April 28, 2005
Seriously, Don't Even Bother Reading This
To the tune of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"
Wenchie the red-nosed blogger
Has a very runny nose.
The whole thing is sore and peeling
Because of very frequent blows.All of her frequent readers
Used to laugh and call her cool,
But since she’s been on cold meds
She blogs like a goddamn fool.Then one groggy afternoon,
Wench thought to herself,
“Hey, I know a remedy!
Why not do a parody?”Then all her readers left her
‘Cuz she’s just a waste of ROM.
They knew they’d find more humor
If they went to Dooce.com.
See? I warned you.
Posted at 12:52 PM | Comments (2)April 27, 2005
More Sudafed-Induced Blathering
Well, I'm still breathing outta my mouth like an inbred, knuckle-draggin', banjo-pickin', tube-top-wearin' hick, so buckle up and prepare for yet another post that wanders around like my dog finding the perfect place to poop. Goddamn sinuses.
And speaking of white trash (oooh, that was almost a segue!), at the Kane County Antique Doll & Toy Show on Sunday, Joe and I were talking about what white trash food we like to indulge in every once in a while.
Okay, so mac 'n' cheez isn't so much every once in a while for me as it is two times a week, but that's okay. At least I'm not doing crack.
(Which, much like I lose time, is a great justification for many things. "Yes, I purposely tripped a toddler in Toys R Us, but hey, at least I'm not doing crack!")
Ever had fried baloney/bologna? Damn, but that's even better than fried Spam, which, by the way, has to be brown and crunchy on the outside in order to be any good. But when frying bologna, you must be sure to make cuts around the edges, or it'll curl up on you.
(I think it's bologna when it's a food, and baloney when it's an untruth. That's what I'm going with, anyway.)
Tater tots. Biscuits 'n' gravy, oh Gawd, that's sooooo good! Country-fried steak. Basically anything on the menu at Cracker Barrel, really.
Anyhoo, to wrap up this segment, embrash your inner White Trash and have some starch and unidentifiable meat products today!
Okay, on to my own personal beef (meat -- beef -- get it???). When did "Secretaries' Day" become "Administrative Professionals Day"? That's more than double the syllables, which is just too much work for me to say.
And when did secretary become a bad word? Why is it insulting to be called a secretary? I don't get it. Are there still people out there who think that secretaries file their nails and make personal calls and sit on their boss' lap to take dictation? And if so, are we really fooling those people by changing the title?
When I started at my job, my title was Underwriting Assistant. Which is fine and whatever I don't care. I know what I do. I get paid well for it. I don't care if I even have a title. But then people outside our office would call me and ask me questions about underwriting.
I'm like, "I don't know nuthin' 'bout unnerwritin'!" See, in their attempt to superficially elevate my position, my company falsely led people to believe that I even know what underwriting is.
So now, I go by Underwriting Secretary, and no one gets confused. A rose, by any other name, still does the typing and filing, still is the only one who knows which way the letterhead goes in the printer, still covers your ass and makes you look good.
And what did my bosses get me for Secretaries' Day? They all left town for the week. KICK. ASS.
And now for my Final Thought, kinda like Jerry Springer's, only not.
You know how you're walking down a long hallway, and someone's coming the other way, and you don't know what to do for those ten seconds? Like, do you smile and make eye contact the whole time? Do you pretend to just have noticed them as you pass them and say a quick Hi? Do you pretend to examine your cuticles?
I always get these weird urges to do something so retarded that it just nullifies all the awkwardness altogether.
Like today, my sister's boss (who used to be one of my bosses) was coming towards me, and I had this huge urge to take the Karate Kid stance and then almost kick him in the face when he got close.
That would be awesome.
Posted at 01:16 PM | Comments (0)April 26, 2005
Wenchie's First Vitriol
Well, in a proud, proud moment, I had my Hate Comment Cherry popped by Heather's Brother today! Yay! I'm a true blogger now!
Stumbling over to this website thru a link on Heather's site, he came across this post about Heather's birthday.
For those of you who can't be bothered with linkage, here's the paragraph about him:
Heather's Brother is totally retarded, and I probably shouldn't even say that because he may actually be "learning disabled," which just puts me one ring closer to Dante's Inner Circle of Hell. Dude leaves notes and snack foods in really odd places in Heather's room, and he has the handwriting of a serial killer.
It still makes me giggle. But not so Heather's Brother, who had this to say about it (I have in no way edited his comment):
I hate heathers friend!!!!!!!!!!!!Deal with that as best you can, most likely with sleepless nights and worrysome caffine driven days for you should know revenge is on its way
Now, not only does his poor grammar and spelling kinda help prove my point, but I think dude is unclear on the subject of Exaggeration for the Sake of Humor.
But mostly, I think it's just projection. The "sleepless nights" and "caffiene-driven days" paint a clear picture of a man unable to speak his true heart. It's obvious he's madly in love with me, and so overwhelmed is he by his feelings that he cannot find a way to express them, leaving him only to rage against the cold and lonely world he has created for himself.
There, there, Lil' Bus Rider. Don't you know what it means when a girl punches you on the playground?
Posted at 01:57 PM | Comments (1)April 25, 2005
PEN15s & Pajamas
Oh, such a full and fun weekend, as is evidenced by the celebratory "Angwy Eyebwows" icon in my header! And is it inappropriate to have my sweet, adorable Boy Child in the same header as Heather's (nicely filled-out) "PEN15" shirt? I don't think so.
Actually, it's rather fitting. As I was giving The Boy Child and The Girl Child their baths on Friday night, The Girl Child pointed to The Boy Child's... um,... "manhood" and asked, "What do you call that thingy again?"
I couldn't remember if Billi had some creative nickname for it, like winky or doodle or manhood, so I just said, "Penis." Being careful to remain respectful and mature and not start giggling.
"Oh yeah. Am I gonna put on my pajamas after this?"
And just like that, she switched gears, the male member being far less interesting than Dora the Explorer on a cotton/poly blend.
And God forbid I'm ever able to just eat my dinner without Boy Child climbing into my lap, flapping his ridiculously long eyelashes and making baby bird open-mouth gestures towards whatever it is I'm eating at the moment.
Dude, this is my dinner! You just ate two minutes ago! I'm starving! Because you ate my lunch, too!
So I made him get off me and wait 30 seconds for me to inhale the hotdog (dirty!) and start one for him. When Girl Child gleefully entered the room to narc on her brother.
"Auntie, Boy Child has his hands in the toilet!"
"WHAT?! Oh, God! BOY CHILD! DO NOT PLAY IN THE TOILET!"
You can imagine my awe at actually hearing myself say the words, "Do not play in the toilet!"
Thank God he was wearing overalls, so I could just carry him by the straps and not actually have to touch him. (Yes, this was pre-bath, thank God. I'm telling this story out of sequence because the penis bit had to come first. You always lead with the penis.)
So Girl Child was all raring to go about she and I having a Pajama Party. Now, I know what I do during pajama parties, but I didn't think that margaritas and 2 a.m. t.p.-ing raids was what she had in mind, so, once I put Boy Child to bed, I let her call the shots.
Apparently, staying up late (past 9:00!) and having a snack (Smarties & goldfish crackers) at the little table in her room is the Height Of Decadence! I am officially The Coolest Auntie EVER! Behold my Coolness!
And now Billi is going to kick my ass for a) letting her eat in her room, and: b) giving her candy right before bed.
But it's totally worth it!
The next morning -- get this -- I fed the dog, let her out to poop, got the kids dressed and fed! I was, like, all maternal and shit! You wouldn't have recognized me, what with my very mom-esque hoodie-over-the-nightshirt couture and all. Dear Christ, I was tired.
How do parents sleep? Ever? Even when the kids are fine -- how??? They could be kidnapped by terrorists AT ANY MOMENT! I had the guest room door open and baby monitor with me so that Billi and Mr. Billi could sleep in. Every cough, every rustle of the sheets had me awake and on Amber Alert.
What was that? The boogeyman? The Spanish Inquisition? Stealth bombers? Chuckie? I must gather the children into my bed and tuck them 'neath my wings because only then will I get more than 15 minutes of sleep at a stretch!
God, this blog is long and random and completely out of order. I apologize. Blame it on the Nyquil because I can't breathe out of my right nostril, and that was the only cold medicine we had in the house. I'll do better tomorrow, I swear. Later this week, I'll cover Heather's Mom's surprise party and the Kane County Antique Doll and Toy Show!
Just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to vintage Barbie babblings. Well, maybe just a little.
Posted at 01:52 PM | Comments (2)April 22, 2005
Turban-Head
Yeah, so, no post on Wednesday cuz I was sick.
At least, I think I was sick. I wasn't praying for death's sweet release. It was just kind of a 24-hour malaria or something.
I got outta bed in the morning and was so dizzy, I almost did a header into the dresser, saved only by my cat-like reflexes (read: flailing arms). And I thought, "Huh. That's not good."
But assuming it was just a getting-outta-bed-too-fast thing, I went on to take a shower. And, like most showers, this one included closing one's eyes so as not to get shampoo in them. Bad idea, people. Thank God there's a window with a ledge in there, or I'd be writing this post while dead.
And that was the point at which I decided that I should not drive to work. Or do anything else but crawl back into bed, wet, naked and pathetic, with a towel still wrapped turban-style around my head.
I slept like that for three hours, wet hair still in a turban. But when I woke up, the turban had come off, so I was just sleeping on wet hair. Which would normally plunge me into hypothermia, but I wasn't cold at all. In fact, even with the window open and the fan going, I was sweating.
Now, let me explain something about my lizard-like body temperature. If I'm doing any physical activity whatsoever, I'm sweating my ass off. (Oh how sad -- I can see your lurid fantasies of me whithering and dying.) But when I'm not moving, then I'm cold. Even in August. My fingers are white with cold right now. I need to go climb onto a warm rock and sun myself.
So to be sedentary with wet hair and sweating was pretty alarming. And I thought, "Huh. That's not good, either."
And when I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and realized I didn't want to eat anything, I knew I was dying because me losing my appetite is totally one of the signs of the Apocolypse. Right after the rivers turning to blood, I'm pretty sure.
So I had a slice of bread and a big glass of water and read 100 pages of my book, while sitting in the living room in a t-shirt with the front door open. It was bliss, as the temperature outside fell from 80 to 50. Fifty degrees -- FINALLY, a temperature at which I could stop sweating!
But eventually, the turning of pages and holding my head upright made me weary, and I crawled back into bed -- sans turban -- for the majority of the afternoon.
But the real bummer of the day was that I had to miss Heather's Mom's birthday party. I missed shredded beef and Morningfield's birthday cake!!! And you, dear readers, had to miss my recap of Heather's deranged family gathering. I'm so sorry I let you down!
It was between 7:00 and 8:00 (sometime during America's Next Top Model) that I realized I was no longer sweating, and also? HORRIBLY FAMISHED, since I'd had naught but the prison diet all day. Thus my fever had broken, the dizziness was gone, and all was right with the world.
Weird.
And the first thing I thought was, "I wonder if it's too late to go over to Heather's for cake...?"
Because, seriously -- FIVE LAYERS OF FROSTING!
But then I remembered that, since removing the turban from my head, I hadn't even waved a comb near my hair, and did I really want to open myself up to that level of mockery from Heather's Brother?
No. No, I did not. Not even for cake.
Posted at 10:06 AM | Comments (0)April 21, 2005
I've Always Wanted To Direct
So Heather posts this on her blog about the Fast Forward Film Festival, and like an idiot, I agree to do anything she needs -- costumes, driving, fluff girl -- except acting. Because I can't act my way out of a paper bag.
And what does Heather call me up and ask me to do? Act. Of course. Because I said I can't. And because I also told her I hate being on camera. Which are two perfectly good reasons for Heather to test how much I love her. Bitch. (Bitch pictured below.)
And then, as if I wasn't already planning to fake my own death rather than be in her movie, she tells me they're filming on location in downtown Chicago.
What?! I have to leave the safety of the suburbs, too?! I'd better have my own trailer! And plenty of bottled water for my dog!
"We'll have coffee and donuts," she said.
That'll do.
So after much angst and calling of everyone I know to come with me, I not only took the L downtown, I did it by myself! Yes, my Mom dropped me off at the L stop, and yes, Heather picked me up in a cab. But I was all alone on that train, people! And there were minorities!
Anyhoo, the tremendously understanding Heather picked up my sheltered ass at Randolph and Dearborn and escorted me to the location, which was actually Her Boyfriend's/The Director's place of employment -- an old hotel turned dorm. GORGEOUS!
[You people have figured out by now to do the rollover thing on my photos, haven't you?]
Going in, I was pretty intimidated. Mord, the director, was obviously under a TON of pressure, having to do a whole short film in less than 24 hours. And Joe, the guy I was to do the scene with, and Heather both have improv experience. The only "improv experience" I have is making up lies on the spot to save my ass. Not quite the same thing.
But it was soon apparent to me that they were all flying high on donut-sugar and quite out of their minds. So I blended right in. This is Joe and Andrew, two of my fellows actors. Mighty Joe looks kinda weird because he has an entire donut in his mouth.
The part they had me play was that of a snotty co-ed (in a bathrobe) who had locked her keys in her dorm room on her way to the shower and was quite pissed that the help desk guy wouldn't give her a key without her I.D.
Snotty and pissy? I can totally do snotty and pissy! That's not acting! That's just me without chocolate!
It was actually really fun and not heinously difficult. It would have gone faster, had Joe not kept cracking up, but can I help it if I'm hilarious? No. I cannot.
At one point, I did flash Joe the hogans, but it was for my craft, people! I am a slave to my art!
Afterwards, I was treated to a yummy stir-fry lunch and a threesome with Heather and Joe. Again, people -- it was for my craft! Don't judge me!
As of today, I'm the only person in the entire midwest who hasn't seen the finished product, "Can I Help You?" Everyone who has seen it says I'm "hilarious", by which they mean, "We're totally laughing at you, not with you!"
Posted at 02:09 PM | Comments (4)April 19, 2005
Cookies Are an Always Food
Me: I HAVE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DOUGH IN MY REFRIGERATOR RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT!!!
Anne: Cookies are a sometimes food.
Me: What’s a “sometimes food?”
Anne: Did you not hear that Sesame Street is making Cookie Monster eat healthy things? His new song (which is actually being protested by people) is "Cookies Are a Sometimes Food."
Me: THAT'S JUST SO WRONG! The whole POINT of Cookie Monster is his unabashed gluttony! Kids can relate to him, so they don't mind when he starts talking about the alphabet and shit! AAAAACK! They're messing with the icons of my childhood!
Anne: Yeah, I think that they are missing the point. Four-year old Anne did not think that Cookie Monster was correct, or even normal, to eat cookies all the time. She thought he was funny, so she paid attention. I didn’t develop bad eating habits until high school.
Me: Exactly. At FOUR, we were smart enough to know that Cookie Monster was NOT a role model. More of the dumbing-down of America. Also, for the record, I was never dumb enough to have Barbie for a role model, either. She had way too many clothes, didn't have a job, and slept around a lot. Wait... where was I going with this?
Anne: They get points for trying something. But if I were going to do nutrition, I’d use Bert and Ernie.
Me: Yeah, gay guys are WAY more into body fitness.
Posted at 01:03 PM | Comments (1)April 18, 2005
Things I Do That Annoy Myself
1. Saying, “I’m starving!” Am I really starving? No. Of course not. Although I can see my feet just fine, alas, my ribs are but a fond memory. To say that I, with my bottom cubicle drawer full of microwave popcorn, Kraft Easy Mac and Tootsie Pops, am enduring scurvy and faced with an uncertain future undermines what it truly means to be starving. I could live off the fat in my right buttock alone for three weeks. I’m a horrible, horrible person.
2. Waiting too long to go to the bathroom. My place of work moved to a new location last year, and now my desk is at the farthest possible point from the bathroom. And I’m way too lazy to drag my Diet Pepsi-sodden ass down the hall as often as I should. Which means that, when I do go (about the time my kidneys start aching), I have to tiptoe, so as not to slosh around too much.
3. Conversely, waiting too long to go poop. As a rule, I don’t like to sit on the toilet and read or meditate or whatever the hell it is that people do when they take half-hour-long shits. So I wait until my bowels are damn good and ready, so that I can squeeze one out in less than 10 seconds and get on with my life. But sometimes, I wait too long, and then I’ve got a turtlehead poking out. Not a comfortable walk.
4. Talking on my cell phone while I’m driving. For some reason, I can’t get it thru my head that I, too, am a witless asshole when I drive and talk. I will swear to make a sailor blush when someone in front of me has forgotten what the gas pedal and turn signals are because they simply must discuss the last episode of “American Idol” in detail, but that’s just other people. I don’t forsake driving skills for mindless so-what-are-you-doing conversations. NooOOOooo.
[Coming up this week: My adventures in filmmaking with Heather, AND Heather's Mom's birthday celebration! I'm practically the red-headed step-child of that family.]
Posted at 02:28 PM | Comments (1)April 15, 2005
JELLO!
This is where I attempt to explain an inside joke because it has crept into my everyday vocabulary. I apologize in advance.
A bajillion Thursday nights ago, when I was still drinking my rum out of a sippy cup, a little ol' lady named Doris wanted to boost the ranks of her church choir, so she started making dinner for the entire choir on Thursday nights before practice. I mean, she cooked for twenty people every week, and they started to call it the Mission Supper.
(In jest, of course. These were affluent suburbanites, none of whom lived in a van down by the river.)
Well, Doris has since gone to that Big Kitchen In the Sky, and choir numbers have dwindled, but the tradition of Mission Supper continues. There are about a dozen of us who meet at the same house every Thursday at 6:30, and we take turns cooking. I like it cuz we can catch up on gossip, and it means that Husband is guaranteed a home-cooked meal once a week.
(I also love saying, "Oh, I can't do dinner tonight; I have Mission Supper." Because then people think I volunteer at a soup kitchen.)
Every Thursday, we discuss who's cooking what the following week. This is a reoccurring theme with us. During dinner, we ask what's for dessert. During dessert, we ask what's for dinner next week. Always looking forward to the next influx of calories!
Once, when it was the host and hostess' turn to cook next, we were all like, "You should do dogs and burgers on the grill! We can picnic! It'll be fun!" So they caved in to peer pressure and agreed.
And then, because we're all obsessed, we started planning next week's menu while we were still eating dinner. I'm telling you, it's a sickness.
"Well, we have to have potato salad."
"German or American?"
"American. We'd never agree on whether to eat the German hot or cold."
"And Jello, of course."
"Oooh! The orange with the carrot shavings?"
"No, the lime with pears and bananas."
"I have this great recipe that uses lime Jello, green peppers, broc--"
"EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"
"Dude, that's just nasty."
"What's wrong with just plain, red Jello?"
"Oh, fine!"
"Should we have bratwurst, too?"
"What should we have for dessert?"
"Brownies."
"With ice cream!"
"Naturally."
Meanwhile, the host wasn't saying much. Which isn't unusual for him. He's just a quiet guy, probably because his wife never stops talking. I think she can do that horn-player thing where you breath in through your nose while you're still playing a note. Cuz seriously, she never comes up for air. It's a good thing she's hilarious, or we'd have killed and eaten her long ago.
Anyway, we continued to verbally fantasize about picnic food, when the host looked up and said, "We have to have Jello!"
Pause.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
There was much screeching laughter and doubling over and finger pointing, as you can imagine.
"We talked about Jello five minutes ago! Where have you been?!"
And his defense?
"I lose time!"
What the--? What does that mean?! Was he abducted by aliens without us noticing? Did he fall victim to a rift in the time-space continuum? Should I move my car? SO! RANDOM!
Now whenever someone brings up a topic that we've already discussed during the same dinner, we all yell, "JELLO!" (And with a median age of 50+, it happens more often than we'd care to admit.)
I also like to use "I lose time" as an excuse for... well, just about everything, really.
[You know, having your cocktail in a sippy cup is actually a really good idea, don't you think? I mean, for one, you'd never accidentally drink from someone else's glass, because you'd know that yours is the one with the dinosaurs on it. Also, no matter how drunk you get, you'd never spill your drink. Brilliant.]
Posted at 08:03 AM | Comments (0)April 14, 2005
Trippy
Oh. My. God.
I just read something that the Nephew (of psychedelic hermit crab shell fame) wrote for his Grampa when he was four. Dude, it is so... I can't even describe it. You have to read it for yourself. Here it is, as dictated verbatim to Older Sister.
Grandpa was looking for an apple at the beach. The apple was under the sand. The arrows led him to the beach. There was a dinosaur. He wanted a bigger sun and there was a bigger sun. And his head was turning bigger and he was happier.There was feathers that fell from the birds. The biggest apple was the one that fell. The medium ones are still on the tree. The tiny ones were still on the tree. And there were stars. And also at the beach, Grandpa saw some trees – and it was not night time yet, but the moon was just a little bit coming out.
Now it’s a medium bit coming out. But now it’s night time and he knew it was night time, but he was just going to stay there for five more minutes.
The End.
Is that not totally trippy? I love it! Especially the part about his head getting bigger, which would freak me out to no end, but apparently, Grampa was happy about it. Good for him.
April 13, 2005
Some Colors Are Just For Girls
Last summer, Hot Boss made the mistake of wearing a pastel pink oxford to work. Being the caring, all-purpose secretary that I am, I staged an intervention, and he hasn't worn it since.
A few months ago, DB wore this little number to work.
I told him to go ask Hot Boss what I'd told him about pink shirts on men. "It was a stupid idea in the 80's, and nothing has changed!"
Well, sadly, DB has no woman at home to check him before he leaves the house, so he wore the pink polo AGAIN.
"Tsk tsk, DB. I've talked to you about this shirt. Now you're forcing me to post it on my website as a warning to all."
You can clearly see in the photo above how DB felt about that.
And not long after that photo was taken, DB pushed the limits of accepted male apparell again and wore these.
Now, unless he was rushing directly to the golf course after work, there's just no excuse for sky blue pants on a man.
You Men get heather grey and olive drab camo; we Women get hot pink and sky blue. Do not upset the balance of the universe by disobeying this simple rule! It's for your own good, I promise.
Posted at 01:47 PM | Comments (4)April 12, 2005
Thrift Store Couture
Over the weekend, I was thrift store shopping with Lola and Joe. Joe and I were looking for Barbies, natch, and Lola was costuming a couple shows.
Well, I only found one Barbie (a bellybutton Kira without hideous 80's eye make-up -– do you know how rare that is?!), but I did find a cowboy skirt. Oh yeah, a red, three-tired, cotton skirt with cowboys on it, that had obviously been living in someone’s attic for the past 50 years. It’s ridiculous times ten. So I bought it.
It was only $2.50, and somehow, Lola and Joe convinced me that it goes with everything and would look absolutely darling on me. Damn crack pushers. This is how they got me to start collecting Gene dolls. Five hundred bucks later, and I’m still hanging out with these people. I JUST DON’T LEARN!
Then they had the following conversation about how I should present it to Husband:
Lola: You should put it on with a red bra and denim jacket and be like, ‘Honey, look what I bought!’
Joe: Or without the bra and jacket…
Lola: Ooh! Little, red sheriff star pasties instead!
Joe: Or maybe just a cowboy hat and boots!
Lola: With spurs!
Lo, such are the Powers of My Hotness that I had a straight woman and a gay man imagining me in naughty outfits! BOW BEFORE ME! MY SENSUALITY BEGUILES ALL!
I also bought a Hawaii shirt for a luau I’m attending next month. It has little, vintage woody station wagons on it, and also surf boards and palm trees. I bought it solely so I can start conversations with, “Wanna see my woody?” Because I’m TWELVE!
Posted at 12:29 PM | Comments (2)April 11, 2005
Heather's Birthday: The Journey Ends
With everyone satiated on shredded beef, and Heather's Brother quite excited about his new paper plates, we piled back into the Birthday Mobile and headed to Heather's Family's residence for birthday cake.
And can I just say? Thank God. Russell's would have probably stuck a Big lighter in a Twinkie and had the deep fry cook sing "Feliz Cumpleanos."
But in all fairness, NO restaurant could measure up to Chocolate Cake with Buttercream Frosting from Morningfield's!!! (Did you hear heavenly hosts singing when you read that? Cuz I did.) Morningfield's is a local upscale bakery/deli/wine & cheese/soda fountain place. It's pure awesome, as you can clearly tell by this amazing cake.
Because it's not just your everyday two-layer cake. Noooo, this baby has FIVE layers! Do you know how much buttercream frosting you can cram into FIVE layers?! God, it was beautiful. And covered with daffodils, which are Heather's favorite. Say it with me now -- Awwwwwwww, how precious!
(BTW*, those are my delicately-wrapped gifts to Heather, featured next to the cake, but more on those in a moment.)
[*I apologize for using AOL-speak in my blog.]
Here is Heather and Heather's Mom as we are singing "Happy Birthday." Heather's the one sitting down. Isn't her Mom adorable?! Yeah, The Pretty runs rampant in that family. I hate them.
Heather's Brother also nabbed my camera and took some shots of the birthday girl, but it'll come as a shock to no one that they turned out retarded, and therefore, I'm not using them. Retard. Go decorate your paper plates with glitter glue and colored tissue paper, for God's sake, and leave the grown-ups alone!
Where was I? Oh yes, the gifties. I didn't pay much attention to what everyone else got her because I was too busy staging an archeological dig on my (real) plate with my fork, desperate to extract every last bit of frosting.
Besides, all that really matters are my fabulous gifties! I got her two new nail polishes, in Scary Blue and Barf Green. And to make up for it, the first season of "Bullshit!" on DVD, so she can make sweet, sweet love to Penn Jillette any time she wants. As long as she cleans off the screen afterwards.
In short, I hate meeting new people, especially new crowds of people, but I felt completely at home with Heather's Family. It was probably all the yelling.
Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (3)April 07, 2005
Heather's Birthday: The Journey Continues
So we're at Russell's BBQ joint, and this is where it really starts to get chock full o' White Trashy Goodness.
Wait, flashback -- before we even get in the car, Heather's Dad has his little paper and pen and is asking everyone, "Beef or chicken?"
So I say, "Slugs." What is he talking about? Do we have to call ahead or something? Or is he a control freak who has to order for everyone?
Well, that was my bad. I was thinking Carson's Ribs, when I should have been thinking Whistle Stop Cafe. No, not the inside; out back where Big George was serving "his kind."
"Dad! Let her get there and look at the menu!" Heather said.
"Okay. Cole slaw or applesauce?" he asked me.
"Applesauce."
In unison, the entire family gasped and recoiled in horror. Tsk. Major faux pas, apparently, but I stuck to my applesauce guns.
(Now I totally want a gun that shoots applesauce. Maybe Heather's Dad can put his mustard bottles aside for a bit and make me one?)
Where was I? Oh yeah. At Russell's, you order at the counter, wait for the food, then bring it to your table. So it's like Burger King, only much slower and with wood paneling. The men gallantly stood in line, while we women sat down and chatted about NPR and the national debt and the likely candidates for Pope.
Yeah, right. We picked two tables closest to the t.v. and watched "America's Funniest Home Videos." I'm not proud. But, dude, when cats and children start getting hurt, I'm mezmerized!
"All this show is are guys getting hit in the crotch," said Heather's Mom. Like that's a bad thing.
Oh, and don't forget the snot. There was footage of some teeny-bopper gathering, and one of the girls laughed through her nose, producing an unbelievable amount of snot that seemed to defy the laws of physics and go everywhere.
And then our food arrived.
Shredded meat on a bun with all the sauce you can suck down. It was totally kickass. Luckily, Heather sat between Heather's Brother and I, or there would have been a sauce fight. He's either madly in love with me, or he's a retarded jackhole. Quite possibly both.
Heather's Mom had coffee with her dinner. What is that? Coffee is for breakfast and dessert. There's nothing refreshing about coffee. She's not old enough to be drinking coffee with her dinner! We were all greatly vexed.
After dinner, Heather's Brother started collecting up the unused paper plates. Dinner comes on those cheap paper plates that you need to stack three-high to get a real paper plate, and Heather's Brother was collecting the ones that didn't actually touch food. See? It's things like this that... *sigh*. He's just so bizarre.
Then he started talking about Tolkien. "We have to get a Tolkien!"
The author? He wants to read? Here? Wouldn't he rather have a book with lots of pictures?
But Heather explained that he meant a token. For the chef's crotch. Of course. I don't know why that wasn't clear to me.
Apparently, if you're a little kid (or a retard, or a hottie), you can get tokens for the prize machine from the guy at the counter taking orders.
Here's Heather getting her prize.
In keep with that evening's theme, she got snot. Heather's Sister got a little Scooby Doo Mystery Machine magnet! AWESOME! I got a Sponge Bob Square Pants bobblehead. EQUALLY AWESOME! I don't know what Heather's Brother got. I think he swallowed it.
In the van, Heather's Sister was all, "Here, Heather, you can have the Mystery Machine, since you're the Birthday Girl!"
Awwwwwwww! Adorable!
I was like, "Don't even be lookin' at my Sponge Bobblehead, I don't care who you are!"
Awwwwwwww! Asshatty!
Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion of Heather's Birthday, when we'll hear Heather's Brother say, "Ummm...."
April 06, 2005
Heather's Birthday: The Journey Begins
Well, Heather turned 21 again on Sunday, and I was honored to be the only non-family member present at her family celebration.
Honored... and a little scared, as her party seemed to have sort of a White Trash theme to it.
First, all seven of us piled into the family van. Heather's Mom (hott), Heather's Dad (nearly coherent), Heather's Brother (short bus rider), Heather's Sister (bunny-licious), Heather's Bro-In-Law (hi-fekkin-larious), Heather and me.
And altho' I call Heather's Sister and Bro-In-Law by their real names, the rest of their family is actually Heather's Dad, etc., much like The Boy Child and The Girl Child.
Why? Because Heather's Brother can't be bothered to remember my name, so he calls me Heather's Friend. So I call him Heather's Brother, and from there, it just grew into a thing. (Oooh, lame inside jokes -- so funny to other people. Not.)
Heather's Brother is totally retarded, and I probably shouldn't even say that because he may actually be "learning disabled," which just puts me one ring closer to Dante's Inner Circle of Hell. Dude leaves notes and snack foods in really odd places in Heather's room, and he has the handwriting of a serial killer. This is some "outsider art" he created with my digital camera.
Heather's Mom is a total M.I.L.F. I know it makes Heather jealous, but it's so hard not to flirt with her! Plus, she's way cooler than you'd think a professional quilter would be. And she looooooves the Pirate Wench! Which is new for me. Friends'/boyfriends' fathers always loved me, but I always got the stink-eye from the mothers. But not Heather's Mom! She's kewl!
Heather's Dad is... wow. Really, really sweet, if not altogether present. He showed me this gag joke he made, with an empty mustard bottle and some string, where it looks like you're squirting mustard all over someone. It was pretty cute, and I'm actually thinking of making one for Nephew. But still, I could feel my eyes... glazing... over...
Heather's Sister is totally gorgeous, like Heather. But whereas Heather is gorgeous in a sex kitten kind of way, H's Sister is gorgeous in a cuddly bunny kind of way, right down to the button nose. But don't let the cuteness fool you. She's as snarky as the rest of the lot.
Funny thing is, none of the Heather siblings look anything alike. There's a family joke about Bob the Hot Mailman that I'm starting to suspect is more of a painful family secret than a joke. There's a skeleton in the closet, and he's wearing navy blue shorts and knee socks!
I spent much of the evening -- and every waking moment since -- wondering who the hell Heather's Bro-In-Law reminds me of. There's a specific Oh, That Guy! that I'm thinking of, but since I can't remember anything he's ever done, I'll describe him like this. He's the 20-something brother or brother-in-law on any sitcom, the one who gets all the good lines, and the one who gets ignored despite the fact he's the only one with any brains. Yeah, he's That Guy.
So we were on our way to Russell's, which is some famous Chicago BBQ place that Heather ALWAYS has her birthday dinner at.
Crap, I just ended a sentence with at. I hate that. It's like saying "ax" instead of "ask," which Heather's Mom was doing all night long, just to annoy the rest of us.
And I'm getting rambly and bad-grammar-y. Time to give it a rest. Tune in tomorrow for the rest of the story, and more photos, as Heather puts a token in the chef's crotch!
Posted at 02:07 PM | Comments (3)April 05, 2005
Live & Learn
Okay, people, move along, nothing to see here. You, in the latex -- take your goat and get outta here. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
So, I thought it was soooo hilarious when someone found my site by Googling "soccer moms tied & gagged," I made it my sub-heading. BIG mistake. Now I'm getting all the freaks. Here are the latest...
Top Ten Key Search Phrases for PirateWench.org
1. a sexy girl with hands tied behind her back and gagged
2. pirate wench
3. wench
4. sexy pirate men pictures
5. tied and gagged men
6. define wench
7. stories about embarrassing peeing and farting
8. pee stains
9. uzi zip front hoodies
10. tied up and gagged women
See what I mean? Now, I love that I still define wench for the Internet, but pee stains? Who Googles pee stains? Jesus, there are some sickos out there.
Hey, Mr. Pee Stain, if you're reading this, you're being called a sicko by someone who got a 43% on The Purity Test! Yes, you're THAT SICK! Get help!
And as much as I'd love to make #7 my new sub-heading, I don't want to become The Potty Lady, so I'll stick with something I saw painted on the side of a restaurant in Wisconsin.
Posted at 10:45 AM | Comments (1)I Dream of Bloggers
Okay, it's official, I'm insane. I dreamed that I was hanging out with the infamous blogger Heather B. Armstrong, and then my worst nightmare happened -- she totally dissed me! Dissed by Dooce!
Actually, it was me, Heather and Dooce, hanging out at Dooce's place, on her bed, watching t.v.
And Dooce turned to Heather and said, "She's totally void of personality."
What? Me?! Void of personality?! Have you even read my blog, bitch? I've got personality coming out of my ass!
But Dooce had made her choice. Three's a crowd, and it was Heather she wanted to hang with. And Heather, my supposed biggest fan, apparently agreed with Dooce's assessment of me and totally blew me off for Dooce!
So I guess I was Heathered. By actual Heathers.
And I woke up pretty upset. Not because I was Heathered, mind you, but because I was dreaming about bloggers. It's official -- I'm in need of a twelve-step program.
Posted at 07:42 AM | Comments (2)April 04, 2005
And Speaking of Nephews...
Older Sister's son is almost six. He has, quite literally, grown up at Brookfield Zoo, as O.S. and her husband are docents (trained, educated volunteers) there. He loves animals and knows more about them than I do,... except how to get his dog to stop annoying him.
As an Easter present, Nephew got to pick out two hermit crabs at the pet store. But hermit crabs have come a long way since I was a kid. They now come with man-made designer shells! It's so kewl! Hermit crabs as home decor! Nephew picked a Blue's Clues one, and one with a psychedelic, purple design on it.
So my brother-in-law comes home from work one day and has the following conversation with Nephew:
B.I.L.: So, did you take out the hermit crabs and play with them today?
Nephew: Yeah! And I built them a corral!
B.I.L.: Cool! Did you race them?
Nephew: No. (pause) I would win, anyway.
I can just hear the thoughts in his head, like, "Gosh, Dad is so stupid. My legs are way longer than theirs!"
Posted at 12:28 PM | Comments (0)Boy Child Is a Genius!
April 01, 2005
My Car Is Sooooooo Clean!
It twinkles, inside and out! I looooooooooove it so much, I want to marry it! I'm going to spend all my time in my car, especially sleeping, but not eating! No more food in my car EVER! In fact, I'm not even taking passengers anymore.
Things You Will Find In My House But Not In My Car, Which Is Why I'm Going To Live In My Car
1. Soap scum
2. Husband's socks
3. Dog hair
4. Week-old broccoli
5. Dust
6. Case's underwear
7. Case
8. Spaghettios
9. 1,000 issues of National Geographic
10. Sawdust
This morning, I put my plastic pint jug of milk in the beverage holder, like a humanoid. So that's going well. However, one tiny drawback is that I have to towel the inside of the windows off every morning.
The carpet and upholstery are still drying, and God forbid I should be able to park my car in the garage overnight and leave the windows open so it can dry out! Nooooo, that would mean Husband paring down his fine collection of lumber and Things We May Need Some Day If The Revolution Comes And We're Caught Unawares And Have To Turn Our Home Into A Fortress And Can't Get To Menard's.
So while Husband was naked and vulnerable in the bathroom this morning, I sweetly expressed to him my delight at the prospect of having to sit on a plastic bag while driving for the next three months because -- have I mentioned? -- MY HUSBAND STORES EVERYTHING HE HAS EVER LOOKED AT IN OUR GARAGE.
And then a miracle happened. An honest to Odin miracle.
All the electricity went off in our house, and a blinding light shone into our bathroom window. Daisy barked once, then rolled over on her back. A chorus of voices came from nowhere, and a beautiful figure clad all in white stepped out from behind the shower curtain, smiling benevolently.
"Lo," it said, "The Lord hath looked upon your garage and declared it unseemly in His eyes. Did He not create garages for your car? Why do you defy the Lord? Yea, this very weekend, thou shalt remove lumber and boxes and things you'll never use from your garage, and you shall put them in storage or haul them to the curb. And lo, it shall be good."
And just as suddenly, it was over, and the lights and radio went back on.
Husband goes, "Did you see that?!"
Oh, I sure did. And there was much rejoicing.
Posted at 01:17 PM | Comments (1)