July 29, 2005
A Tribute to Tango
Statistics say that the majority of us have some sort of pet -- dogs and cats being the most popular. And every year, the ridiculous amounts of moola we spend on our pets rises. Know why?
WE LOVE OUR PETS!
Pet-love is, of course, so much better than human love. Our pets don't care what we look like, sound like or smell like. In fact, I get the impression that, the worse I smell, the more Daisy loves me. Our pets don't care if our career isn't a huge success, or if we can't afford the fancy kibble. They don't care if we spend hours on the computer while eating cold lasagna for dinner.
So it is any wonder that, while the sight of Husband's dirty boxers hanging on the back of the bathroom door sends me into hysterics, I don't think twice about picking up Daisy's poop?
Of course not.
Now do me a favor. Think about your pet for a minute and how much you love him/her. Now imagine how much closer you'd be if you got to bring your pet to work and spent 24/7 with him/her.
NOW imagine how you'd feel if your pet actually worked WITH you, always had your back, and, indeed, had saved your life a few times.
Can you even begin to imagine that kind of relationship? That kind of love? I have to admit -- as much as I adore Daisy, as much as she's a part of my life -- I can't imagine the kind of bond between a police officer and his canine partner.
And such is the bond between J and Tango.
Unfortunately, a few days ago, J had to make the horrible decision to have Tango, his 11 year old German Shepherd, put to sleep. He was suffering from bladder cancer and bone cancer in his neck. But despite the suffering, and the knowledge that you have the power to stop it, it's a crappy decision for anyone to be faced with. And I commend the bravery and selflessness it took J to give Tango lasting peace, even at the price of his own terrible grief.
Not only was Tango incredibly handsome and a hit with the bitches, he was fearless and enthusiastic about getting the "bad guys" and making his "yard" a better place.
He had the STRONGEST BITE of any dog the trainers had ever worked with. Some of them even refused to play the "bad guy" in Tango's training sessions because Tango could BITE THROUGH all the padding that kept them safe from the other canine cops.
Tango's nose was amazing, too. He could find bombs, bad guys, drugs, and -- my personal favorite -- he could go into a field or forest and find whatever had been put there most recently. Meaning he could find the murder weapon or the shoe or the freshly buried evidence among the litter. I think that's just amazing.
His nose was also responsible for the LARGEST DRUG FIND EVER in the state of Illinois. Put THAT in your crack pipe and smoke it, baby!
But I think my favorite Tango stories are the ones where he made the hard-ass gang-bangers cry. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
And then Tango would visit and play like a puppy with Daisy. And for that reason, he was her favorite, of all her doggie-cousins.
I guess I would say that Tango lived the kind of life most humans would love to lead. He had a wonderful, stable family who was always there for him. He had a job he excelled at and loved to do. He was respected and admired by his peers, and loved by everyone who knew him.
Who wouldn't want a life like that? Tango was the definition of "Lucky Dog," and we were lucky to have him. As a rule, canine cops do not socialize much, so I'm very honored to have been allowed to be part of his life.
He will be deeply, deeply missed.
July 28, 2005
Try It With the One You Love
The Queen of Ass (and Boobies) was my 300th Commenter, and she totally came through with the sextastic question, as I knew she would:
"Oh. WOW! First of all? Admiral of the Royal Navy? That's TOTALLY you, girlie!"My question...hmmm...there are just so many possibilities here....and how to phrase it where there are actually many questions in one without being too obvious....
"What is it that makes your toes curl, your ears ring, and eyes roll back more than anything else in the entire all-born put together world, and is it, indeed, something involving $ex? And if not, then pretend it is after you tell me what it is if it's not.
"Capishe?"
Unfortunately, my answer is really simple and can be summed up in one word: SWORDPLAY!
But since I love to hear the sound of my own keys clacking, I'll expound.
When Husband and I got married, he brought to the table two daughters, a house, and the Titanic movie poster. Gaaaaaaaaaaay!
I, on the other hand, brought a handfull of Barbies, the Army of Darkness movie poster, and the following DVDs: Braveheart, Army of Darkness and Rob Roy; have since added Gladiator, Pirates of the Caribbean, all the Lord of the Rings movies and the first three seasons of Xena; and am looking to acquire Kill Bill I and II and the rest of Xena.
(Not the mention the myriad of other swordtastic movies I've watched that aren't worth owning.)
I. LOVE. SWORDPLAY.
In a flash of brilliance, Husband bought me a sword for Valentine's Day last year. Well, brilliance or stupidity. Your call.
And then after my panties are good 'n' creamy from the swordplay (Mom, you TOTALLY want to stop reading NOW!), I like to have my back kissed. Isn't that weird? Who knew the back could be an erogenous zone? Seriously, back-kissing -- it curls my toes and gives me goosebumps. Try it with the one you love! This technique fully endorsed by the Pirate Wench!
And then? (Seriously, Mom, you DON'T wanna know this!) I like it doggie-style. Hard and fast. And go ahead and smack me on the ass once or twice, if you feel moved to do so. No, you're not hurting me -- those are happy noises!
So, Queenie, does that answer your question(s)? As a bonus, over the weekend, I think I'll take all those photos you've requested, you photo-whore you!
Posted at 12:09 PM | Comments (6)July 27, 2005
Jeepers Creepers
GUESS WHAT I'M NOT WEARING RIGHT NOW???
(I guess that's not really a question... ah, who cares.)
I know several of you are voting for panties. And many of you are voting for a bra. And you in the back, you said an air of piety? Dude, I don't even know what that means. But you're all wrong.
It's GLASSES!!!
I have been wearing glasses since the sixth grade, when I was having trouble seeing the chalkboard, just like in all the After School Specials -- "Why Can't Wenchie Read?"
That's over two decades, and I've kinda gotten used to being a cyborg. The glasses are just always on. They're part of me. Wenchie has ten fingers, two eyes, one nose, seventeen personalities, and one pair of glasses. And I'm okay with that. Really, with the blonde hair and the big boobs, I'm kinda grateful for something that goes against the stereotypical bimbo look.
In the early 90's, I tried contacts. It seems every man I've ever dated or married (current Husband aside) has tried to get me to wear contacts and/or get my hair permed. I mean, ditching the glasses I understand cuz they always have to be removed to a safe location before necking. But the perm? What the fuck? I have great hair! I just don't get that at all.
Anyhoo, the contacts sucked. My ridiculously sensitive eyes never got used to them. After a mere two hours with them in, I'd look like Spicoli just getting outta the van. "Dude, I'm so wasted!" Bloodshot to hell, with an added bonus: The Desire to Gouge My Eyes Outta My Head with a Rusty Spoon. Fuck, they hurt.
So, I just resigned myself to being mechanically enhanced for the rest of my life. Surely others have heavier crosses to bear. It's fine. And with my discovery of prescription sunglasses, all the better to see you without squinting, my dear!
But contact technology has come a long way in the past decade. Contacts are ridiculously comfortable, 99% breathable, and can even correct my astigmatism! And when I put them in and wore them outta the office at JCPenney's, I couldn't believe how FREE I felt. Free of those stupid things hooked behind my ears and sitting on the bridge of my nose and making my eyes look smaller than they are.
I wasn't expecting the ENORMOUS JOLT OF CONFIDENCE it gave me! I always thought I had accepted my glasses, deep down in my heart of hearts.
But I guess I hadn't.
I bought some NORMAL SUNGLASSES on the way outta the store. Here's a jolt -- I have never, ever in my life bought normal sunglasses. All the sunglasses I've ever worn cost $300-$400.
But now? I can buy $10 sunglasses! Sunglasses I can lose or sit on or trade with someone or give to a homeless person or throw off a bridge because they only cost ten bucks! I can buy ten pairs! All different! One for each of The Many Moods of Wenchie! It's INCREDIBLE!
My first pair are pink, square and rimless. I call them my Charlie's Angels shades. I'm not sure why. I think I'm gonna get some Blues Brothers ones, and some Hello Kitty! ones, and some with rhinestones! BECAUSE I CAN!!!
And I also bought me a celebratory purse. Well, they were right by the sunglasses!
Know what I've noticed? I'm kinda pretty. I mean, I'm not gonna turn many heads, but I have really pretty eyes. And I can see them. You have to understand, I've only ever seen my eyes with my glasses on, when my fun-house-mirror prescription makes them appear smaller; or with my glasses off, in the mirror that's too far away to see clearly. But I can see my face now.
And so can everyone else. It's weird. To me, it looks kinda... blank and empty and plain. I wonder what it looks like to other people.
Posted at 12:58 PM | Comments (3)July 26, 2005
Pudding Pioneers
It rained for ten minutes in our little town last night. So, of course, there was a city-wide power outage.
But Husband and I were well-prepared. I, with my vast array of scented candles. And he, with his uncanny ability to avoid closing anything, ever, thereby letting all the cool air stampede out of the house before I noticed that the garage door was open and shredded his torso with my cutlass.
The tiny candle flames flickered warmly. We could see the stars through our kitchen skylight. Crickets chirped outside. We were naked and sweating.
I said, "I feel like the pioneers!"
"You're eating fat-free pudding-in-a-cup, and I'm reading the IKEA catalogue with a flashlight."
"What? You mean this isn't how the West was settled?"
Posted at 08:20 AM | Comments (5)July 22, 2005
H.M.S. VAGINA
Well, I got My 300th Comment on Monday morning, but it was apparently from someone named "buy valium online." So, as tempting as that sounded, I decided to wait until an actual human person was My 300th Commenter.
FUCKING SPAMMERS!!!
Ironically, My 300th Commenter turned out to be neither spammer nor actual human person, but the ridiculously sexy Queen of Ass herself! She commented on Wisconsin Scenery with:
How do THEY know he didn't leave me in charge? I thought that was a private conversation!
And for the record, I'm fairly comfortable with the thought of a world ruled by the Queen of Ass. And I'm also okee-dokee with the thought of bowing down before her in worship and adoration. I'm also hoping I'd be appointed Admiral of Her Royal Navy, but I don't want to assume.
Anyhoo, I would have preferred that the comment with which she achieved Pirate Wench fame was the one she posted in response to Ugh, There's That Word Again:
Okay. I totally LOVE the relationship you have with your boss, but more than that? The next time I have to go spread for the OBGYN, I'm totally gonna call you for moral support beforehand.
Because I love any excuse to write about VAGINAS, and because I will totally hold your hand and sing to you during your next vag-exam, Queenie!
But at least My 300th Commenter wasn't correcting my spelling, as so many of you have had to do lately, leading to much shame and, probably, my ultimate demise.
Point being, Her Royal Majesty has won the dubious honor of being able to ask me any question -- no matter how retarded or personal or vulgar -- and having it answered honestly by moi.
Ask away!
Posted at 01:45 PM | Comments (2)July 21, 2005
Ugh, There's That Word Again
PW: I can't believe I've had NO time to blog today!
PW: what the fuck is up with that?!
Heather: seriously, somethings' wrong!
H: in the world!
PW: I KNOW!
PW: and I have to leave at 3:30 to spread the vag for the gyne
H: I LOVE speculums! let's all sing a song to the pap smear!
PW: oh, open my vag with a torque wrench!
PW: and take a peek inside!
H: scrape my cervix with a sharp pointy phalanx!
PW: (that doesn't exactly go with my rhyme scheme, but it made me spit root beer, so I'll allow it)
H: (ok, that didn't make sense. what rhymes with cervix?)
PW: (no, we're rhyming "inside")
PW: I'll spread my legs real wiiiiiiiiiiiide!
H: ha!
And as I sat laughing my uterus off at my desk, Hot Boss comes up...
"You're laughing pretty loudly over here. What's so funny?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"It's dirty."
"Well, now you have to tell me."
"I can't. It involves The V Word, and I can't say The V Word to my boss."
"The V Word."
"Yup."
"THEE V Word?"
"Yup."
"You're right -- don't say it to me."
July 20, 2005
Wisconsin Scenery
Signs I Saw While North of the Cheddar Curtain
(No, not war-pestilence-famine-plague signs. I mean words-with-big-letters-visible-from-the-road signs. Smartass.)
In front of a dairy farm:
Batman 6
Joker 4
No idea what that means.
On the side of what I assume is a fine, reputable eating establishment, altho' we did not stop to eat there:
Home of the Hashbrown Sammich
In front of what is, apparently, THE BEST STORE EVER:
Cheese
Ho-made fudge
Liquor
Moccassins
Fireworks
Souveniers
Adult books
Of course, we went in.
And in front of a church (I forget which flavor of Christianity):
God didn't go on vacation and leave you in charge!
Well, crap. I'm gonna need some help here digging all of the Old Style bottlecaps out of the couch.
Posted at 11:57 AM | Comments (2)July 14, 2005
Not Motivated to Work Today
Okay, tomorrow, I leave on a five-day vacation with my cousins, their spouses and dogs, that will entail most or all of the following:
1. No less than 5 lbs. of bacon consumed.
2. Many things blown up and much ammo used.
3. Someone will get something gross on them from some animal.
4. Cocktails begin at breakfast.
5. Someone will see someone else's spouse naked.
For these reasons and many others (including napping and shopping), I'm excited and cannot focus on one damn thing today. Therefore, today's blog will be random thoughts that make no sense and interest no one. You've been warned.
Ever have one of those zits that just won’t go away, no matter how many times you pop it? I just popped one on my forehead for the third time, and the day’s not half over, yet!
Is it too early in the morning to be injecting Diet Coke directly into my veins?
I made a Sleestak reference in the elevator today, and of the four other people on board, NO ONE got it. Why do I come up with my best material when it’s completely unappreciated? Do you realize how long it's going to take for another Sleestak-reference-opportunity to come around? DAMMIT!
I’m conducting an experiment to see how long it’ll take the cleaning crew to remove the following items from underneath my desk: one Good ‘n’ Plenty, three pieces of Kix cereal, a big flake of Butterfinger.
And now this, because it caught my attention:
Owen Wilson Licks Butt for Two Hours
Yes, you read that right – licks butt, not kicks butt.
Okay, yeah, it’s kinda weird. And okay, granted, he didn’t give the most intelligent reply; but in his defense, his tongue was probably too tired to talk very well.
Now, the problem I have with this report is that it’s completely one-sided. We don’t get to hear the lickee’s side of the story. It’s quite possible that she asked him to lick her butt for two hours, and he was just being an accommodating lover.
Frankly, ...I could think of worse ways to pass the time than to have some cute guy lap at my ass like a saucer of sweet cream. In fact, if a guy were to find my booty so luscious that it warranted a two-hour tongue-bath, I think I’d be pretty goddamn delighted and honored!
And on that note, lunch.
Posted at 11:30 AM | Comments (3)July 13, 2005
Beltless in Seattle
Every morning, Anne, Nicholle and I break out of our beige cubes and walk around the exterior of our building. (Twice around is a mile!)
Wait, ammend that -- every morning, Anne and Nicholle meet in the lobby at our pre-ordained time, bitch about me never being on time, think seriously about Heathering me, call me in a huff, and then I have to pee.
And THEN we walk around our building.
There's not much to see -- trees, trollish smokers from Verizon, the landscapers, the daycare Baby Parade. But yesterday, right outside one of the entrances, I found a belt.
Just lying on the ground. It's a woman's leather belt, and the bitch has a Scarlet O'Hara waistline. But... it was just lying on the ground. Right outside an office building.
How do you not know that your belt has fallen off? Especially if it's there to keep your pants up because, you're obviously so skinny that you have no ass to do the job?
And then how do you not notice that it's missing, and go retrace your steps to the car? And how is there no one around you, in the morning rush to work, that sees it and says, "Hey, your belt just fell off!"
And why the purple filling in the Hostess cupcakes? WHY, GOD, WHYYYYYYY?!
So, I picked it up and took it with me. I don't know why. It's sitting on my desk right now.
This morning. Same entrance. A white sock. Only a few feet from where I found the belt.
Someone in our building is spontaneously molting her clothes and doesn't even realize it.
I hope I find a shirt tomorrow.
Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (4)July 12, 2005
I've Got a Lov-er-ly Bunch of Coconuts!
So, way back in time, Heather and her sibs threw Heather's Mom a surprise birthday party. And I think I said I'd blog about it, and I certainly meant to, because what's not fun about this?
But I saw something shiny in my peripheral vision, became distracted and never wrote about it. And, of course, now I don't remember a damn thing I was gonna write about. You'll just have to trust me that, in my head, it was the FUNNIEST BLOG EVER. But I suck, and now you have to settle for this photo:
And two stories.
Heather's Mom was opening her presents, and someone got her some fancy-schmancy birdfeeder shaped like the Taj Mahal or something. I was standing next to Heather's Boyfriend, who filmed the whole thing.
But I forgot the sound was on, and I said, "Oh, isn't that just darling!"
And the lady next to me goes, with all sincerity, "I know! It's just precious!"
And I started cracking up, and Heather's Boyfriend had given me so many yummy, slushy drinks that I fell over on him. Serves him right. But my hand totally slipped, and I didn't mean to grope him! It was an accident, as far as you know, Heatherrrrrrrrrrrr!
The second story is really a lovely tale of redemption. See, back in high school, anyone who smoked scared the shit outta me because smoking = hardass, right? I would walk way outta my way going home because I didn't want to go anywhere near the corner where the burn-outs were hanging out by the forest preserve in their denim jackets smoking and clearly conspiring to beat-up the next short, bespectacled nerd that walked by.
At Heather's Mom's party, Heather's Brother (who is totally hott and hates my guts) was on the back patio smoking with all his friends, and clearly planning to beat me up. But Heather's Boyfriend was out there, too, and Heather was playing hostess and needed me to relay some message or another, so I had to go...
INTO THE SMOKING FRAY!
I went out there, and one of the guys was throwing a football with Heather's precocious, obnoxious, small, male cousin, who was on the other side of the yard, which backs up to a forest preserve.
(Remember: Smokers + Forest Preserve = SCARY!)
One of the other smokers said, "Isn't there poison ivy back there?"
So I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled to the little boy, "Go deep!"
Man, I cracked the smokers up! They laughed until they were coughing up their lungs! Seriously! Mottled pieces of brown tissue were splatting onto the brick! It was amazing! I had been accepted into their ranks!
The silverback came over and started grooming me, but that's where I drew the line and went back inside.
And now -- why isn't Heather looking at the camera?
'Cuz she's staring at her sister's coconuts, that's why.
July 11, 2005
Paranoia Thee Destroyah
As you may know, three years ago, I bought a dress, cut some cake, moved all my shit -- again -- and instantly became the stepmother of two teenaged girls.
(Send Hallmark sympathy ecards to wenchie@piratewench.org)
Since then, the three little words I crave hearing aren't "I love you." They're "You're not crazy." Those words, said by friends, family and fellow stepparents, have kept me from drink. Have kept me from divorce. And most importantly, have kept me from having to dig shallow graves in the forest preserve under cover of darkness.
"Um, am I crazy, or is a black, spandex catsuit not exactly appropriate church attire?"
"YOU'RE NOT CRAZY!"
See how that works? Very, very important!
But other times, the key to keeping me feeling "normal" and "sane" is to make the people around me just as bat-shitty as I am. You know -- so I still look good in comparison.
I have suceeded in doing this to Anne's Mom. With no apparent effort whatsoever on my part, which is an added bonus.
You know how, when you get an email from someone's work address, it'll say on the bottom something to the effect of:
This e-mail and any attachments contain private, privileged and confidential information. If you have received this transmission in error, please immediately notify me and do not disclose, copy, or distribute this information. Thank you.
Well, on the bottom of all her emails to Anne (which Anne occassionally forwards to me for the hilarious content), Anne's Mom adds the following disclaimer:
Not for blog publication.
Now, I don't know if I'm legally beholden to that, but I tend to respect that request from most people. I mean, if Anne or Billi said it, I'd laugh in their face, blog it anyway, blog about them not wanting me to blog it, and then mock them in my blog. But not Anne's Mom. She's a nice lady. She loves her dogs. She puts up with Anne. So I gotta respect that.
That doesn't mean, however, that I don't take sheer delight in the fact that I've managed to make her completely paranoid. It's been months since I mentioned her that one time -- okay, twice -- and yet, such is her fear of becoming blog-fodder that she routinely adds a no-blog clause to each and every email. She's now one giant step closer to being as paranoid as I am.
My work here is done.
And Anne's Mom certainly never asked her, "Why do you need a Blackberry if you already have an iPod?"
Posted at 10:04 AM | Comments (4)July 08, 2005
Implement the Necessary Communication Plan
Today, boys and girls, we are lucky to have a Guest Submission from occassional commenter, Garrance, of JELLO! fame.
Inspired by the fucktardedness of the Stewards of Electrical Resources post, Garrance felt compelled to share his own tale of workplace electrical savings implementation.
The following is a survey that Garrance received from The Home Office of the Huge Upscale Department Store that he works for. This memo was issued to ALL the stores because ONE store -- Garrance's -- consistantly overrides the lighting system.
See, Garrance is in charge of all the displays at said store and often arrives at work at 4am. When it's dark. And there are no lights on. So instead allowing Garrance to change the timers so that the lights go on WHEN EMPLOYEES ARRIVE, the Home Office's solution is to, instead, be complete assholes about the whole thing.
Hence, the following email survey memo thingy, entitled:
ELECTRICAL SURVEY Making it a habit...The intent of this survey is to ensure that each store is aware of the cost savings steps to be implemented within each store and to provide a checklist to assist in making these actions a habit every day.
Please complete the following checklist for your store. If these action points are not something your store completes consistently every day, implement the necessary communication plan and owners to ensure that these actions become an integral part of your everyday activity. The goal is to have every store im compliance every day by July 1.
To indicate your response to each item, place the cursor arrow on the box corresponding to your response and left click. RETURN THE SURVEY BY FRIDAY, JULY 1.
Okay, then there's a chart. Picture it, if you will. The first column is a column of Electrical Savings Habits:
1. Turn off all manual light Switches when room not in use (offices, employee lounge, training room, etc.)2. Turn escalators OFF 30 minutes after store closing
3. Turn escalators ON 30 minutes prior to store opening
4. Turn of PC at end of the day
5. Turn off POS terminals at the end of the business day
That column is followed by two other columns, entitled
Currently Do This Every Day
and
Will Consistently Do This Every Day
each with Yes and No boxes for checkmarks.
Unfortunately, there is no column for I Have Absolutely No Intention of "Implementing" This, Now or Ever, You Stupid Cow.
My favorite part is "implement the necessary communication plan." This is something Alfred says to Batman. This is not how normal people talk.
Also? The font used is Comic Sans. I just can't take Comic Sans seriously. It's a kiddie font. Now, Garamond or Bookman Old Style I totally respect. But Comic Sans? Geez, you might as well make all the O's into smiley faces for all the authority it conveys.
Clearly, the memo was either typed up by the 19-year old summer intern. Or the cutsie font is meant to soften the edges of what is otherwise an utterly condescending steaming-turd of a memo.
Husband never turns off lights. Anywhere. Ever. I've also come home to find the bathroom fan still on and the back door standing wide open.
I'm totally drafting a memo.
With little boxes for him to check, like I Do This To Get Back At You For Nagging Me About All the Half-Empty Diet Coke Cans I Leave Around the House and Will Never Do Because I'm Distracted Thinking About When We Can Have Sex Next.
Posted at 02:14 PM | Comments (4)July 07, 2005
Let It Mellow
So you know how there's that stereotype that all Jewish people are cheap? Well, aside from it not being true (my Lady Boss is Jewish and always brings me presents when she goes on trips -- have I mentioned that I love presents?), as it turns out, it's also not Politically Correct, or un-PC.
Un-PC means that, if you say something bad about someone different from you, you can be arrested for a Hate Crime, tarred, feathered, drawn, quartered, eviscerated, poked with a pointy stick, and made to wear polyester blend slacks in last season's colors.
But I have a solution. The Norwegians. As it turns out, the last time the Norwegians were victimized... well, no one remembers the last time the Norwegians were anyone's victims, and that's really the whole point. In fact, the only thing 99% of the U.S. population knows about us Norwegians is that, at one time, we raped and pilliaged just about everyone else out there.
Therefore, we remain -- along with fat people, sopranos and trailer trash -- one of the last groups of people you can safely make fun of. So, when you want to cleverly illustrate someone's extreme thriftiness, for example, instead of calling them Jewish and opening yourself up to the Spanish Inquisition, you can just point, laugh and call them Norwegian.
And no one will care.
Because it's totally true.
Take, for instance, my family. At our summer cabin, we have a holding tank. For those of you lucky enough not to have one, I'll explain. The whole town is just one, big slab of bedrock, which makes your typical sewer system impossible. So, we get our water from our own well, and when we shower, wash dishes, poop, pee, etc., it all goes into a big, underground tank, which then gets pumped out and... I don't know what happens to it. And that's the way I like it.
So, my family, in order to avoid paying for a lot of pump-outs, has a rule, in the form of a rhyme you've perhaps heard if you've been to camp:
If it's yellow, let it mellow.
If it's brown, flush it down.
How quaint.
As a result, there was lots of toilet paper in the bowl when I got up one morning and had to piss like a racehorse. Seeing such a full commode, I thought it wise to flush before I peed.
Imagine my horror when toilet paper and pee-water went cascading over the porcelin rim and onto the floor, soaking the bathroom rugs and edging ever nearer to my bare feet.
Husband woke out of a dead sleep (it was 6am) to my screams and, being a man of action -- and a man of wanting to shut me up, quickly grabbed a plunger and got to work.
The tsunami was over quickly, but the aftermath lingered, putting physical and emotional strain on the entire community. There was pee to be mopped up, rugs to drip-dry and family members to blame. People had to wait for the floor to dry before attending to their morning powder room needs. And I was mighty pissed off. And almost literally, pissed on.
So there are two morals to this story.
Moral the First: Norwegians are cheap and should be mocked.
Moral the Second: It's okay if you're a cheap Norwegian because someone else will mop up your pee.
Hmm. That second moral really sucked.
Posted at 01:33 PM | Comments (4)July 06, 2005
Towels and Painting and Hangers -- Oh My!
So, the day before we were supposed to leave on my traditional 4th of July vacation at our summer-home-on-the-lake with my family, I get an answering machine message from Mom, who was already at the cabin with Dad.
"Can you go to our house and bring me a couple pairs of pants and a sweatshirt when you come up? It's chilly up here. Oh, and also grab a couple of big bath towels. I forgot to pack any."
Now, this woman has been packing to go to our cabin for FORTY-FIVE YEARS. She knows it's surrounded by Lake Michigan and forest and is, therefore, cold. She knows we swim a lot and, therefore, need lots of towels. She brought NO TOWELS!
I don't know which is more horrifying -- the thought of my parents not bathing until we arrived, or the thought of my parents... air-drying.
*shudder*
Then, I get a call from Dad. He's on his cell. The nearest cell tower being, of course, on the other side of the lake. (Mom was at least bright enough to go to a friend's house and use a landline phone. That's right -- no phone at the cabin. Primative, sure, but for the first several years they had NO indoor plumbing and NO electricity. So even though I'm writing this on a clay tablet with a sharp stick to be typed up upon my return, I consider myself lucky. At least I never had to beat cloth diapers on a rock at the water's edge. My mother is a saint.)
Where the hell was I? Ah, yes. I hear from Dad.
"Hi. It's ~ ~ crackle ~~ seventy-fifth ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ Laura ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ party ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ painting ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ Maureen."
And here's my end of the conversation.
"Dad? Dad! I can't hear you! Go in the back yard and stand on the big rock! Dad! Can you hear me?"
*click*
Hokay then. Luckily, I was able to use my enormous brain to decipher Dad's code. I figure he said something to the effect of:
"Hi. It's your Daddy. It's the seventy-fifth anniversary of when the cabin was built, so Laura and Carlene [my cousins] are throwing a party. Bring the painting of me that Maureen did."
Now, I didn't know what one had to do with the other, but I found out later that my cousins thought it would be funny to have Dad's portrait hanging over the fireplace for the party. Probably to remind us of what he looked like before he grew his patchy, grey beard and started scaring Boy Child with the Homeless Drunk look.
So, I went back to their house and got the painting. Then, I got a call from Billi's husband on his cell (he, Billi and the kids were up there already, too):
"Hey! Billi says to bring up some hangers!"
"GO TO THE HARDWARE STORE, YA IDIOT!" I yelled too late. He had already hung up. Idiot.
My car was so full of other peoples' stuff, is it any wonder I forgot to bring up bath towels for me and Husband?
Posted at 02:35 PM | Comments (3)July 01, 2005
And We Did It With Only Three Colors of Crayons
In keeping with the artistic theme going on here lately,...
Wait... did you feel that? The ground shaking, the tsunami building, the very cohesiveness of our planet threatening to give way? That was EVERY ARTIST SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME rolling over in his/her grave, simultaneously.
Anyhoo, this is a picture that Heather and I drew during Mighty Joe's gig last Friday night, on the back of his playlist. It was a joint effort. (Meaning we drew it together; not that we were smoking a joint at the time, ...although that theory is not without merit.)
I guess we were... inspired? Infer what you will about Joe's music.
Posted at 01:07 PM | Comments (3)