can barely summon the will to go pee or get something to eat.
The problem? My bangs. They’re too long and driving me crazy. Of course, I had all weekend to cut them, but they weren’t too long until I woke up this morning. Yesterday, bangs fine. Today, bangs intolerable.
And yes, I trim my own bangs. Because I get my hair cut so not often. Which, I guess, would be seldom. I get my hair cut so seldom that I’d be Cousin It if I waited for Linda to cut them along with the rest of my hair.
So as soon as I walk in the damn door this afternoon -– which will be early because Top Boss isn’t here today, so… why am I? –- I’m cutting my bangs. And until then, they’re so annoying me that I can’t possibly do anything else but eat and read the “America’s Next Top Model” recap on Television Without Pity. I can’t file with these bangs, are you kidding?! I can barely see!
Over the weekend, I played “Halo”! Oooooh! Does that make me cool now? Or not so much because I should have been playing “Halo 2” to actually be up-to-the-minute cool?
Anyway, I sucked. Billi’s husband made me play with him. I don’t know why. The controls are so hard to get used to! You have to look around with one hand, but move around with the other. I can barely walk around in real life. Enhanced computer generated walking is just way beyond my grasp. So I spent the whole game just trying to figure out where he was and follow him through doors and crap.
At one point I literally held up the entire game and almost ruined it because I was standing in front of the tank he was driving, which was on fire, and I forgot how to move. Plus, in my defense, there was a wall next to me. A WALL!
I’m like, “Dude, I so suck at this.”
And in a fit of unprecedented kindness, he’s like, “No, you don’t! You’re doing great! You’re distracting the enemies with your style of… running!”
Amazing, tho’, I was a better flyer than him. Also, I did manage to kill something, about once every ten minutes. Mostly by falling and landing on it. I plummeted to my death A LOT.
Which is probably the biggest reason I didn’t like the game because I have a huge fear of plummeting to my death. Must’ve happened to me in a previous life or something because I can’t even go on roller coasters. Seriously, not even the wimpy Disney roller coasters.
My other huge fear is having something weird happen to me –- like being abducted by aliens, or having some ghost want me to solve her murder for her, or slipping into another dimension –- and nobody believes me. Which is part of the reason I have this blog, so if I start seeing dead people, I can write about it here, and one of you has to believe me.
Posted at 12:06 PM | Comments (2)March 18, 2005
Introducing... Lucy!
Well, Younger Sister (I think I will call her Billi from now on, for obvious reasons, because she really does need a name) and her husband have decided not to have a third child.
I find I have mixed emotions about this. For one, the interwoven DNA of the two of them produces such ridiculously adorable beings that the combined cuteness of three children would be positively paralyzing. Also, if the third is anything like the first two, I will probably be hospitalized from laughter.
Anyhoo, in lieu of a third child, they got A PUPPY!!!
And I just couldn’t be more excited! I love dogs, and I know that The Children love dogs, and all that lovin’ is just gonna be one Kodak moment after another! (The Boy Child has been known to drape himself over my poor Daisy as if she were a chaise lounge and he a lovelorn starlet with the vapors. Thankfully, Lucy is turning out to be a sturdy advesary!)
Obviously, they didn’t tell the folks at The Anti-Cruelty Society that The Boy Child is bi-polar and will probably attempt, at some point, to make sweet, sweet love to the dog. They never would have gotten the puppy outta the building. He has spent his time either lying next to the puppy, lying on the puppy (“Boy Child, get OFF the puppy!”), or standing there talking to her (“Ya yo ya yo ya yo, etc.”). He also joined her in her cage and was rewarded with some moist, rank-smelling pants.
Anyhoo, this is an exciting time for me for another completely different reason, too. I GET TO BE THE EXPERT! Billi will be calling ME with questions and looking to ME for wisdom! Despite the fact that I’m older than her, this will be a total role reversal.
See, Billi has always been prettier and cooler and more popular than me, and I always looked to her for my fashion and music cues. Garth Brooks, off-the-shoulder t-shirts –- oh, gimme a break, we’re in our 30s!
She was way ahead of me on the partying curve, so there was no need to introduce her around. She got married the same year I did -– and stayed married, so obviously, she’s not looking to me for marital advice. And she actually made her own children, instead of just occasionally looking after other peoples’, so I’m no help there whatsoever.
But now… NOW! Now I am Master & Commander of Canine Guidance and Development! I ROCK! I know how to crate train/potty train a puppy! I know how to get pee stains out of a carpet! I know what toys are the best! I know how to train a dog to stay out of your way when you’re carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs! I am a veritable cornucopia of dog-related knowledge!
So, Lucy is half black lab, half shepherd and, as you can tell from the photo, freakin’ adorable. Even after The Boy Child has tortured her into a coma.
I’m going there after work today to spend the night, and in the morning, Billi takes Lucy to Puppy Obedience Class.
She’s like, “Do you wanna come with and see all the puppies, or stay home and play with the chilluns?”
What is this -– some sort of sick joke?! I have to choose between puppies and chilluns?! God, that’s just mean! Can’t we just take the kids with us to the class? To this, of course, Billi laughed her ass off.
I think I’ll stay with the kids. See, if I let myself be exposed to dozens of adorable, little puppies, I’m just gonna wanna go out and get one for myself. However, if I stay with the kids, wanting to have one for myself really isn’t an issue.
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (0)March 17, 2005
The Thing About St. Patrick's Day
See, the thing is, it annoys me. Especially living in Chicago, where the South Side Irish love themselves almost as much as they love telling everyone that they're South Side Irish. And by telling, I mean -- shouting at you while poking you in the sternum with their forefinger and sloshing green beer on your shoes.
Great. You're Irish. Does that really warrant so much hoopla? Do you really need to jam it down my throat? Cuz really? The green satin jacket with the Irish flag on the back gave it away. Here's a cookie.
Uh huh, and now all the Irish people are jumping all over me going, "Oh, you're just JEALOUS that you're NOT IRISH!"
Really, I'm not. Now, I will fully cop to envying many, many things in the dark recesses of my heart. I'm jealous of those freaks who are natually slender and willowy. I'm jealous of all redheads. I'm jealous of anyone who can snap their fingers. I'm jealous of those "kept women" who live in penthouses and don't work and only have to see their man on Thursdays.
But I'm not jealous of the Irish. I'm Scandinavian. Yes, we're reserved to a fault and have a pallor like the underbelly of the lye-soaked fish we eat, but we don't start wars, we won't ever embarass you in public, and we make damn good desserts.
A typical St. Patrick's Day conversation:
"Why aren't you wearing green?!"
"I'm not Irish."
"What are you doing after work?"
"Going grocery shopping."
"You're not going out for a drink?"
"I'm not Irish."
"Well, everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day!"
"Why the hell would I want to be Irish?"
And violence ensues.
It's not that I have anything against the Irish. I have Irish friends. They're cool. I've seen pictures of Ireland, and it looks pretty. And I'm a big fan of McD's shamrock shakes. But seriously? Just. Another. Nationality. It's not that special.
This year, on Norwegian Independence Day (you don't even know when that is, do you?), I'm totally painting the Norwegian flag on my torso and running around naked with a bowl of herring in one hand and some skis in another, yelling, "Kiss me, I'm Norwegian! Cop a feel, I'm Norwegian! Fling my ankles behind my ears, I'M BALLS-OUT NORWEGIAN! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Posted at 07:10 AM | Comments (1)March 16, 2005
No, This Is His OTHER Golf Sweater
Okay, here's the man who started it all. And by started it all, I mean -- made me realize that it's my civic duty to post these sweaters as a warning to others. (I have to protect his identity because, other than the sweaters, he's a fairly cool guy. Hard to believe, I know, but I've met his wife, and she's totally hot, so he must be doing something right.)
And this is the entry that started it all. For the lazy, an excerpt:
And then there's J. Oh dear God, the Golf sweater. I laughed all fucking day when he wore that one. To his face. Okay, let's see if my description can do it justice. It was a v-neck cardigan, first of all. The back was solid, um... I don't know... maroon? And the front had big blocks of maroon, teal and cream.On one side of the front, there were four letter appliqués that spelled out the word "GOLF." On the other side, was a big appliqué... of a golf club. Appliqués -- ON A GROWN MAN'S SWEATER. And then the plaid elbow patches were just the icing on the cake of the damned.
I laughed at him all day, and he was like, "If you like this, I've got another one I'll wear for ya!"
Yup. Same guy, different golf sweater. Different, as in -- he has TWO golf sweaters. That I know of.
Now, a few years back, when I said to Nicholle's boss, "Hey, Bill Cosby called and wants his sweater back," he had the good sense to be deeply ashamed, and he never wore the offending sweater again.
But not J. Noooo, J is undaunted by mockery because he has a message he wants to share with the world.
"Why, yes, I do golf! Do you golf? We should go golfing together sometime! Golfing is fun! I know some great places to golf! Let's golf this weekend, and I can wear my snappy cap, just like this fellow!"
Now that I'm fully armed with digital camera and fully-functional blog, I keep begging him to wear the appliquéd sweater again. And I won't rest until I've tacked it to the side of my barn.
Posted at 09:00 AM | Comments (0)March 15, 2005
Sappy Ode to Heather
Wanna hear something funny? And by funny, I mean -- totally gay? When we were in high school and doing "Brigadoon," during rehersals, we would change the words from "Heather on the Hill" to "Heather on the Pill." Tee hee! Get it? Cleverness.
We also changed "Jeannie's Packin' Up, Jeannie's Movin' Out" to "Jeannie's Shackin' Up, Jeannie's Puttin' Out," but since there wasn't actually someone named Jeannie in the show, it wasn't as funny as the Heather one.
Anyhoo, yesterday, I finally finished transferring all the archived posts from my LiveJournal account to here, and tonight, I'm taking Heather to a thank-you dinner. Because, seriously? She's, like, 95% of the reason I even have this site.
And isn't it pretty? I'm finding it even harder to work lately because I just like to sit and stare at my site. My pretty, pretty site. Sometimes I just coo and fawn and caress the screen.
I've always loved writing and have always dreamed of being published, but since I usually wrote for an audience of one or two (including myself), it was always more of a fantasy than an actual goal. Besides, how could I ever figure out what one thing to write about when I have so much to blathering to do?!
But then, 10 years after the rest of the world got on board, Heather introduced me to the world of blogging. So I poked it with a stick and said, "What blogging? Look fun... Me like!"
It was also Heather who encouraged me to start my own site. And by encouraged, I mean did all the research, presented me with options, registered my domain name, designed my site and taught me how to use it.
Yeah, she probably went a tad beyond encouraging.
And once my site was up, I realized that this is possibly even better than being published (NOT THAT I'D TURN IT DOWN!) because it was never about fame or fortune for me. This way, I get to write all the time about whatever I want! And I know people are reading cuz I get feedback!
This is really more of a dream come true than a hobby. So, thanks, Heather! And thanks to everyone who indulges me by stopping by here once in a while! It may be just a two-minute break in your work routine for you, but it means more to me than you know.
Posted at 09:34 AM | Comments (2)March 14, 2005
Today's Guest Blogger: A Very Disgusted Nicholle
Props to my mother-in-law for the Gay Pride Birthday Sweater. I am not gay, or a petite, or a 2x.
In the parking lot of the birthday dinner restaurant the box is thrust at me. Why am I getting this now? Why wasn't it brought in?
After a post-family-party drink, I am pressured by my sister-in-law to open it. The alcohol prohibits me from controlling my face muscles, which twitch in horror as she screeches, "It's a sweater! It's a sweater!"
My bro-in-law -- actual blood kin of the mother-in-law -- after the tense must-protect-my-mother vibe, practically spits on it and proclaims it horrid.
Husband says, "She tried to get it in your size." I'm sorry, let me moo and squat. No mother should buy any adult more than three years younger than her any clothing.
I avoid calling or writing mother-in-law for one week.
M.I.L. then calls and says, "I hear I got you an ugly sweater."
"Where'd ya hear that?"
My bro-in-law told her that not even a teacher who wears ugly sweaters would wear that.
I say, "Well, that solves the thank-you note problem!"
She gives her blessing to donate sweater. I go one further and donate image to Pirate Wench's ugly sweater collection.
[Note from Pirate Wench: My original idea for a category was "My Boss' Ugly Sweaters," which became "Unfortunate Clothing Choices," and is now simply "Couture." The whole thing was inspired by the unspeakably evil sweater worn by one of my bosses, but I wasn't incorporating photos at the time. Well, I am now! And there will be more repugnancy to come, I promise!]
Posted at 11:05 AM | Comments (0)March 11, 2005
Reasons Why I'm Crabby Today
1. This weird-ass cold has me feeling like I snorted Drano. The lining of my sinuses is ON FIRE! And everything I eat tastes like pennies.
2. I'm at work, which was a bad, bad idea, but now that I'm here, I'm kinda obligated to stay. At least until my box of Kleenex runs out.
3. Anne pointed out to me that, despite my claims in the previous blog, I have, indeed, on occassion, taken a sick day when I wasn't really sick, to which my only defense was, "Yeah? Well, you think you're so cool!"
4. There are 47 ice cream novelties waiting for me in my freezer at home. And I realize that sounds like something to make one happy rather than crabby, and it would, if it weren't for the fact that only half of my pants currently fit me.
5. There's some chick who looks like Denise Richards visiting the office today, and all the guys are falling over themselves to go to lunch with her, and I'm like, "HEY! I'm the hot chick in this office, and don't you forget it!"
Posted at 11:31 AM | Comments (2)March 09, 2005
I Know What You're Thinking! (Yes, They're Real)
This is so awesome. I've always wanted a superpower. Now I'm just that much closer to TAKING OVER THE WORLD!!!
Lemme 'splain.
Yesterday, Nicholle were discussing the merits of banking our sick days (we earn one a month at Initech, and they roll over indefinately), as opposed to those people who take them every month just because they have them. Stoooooopid!
I just don't get that. I mean, one good bout of stomach flu -- or, in Nicholle's case, "that bird disease" -- can cost me a week. Why would I not want to get paid for spewing bile from both portals?
Anyhoo, it's funny that we were talking about the importance of sick days yesterday because I'm totally having to take one today. No, I don't have "that bird disease" (it's called West Nile Virus, Nicki dear). I'm just currently producing a level of mucus that renders me unfit for society.
And isn't that weird?! I was just talking about using sick days, AND NOW I'M USING ONE!!!
Not convinced? Okay, hold onto your socks.
Night before last, I dreamed that The Big Boss HB asked me to put together a PowerPoint presentation for him. And when I got to work, there is was, waiting for me on my desk, HB's outline for a PP presentation he needs.
I'M TOTALLY PSYCHIC!!! MWAH HA HAAAAAAAA!
I also had a dream that I was making out with Angel, Vampire with a Soul, so I'm just waiting to see how that pans out.
Posted at 02:48 PM | Comments (1)March 08, 2005
The Origins of Jerry
As I write this, I’m in an elementary school gym, inhaling the b.o. of many third grade boys. (And as I type this, I’m having trouble reading my handwriting.) Yes, I, the margarita-swilling, Barbie-collecting, sports-loathing Pirate Wench,… am at a pee-wee basketball game. I’m not exactly blending in here, and it’s only partially due to my complete lack of enthusiasm.
All the coaches and other parents are eyeing me. Who is that? We haven’t seen her here before. The other moms are mostly emaciated clothes-horses with shag haircuts and whorey make-up, while the rest are the short-hair-no-make-up-embroidered-turtleneck type. I’m clearly Not One Of Them. I’m the Ethan of Mystery Island. Fear me!
I’m here with -– I think I called him Billy before, but so as not to confuse him with Little Sister Billi the Billy Boyd Stalker, I’ll call him -– Jerry.
From age 5 months to 3½ years, I was Jerry’s nanny. No, I swear to God! I was a NANNY! I had just been “let go” from a shitty office job, and the new Pastor at our church, Pastor K, had an infant. I was working part-time in the church office (I know, it just keeps getting more and more surreal, doesn’t it?), so she asked me to spend the rest of my week watching her son, Jerry.
(Yes, Pastor K is a she. We’re Lutheran so we can do that.)
How could I say No to a Pastor? Every fiber of my being was going, “Dude. Seriously? You don’t even know how to hold an infant! What if it cries? What if it wants something?”
But she had asked around about me, and everyone at church had vouched for my kindness and capability. How could I negate that kind of excellent P.R.?
I was, appropriately enough, a Baptism by Fire. I changed diapers. I mixed formula. I entertained him… to the best of my abilities. But Jerry? Not as big of a G&S fan as Bart. It was HARD. I had to learn so much so fast, and that kid tested my every last ounce of patience. Well, that’s not exactly fair, since I’ve only ever had one ounce of patience at a time, but still, he was all over it!
(Christ, these folder chairs are hard. They’re, like, flattening my ass.)
He was colicky. He could scream for five hours straight. And his scream, well… it just wasn’t natural. It made my ears buzz. Sometimes, I’d be crying almost as hard as he was. God, why does anyone EVER have a second child?! I’m number three of four kids, and sometimes I just look at my crazy mother and think, “God, no wonder…”
A few things could be counted upon to stop the screaming, at least momentarily. And I’d like to say it was my singing, but that’d be a big, fat, beautiful lie. No, it was the huge stained glass windows in the church sanctuary. One time, as I was standing there crying, bouncing this eternally-screaming kid, I was like, “God, why doesn’t he just stop?! Why am I doing this?!”
And I’m not going to say that God spoke to me cuz, seriously, we all know he’s got much better people to talk to. But a voice in my head said, “Nothing this hard is without its rewards. Wait.”
And I did. And Pastor K turned out to be my rock, the fellow stepmom who tells me, “YOU’RE NOT CRAZY!” It’s a desperately needed reminder that is most believable when coming from another stepparent. Yeah, one of my bestest buds is a Pastor who’s even older than Husband. It's kinda weird.
Hey, the guy next to me just said, “That number 23 is good. They should pass to him more.”
And I’m like, “Twenty-three? That’s Jerry! He thinks Jerry’s good! Wait’ll I tell him!”
And my heart was all bursting with joy and stuff. I guess I love the little freak after all.
Posted at 07:33 AM | Comments (2)March 03, 2005
And It Is, It Is a Glorious Thing To Be a Pirate Wench!
So I was getting my neck adjusted and chit-chatting with my chiropractor, Dr. Angel. We chit-chat a lot, Dr. Angel and I. I’m totally his favorite patient, and he’s totally my favorite chiropractor. Know why? Cuz he’s fecking HOTT! OH yeah – he’s double-T hott! He looks just like Angel, only a bit shorter, and way less sullen.
Anyhoo, we like to catch up – cuz I only see him once a month now, and he misses me desperately – so he told me about his investment capitalism meeting, and I told him about MY NEW WEBSITE.
He wrote it down, “Pirate. Wench. Dot. Org. Well, I understand the wench part, but why pirate?”
Nice, huh? Yeah, he’s probably as sarcastic as Angel, but that’s okay cuz he’s HOTT.
But it made me realize that he’s probably not the only one with the letters WTF in a thought balloon over his head about the whole Pirate Wench thing. So I should provide some sort of explanation here.
I’m a Gilbert & Sullivan nerd. I literally grew up in a local community theatre group that did G&S exclusively. Remember when Bart’s last request was that Sideshow Bob sing him all of “H.M.S. Pinafore”? Yeah, I can totally do that. Hell, I could do that at age nine. Nerd!
But there’s something about G&S that has always bugged me. The men get to be lords, pirates and ghosts. While the women are always gibbering idiots. Oh, they call us townsfolk, maidens or bridesmaids, but it boils down to the same thing – tittering, easily-startled, man-starved morons. Only the outfits vary.
Needless to say, this is a bit of a stretch for me. I don’t bat my eyelashes well. Still, the music is fun, and our cast parties kicked ass, so I dutifully simpered around the stage and sang the mens’ parts in my car.
Back in 2001, while doing “The Pirates of Penzance” for the umpteenth time, there were an unusual number of women my age in the cast. (Usually, they’re over forty or under twenty. I don’t know why.) There were five of us ages 25-35 in the chorus, and two other hot young women with leads, and the seven of us totally bonded. Can you imagine – the soprano lead deigning to hang with the chorus? Well, deign she did – probably because the tenor lead was such a parasite.
Our little clique was quite the terror, as you can imagine. Always the first to break character, always the last to leave the parties.
To amuse ourselves during rehearsals, we sang along with the men and dreamed about a role-reversal “Pirates,” where we would wear the boots and billowing shirt and brandish the swords, and the men would wear short pants and caps, a la British school boys. God, it would be beautiful!
[Of course, ever since then, a reverse-gender “Pirates” has been writing itself in the back of my mind. Someday, before I’m too old to pull-off the leather look…]
But there was more to it than that. For whatever reason, that year’s cast was very heavy on the lecherous men with wandering hands who used the couples-oriented blocking to their advantage. Pair that with the group’s leaders being reluctant to disrupt their little boys’ club, and it made for some often uncomfortable working conditions.
And that’s not to say that there weren’t plenty of kind and gentlemanly men in the cast, but… well, everyone shared one dressing room. Get the picture? Yeah. {singsong voice} AWK-waaard! {/singsong voice} We made sure to run interference for each other.
And so the Pirate Wenches were born, not only out of fun and hotness and fabulous talent, but out of solidarity against asshats everywhere.
Since that “Pirates,” two wenches have gotten married (including me), one had a baby, and one moved out of state. But whether we are all together at a sleepover, drunk on margaritas, putting a pink toilet and mini jolly roger flags on someone’s lawn, or it’s just me blogging away on my little site; we remain in our hearts, forever and always, the Pirate Wenches.
No, I’m not posting pictures of us. Perverts.
Posted at 10:58 AM | Comments (5)March 02, 2005
Oh, Who Are the People In Your Neighborhood?
Okay, I have to talk about the gay vanity plates that I see every day on the long trek from my car to my office.
BIRDIE
This one is kind of cute. And we must have the same start time (okay, my official time is 7:15, but it’s usually closer to 7:25 when I roll in) because I often park next to her. I assume it’s a her because it would be BIRDY if it was a him, right? It’s kind of comforting to always park by the same person. Like, “Oh! Good morning, Birdie!” Because that’s the kind of relationship I enjoy – the kind I can have with inanimate objects without the capacity to piss me off..
KC FAN
Um, what does KC stand for? Is this some college sports thing I’m unaware of? Or did “N THE SUNSHN BND” just not fit on the plate? I think, if you’re going to have a vanity plate this unclear, you need to surround it with clarifying bumper stickers. “Go Kansas Corn-Detasslers!”
MS HOBO
Okay, hobos wear patchy clothes and ride trains and fight with dogs for garbage, right? I don’t think they drive Infinities. With fuzzy steering wheel covers. And if you’re married to one? That’s probably not something you want to advertise. Or apparently she just divorced a hobo and kept his car and his name?
GO CMPN
I’m assuming “Go Camping,” right? That makes sense. Which is nice. Camping is nice, if you’re into bugs and weather and that sort of thing. But the more I think about it, the more I don’t like it’s commanding quality. “GO! CAMPING!” Hey! Don’t tell me what to do! YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!
RUN DMC
*siiiiiigh* Excuse me, sir? 1984 called and wants its license plate back. Seriously, why renew this every year? Why pay the money for… gah. I’m so disappointed by this, I can’t even muster up a good rant. I mean, RUN DMC? God. It’s just so pathetic.
They’re the people that you meet, when you’re walkin’ down the street – they’re the people that you meet each daaaaaaaay!
March 01, 2005
BECAUSE I CAN!!!
So, my Hot Boss (as to differentiate him from my Female Boss and my Head Boss), was over at my desk explaining to me some Excel worksheet he wanted me to do blah blah blah.
And because I'm sooooo in love with my own pretty, pretty website, and I go there a bajillion times a day just to sigh, "Ooooh, pretty!" I was compelled to show it to Hot Boss.
And the nervy bastard actually said, "Oh, how nice that you have time to do all of that at work."
And then he snots, "I'd better take that back or you'll put it on your blog."
TOO LATE, HOT BOSS!!!
MWAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
I have THE POWER! NOTHING can stop me! EVERYONE is at my WHIM! DANCE, little monkeys, DANCE! I can blog about WHOMEVER I want, WHENEVER I want! ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIR!
And to those of you wondering if I'll use my newfound superpower for Good or Evil, I'd like to say, "Welcome, newbies!"
But you know what? I'm so not telling Hot Boss that he's on here because he thinks that everything is about him, and he thinks he's so cool!
I'm so all-over-the-place today. Go here for spam haiku. You won't regret it.
Posted at 01:19 PM | Comments (2)Take That Back!
"Pirate-wench couture"? I'm sorry, but no pirate wench I know would be caught dead in anything shiney. Black plunging v-neck, yes. Shiney Flashdance top, no.
I just felt the need to clear that up. This had been a public service announcement. You may now return to your regularly scheduled... whatever.