September 30, 2005
The F Word
So I've explained about our Mission Suppers on Thursdays, and how we're obsessed with food, and it never takes more than five minutes for the conversation to deteriorate into Tales of Bodily Functions.
Yeah, we're a classy group. And like a bunch of A.D.D.-addled chimps, there is very often more than one conversation going on at any given moment. In fact, I'd have to say the minimum is four -- Mom talking to herself, one conversation about poop, one hot gossip session, and someone re-telling the previous conversation to Dad VERY LOUDLY. Meanwhile, Deb is laughing uproariously at... something, and Jim is shaking his head in silent dismay. You don't have to be related to be dysfunctional!
Last Thursday, two of the conversations going on were: One about The F Word, and one about plate-passing.
The F Word conversation was about how best to use it effectively.
Least effective is the I-don't-have-a-real-vocabulary way, i.e. "I can't believe that fucking cop gave me a fucking ticket. What the fuck, man?"
Most effective is when Grandma says it, "You fuckers get off my lawn!"
Yeah, it was a little odd, sitting at a dinner table with my parents, and every other word was Fuck. Now I know why Kelly Osbourne is so f*ed-up.
Suddenly and without warning, Mom committed the cardinal sin of passing her dirty plate to the end of the table while there were still people eating, earning herself much squawking from K.
"Irene! There are people still eating down here! No one wants your dirty plate!"
"Hey! G just passed his glass down! Why didn't you yell at him?"
"Cuz he wanted more wine!"
"Oh, so it's okay to pass an empty dish if you're looking for refills while people are still eating?"
"Yes!"
"Well... tough! I was finished eating!"
"Oh, sure, it's all about fucking Irene!"
I instantly had a series of small strokes. She used my mother's name in conjunction with The F Word! I didn't know whether to laugh my ass off or kick her ass!
Ah, so many ass-related options, so little fucking time.
Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (4)September 29, 2005
I Just Can't Even Think of a Title for This One
You know those people -- and by people, I mean women, cuz that's generally the only gender I share a public bathroom with -- who are convinced that they will die of ebola if they touch any surface in a public bathroom?
You know the ones I mean. They flush before they sit down. They put down paper on the toilet seat or, better yet, the floor. Oh, I've seen it!
They flush with their foot, no matter how high the handle is off the ground. They bring their own soap/hand sanitizer. And then they open the bathroom door with a paper towel and throw it away at someone else's desk. Seen that, too!
Isn't it ironic that these are the women who have no qualms about hovering over the toilet seat -- lest they touch it with the backs of their legs -- and SPRAYING THEIR URINE ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE LIKE THEY WERE RAISED BY FERAL CATS?!
Isn't that odd? You'd think that these squeaky-clean germ-o-phobes would be more conscientious about making other people clean up their pee. Huh. Weird.
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (4)September 28, 2005
Earning Myself More Weird Looks
So my Hott Boss comes up to my desk.
Hott Boss: Hey, do you have like... you know... some, um...
Me: Tampons? Condoms? What?
HB: No! Some, like... breath refreshment?
Me: You mean, like a stick of gum?
HB: Yeah! That'd be great! I have a meeting with [the president of the company].
Me: Aaaaaaaaand... you're going to make-out with him?
HB: No! Gross!
(pause)
HB: Hey, how come, when two chicks make-out, it's something everyone wants to see. But when two guys do it, it's gross?
Me: Because women were designed to be beautiful to look at, so when there's two, it's just twice as beautiful. Whereas men were designed to be utilitarian and practical, so more of them is just... blah.
HB: Leave it to you to have an answer like that.
Me: Hey! You asked!
HB: I know.
Me: And I'm totally right.
HB: You are.
Me: Actually, it depends on which two guys it is...
Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (3)September 27, 2005
Cuz I Haven't Gushed About Heather In a While
This is how much I love Heather. I just got back from IKEA, where I finally laid my hands on a couple of the coveted Billy bookcases in the *new*beech*veneer*, upon which I will -- at long last -- be able to display the many, many Barbies that have been waiting patiently in storage, lo, all these many, many months.
And instead of staying home tonight and playing with, er... displaying my Barbies, I'm hanging out with Heather to scarf Chinese food and watch t.v. Cuz she means even more to me than Barbies!
Where does this burning devotion come from, you ask? Well, she proofreads my blog for ritarded speling errers every time I post, cuz she's creative AND smart AND hott, whereas I'm just creative and hott. AND? She introduced me to the Personal Humidifier!
When not at work, I don't even remember that I have contacts in, or that I ever wore glasses, or what the hell the hired me to do there anyway. But locked in that aquarium of recycled air all day, my contacts turn into beef jerky for lack of moisture. I think the air in our office was actually exhaled by dinosaurs and hermetically sealed in glass and wear-resistant indoor/outdoor carpeting. My contacts often just fall out of my eyes, and then I have to breathe on them and quick reinsert them, hoping they'll stick, like a little suction cup to the kitchen window when you're hanging a sun-catcher you got from your great aunt.
BUT NOW! Now I live in moistened bliss, my cube a tropical habitat. Barbie's Juicy Couture outfit is wilting, but I don't care! Think of the money I'll save on Renu drops!
I'm buying Heather an extra eggroll. She deserves it.
Posted at 02:51 PM | Comments (5)September 24, 2005
Oh Dear. Now I've Done It.
I've gone and dyed my hair fire-engine-red. (I know, I know, redheads shouldn't wear pink.)
I've always wanted to be a redhead. They're so saucy! So sexy! So unconventional! So daring!
I tried some strawberry blonde shades. (I don't even remember what my natural color is.) And they looked cute. But they just weren't that fiery red I crave! I wanna be Marcia-Cross-red!
So I picked up a color called "Desert Sunrise." Could they be any more vague? I've never been to the desert, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't look anything like this in the morning!
And it sure doesn't look like the color on the box. If it's still this color in the morning, I sure as hell ain't going to church.
Lucky Husband -- he gets to pretend he's having sex with a mysterious stranger tonight! A saucy, mysterious stranger!
Posted at 09:36 PM | Comments (9)September 22, 2005
Squirrel Stalker
Remember PJ, of fly and bee fame? Well, she continues to be persecuted by the animal kingdom, and now the insects have been joined by the mammals.
The following is the whole story, recreated as best as I could, having heard it only via cell phone, while PJ was laughing hysterically. I think she has finally snapped.
PJ, Ramone, PJ's sister and PJ's sister's husband were walking their dogs at the dog park one evening. Said dogs include one Golden Retriever, one Rottweiler, and two Bernese Mountain Dogs. These ain't yer mama's lap-dogs.
PJ was bringing up the rear and heard some rustling behind her. She figured it was some harmless, cuddley forest creature and paid it no heed.
But the sound kept coming, which was odd. So PJ turned around to see that it, indeed, was a harmless, cuddley forest creature. A baby squirrel, to be exact. One helluva brave baby squirrel.
A moment later, PJ turned around again to see that the baby squirrel was still following them. A baby squirrel. Following four massive dogs. Perhaps I have overestimated its bravery and underestimated its stupidity?
PJ turned and saw the squirrel a third time, and it was at that point in the story that I became convinced it was some sort of evil, bionic squirrel, sent to destroy them as the first step in its plan to conquer the world. What else could account for such fearlessness in the face of such big teeth?
Then it hit me.
"PJ! Was it rabid?!"
"Well, Ramone said it wasn't."
Oh. Of course. Because Ramone is a pet psychic.
But they picked up their speed anyway. Because, well -- BABY SQUIRREL RUNNING AFTER THEM! Don't laugh! This level of tenacity in a creature the size of a Marshmallow Peep is quite disturbing!
Pretty soon, they're running. Eight fully-functional beings -- none of them weighing less than 100 lbs. -- running from The Baby Squirrel of Doom. I wish I could have seen it.
They hit the parking lot, and the squirrel was no longer behind them. IT WAS ON THE HOOD OF THEIR CAR!!!
Kidding. It wasn't really. But wouldn't that be awesome?
They opened the car doors (each couple drove their own car), and PJ noticed that the harmless, cuddley baby squirrel, who has obviously developed a taste for human blood, was sitting on the edge of the path, where it meets the parking lot, staring at them with its soulless, beady, black eyes. PJ screamed, and everyone started the mad horrow-movie-esque scramble to get in the cars and close the doors.
Ramone, in a very brave and manly move, threw a dog dish full of water at the squirrel, who approached them undetered. Then he threw a handful of Milkbones, hoping to either distract the baby squirrel or knock it unconscious. But where there is a thirst for blood, Milkbones are no substitute.
By the time they were all safely in their cars -- doors locked, windows up -- the baby squirrel had made its way underneath the McGees' car and was just sitting there, probably trying to figure out how to disconnect the engine. This seemed to be their chance. They had the baby squirrel right where they wanted him!
But they were unwilling to pull the trigger and get squirrel innards all over their tires, so they waited until the baby squirrel went back into the woods, to await its next potential victims.
So when you're walking through the forest preserves, and some squirrel swoops down and rips your heart out with its little claws and buries it in the forest floor, YOU'LL KNOW WHO TO BLAME!
Posted at 01:40 PM | Comments (4)September 21, 2005
Plumb Tuckered Out
Lucy and Milo, after a full day of trying to viscerate each other.
Posted at 02:06 PM | Comments (1)September 20, 2005
Far from the Civilized World
FINALLY, I'm getting around to answering Queen of Ass' question:
"Alright...this is serious. Are you ready? Because I totally have a serious one this time. If you were, indeed, Admiral of my Royal Navy, what supplies and marital aides would you bring along, and why?"
Clearly, the first provision would be a Cabin Boy, strong and true. I even have one picked out. His name is Aaron, and he's T-A-L-L and blonde and buff and 13 years younger than me. He can hoist a mainstay like no one I've ever seen, and I used to be his Sunday school teacher. See? Perfect. I mean, if I'm living on a boat, far from the civilized world, why not go all the way, eh?
Of course, I'd need a laptop and wi-fi, on which to blog about all my raping and plundering and skullduggery. And then I would write about what happens when we leave the ship. Oh ho ho, I am so very funny, indeed.
Plenty of hair-care products because all that wind and salt water is HELL on my gorgeous mane.
My dog, Daisy, because parrots suck. (Yes, they do! All birds are creepy!) And maybe a little monkey in a fez. Pirates have monkeys, right? I need him to climb the rigging and fetch me my tankard of rum.
Gotta have some Barbies. Not my entire collection -- that would be silly. Just the My Scene Barbies and all their clothes, so I can change their outfits when I'm bored and Aaron won't tell me where he hid the cat o' nine tails.
What else? Um, plenty of hoodies, jeans and really good all-weather shoes. And Tang, so I don't get scurvy. And some books. And sunscreen.
And should Cabin Boy Aaron get washed overboard, I suppose I should bring Heather with me as back-up. Her gentleman friend would be pretty pissed, but fuck 'im! I'm the Admiral of Her Royal Navy! I can do what I want! I am above the law! The seas bow to my whim! All shall love me and despair!
And then I'd need, oh, some maps and a compass and stuff like that. So when I find land, I'll know who I'm plundering. It's only polite, after all.
Re-reading the question, I realize that piracy is, perhaps, not what Queenie had in mind for the post of Admiral of Her Royal Navy. Then again, she knows what I am. She asked me. What does she expect? Diplomacy?
Hooliganism. Debauchery. I might even engage in some shenanigans. Who knows -- we'll see how I feel.
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Posted at 01:07 PM | Comments (4)
September 19, 2005
Avast, Ye Mateys!
Don yer eyepatch and grab yer cat o' nine tails! It's Talk Like a Pirate Day!
No, I'm not making this up.
Apparently, Dave Barry has written about it, too, but since not many people read him (because he's not as funny as me, or as hott), I thought I should publicize it here, too.
If you don't know how to talk like a pirate, here's a list of some basic vocabulary. Now you can say things like, "No prey, no pay!" And "I had cackle fruit and Nelson's folly for breakfast!"
To buy pirate "booty," go to Billy Bones' Locker, and remember -- my birthday is next month! Shop early, shop often!
Several things have happened today to make Talk Like A Pirate Day particularly special. Like Marcia Cross at the Emmy's. Technically, that was yesterday, but I didn't get to drool over her photos until today. Yeah, baby, I'd like to shiver her timbers! Yaaar!
We have a new woman starting in our department today, and one of the first things she said to me was, "I like your Barbie!" And not in that I'm-just-trying-to-humor-the-crazy-lady way, but in that I-love-her-dress-can-I-come-over-and-play? way. And? She admitted to still having all of hers from when she was young. Yup, she's gonna fit in just fine here.
The (in)famous blogger Fresh Pepper? has a new link in his sidebar -- ME!!!!!!! It was all I could do to keep from leaping from my chair and high-fiving Anne when she rushed over to tell me! He calls me P. Wench! Is that like P. Diddy? Am I cool now? I'M SO EXCITED and HONORED and FREAKED-OUT and HUMBLED all at the same time! Opps -- I think I just peed a little.
And while these are all wonderful things, the best way to celebrate Talk Like A Pirate Day is to go home, drink some rum, think of me and touch yourself.
Aargh!
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (4)September 15, 2005
Much Ado About VAGINA
If you're squeamish, seriously, don't read this. Do us all a favor. Mom, this means you. You, too, Anne.
So, this is a conversation I had recently with my friend, whom I will refer to as X, for reasons that should be clear from the title:
PW: When do you wanna meet at the mall?
X: I have an appointment to see my gyne at 9:45, so I'll call you when I'm done.
PW: Oh, fun.
X: Yeah, I've been bleeding the past two nights after having sex. And it's not time for my period, so I'm kinda freaked out.
PW: You had sex two nights in a row?!
X: Yeah.
PW: What are you -- a machine?!
X: Well, we were on vacation with all our friends and didn't have sex for, like, a week.
PW: Gee, a whole week, huh? Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?!
X: We had to make up for lost time!
PW: Whatever.
X: The nurse on the phone said it's probably just a simple infection.
PW: Were you swimming? I swear, I get some kind of infection every damn time I go in a public pool. I don't care how much chlorine they use -- those things are like petrie dishes.
X: No, I wasn't swimming... I'm trying to think of where my cooter has been, but it's only been in my undies and with [X's husband].
PW: Well, that's good to hear. I thought maybe you were a hooker, what with all the HAVING SEX TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW!!!
(Disclaimer: X's cooter is now fine, so, although I may be disgusting and completely void of compassion, as least I'm not inviting bad karma by posting this.)
Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (6)September 14, 2005
Chippewa Falls, Part II: Dinner In the Storm
We are loud people, we bottle blowers. We're the people you don't want to sit near in a theatre. We're the people to whom you say, "Oh, that's okay, I'll catch the next elevator." We're the people you dread seeing walk into your fine dining establishment.
As was the case at the Chippewa Falls supper club... whose name escapes me, so no free plug for them!
They totally saw us coming. K probably told him over the phone, loudly, (in March, when she made the reservation), "We'll be in town playing at the Leinenkugel brewery!" And they were like, "Crap, put those lushes on the porch. Alone."
Which they did. And it was actually quite lovely. The weather forecast called for a pleasant night, we had a delightful view of... some river. Chippewa River, perhaps? I don't know -- damn public school edumacation. There was no one around to purse their lips and flare their nostrils at us, and we were assigned two very loud and capable waitresses, probably flown in from Camp David just for us.
We all ordered drinks, asking about the wine selection as if we don't normally drink our's out of a box. The waitress asked if we'd care to smell the spigot, but we declined, as we were too busy deciding which deep-fried appetizers to order. We were in Wisconsin, after all.
The sun started going down as we drank and waited for our Beer-Battered Sampler Platter, and it started to drizzle a bit. But we are hearty folk with much natural insulation, so when the waitresses started apologizing and fretting about our comfort, we poo-pooed their concerns.
"Oh, we're fine! It's going to take a lot more than a few drops to make us go inside with those fair-weather sissies! We thrive on the fresh air! We are too full of life to be caged by your dining room! We laugh at your concern -- Ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaa!"
But as we were dipping our friend cheese curds into our ranch dressing, the wind picked up, and it began to get a bit damp for the people on one side of the table -- my side. Still, we are Midwestern Lutherans, not accustomed to making a fuss, especially over the weather. So we put our sweaters and jackets over our shoulders and ordered our entrees.
Looking back, that's where we went wrong. We thought: The surf-n-turf was ordered. We're committed. We can't move now. So we bundled up as best we could. Deb and Jules looked quite fetching cloaked in the tablecloths from a couple of unused tables nearby. I had rain blowing sideways into my left ear, but I refused to put up my hood. What am I, an elf?
"Red sky at dawn. Blood has been shed this night."
Even Orlando Bloom looks like a dweeb in a hood. There's no way I was wearing one! So I kept getting colder, along with everyone else. And our drinks got more and more diluted by the rain.
And then something very strange happened. My Dad asked me for the key to my car to go get his jacket. Now, my Dad's people are from the land of the Fjords, and he's been slowing embalming himself since 1956. For that man to get cold enough for a jacket?! Well, let's just say I knew we were not just being babies about the weather.
Reluctantly, we cursed Mother Nature, admitted defeat and requested a table indoors. But Mother Nature, as we know, must have her way, and she was determined that at least some of us were going to fall prey to pneumonia that night!
Dad came back from the car, empty-handed, and said, "The key's stuck in the lock. I couldn't get it out."
Now, here's the part where I would love to mock my Dad's incompetence and berate him for breaking my car, but it has happened once before that I couldn't get my key outta my car. So I'll have to cut Dad some slack. This time.
For the next half hour, we tugged and twisted and fiddled that damn key. In the rain. Dad with no jacket; I with no hood. Pausing only for a quick trip to the salad bar, and then back outside for more futzing.
Meanwhile, the hostesses set up a couple tables for us in the "Lounge" (read "Right Next To the Bar," which was perfect). Making sure to grab our silverware and our drinks, we migrated past a few dozen puzzled diners toward the warm, welcoming glow of the television.
I think Dad felt kinda responsible about the stuck key, cuz he totally took it upon himself to locate a locksmith who would come out on a Sunday night in the rain in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. And then the locksmith tugged and twisted and fiddled, to no avail. Soon, I was halfway through my filet mignon.
Then Dad came inside and said, "Craig got it."
Wait. WHAT?!?! Me, my mechanical engineer father and the locksmith have been screwing with that stupid key for over an hour, and the lawyer gets it out?! What'd he do -- talk it into giving up?! And where was he two hours ago?! BEFORE I made a locksmith come out on a Sunday night?!
But the locksmith turned out to be my kind of guy. He goes, "Well, normally, it would cost you $103.27 to have me drive 27 miles on a Sunday. But if you never saw me, I'll take fifty bucks cash."
Done and done!
Which reminds me, I still owe my Dad fifty bucks.
Posted at 12:49 PM | Comments (4)September 12, 2005
MY. MOM.
Older Sister (O.S., for the purpose of me being lazy and not wanting to type so many, many letters), owner of my trippy and talented Nephew, is one of those Moms that other Moms secretly resent.
This is her To Do List for a typical day:
1. Play computer learning games with Nephew.
2. Play board games with Nephew.
3. Hunt, capture and study disgusting bugs with Nephew.
4. Build Eiffel Tower out of popsicle sticks in living room.
5. Re-enact Civil War with Star Wars toys from Burger King.
Long story short -- this broad is a hands-on Mom. (Jesus, I'm getting tired just writing this.)
O.S.'s Husband (the O.S.H.) is hands-on, too, but to a somewhat lesser extent, since someone has to earn the money to pay for the field trip to visit the Colosseum.
In school on Friday, Nephew's class was told to draw pictures of their family members doing whatever it is that they do.
Nephew drew a very touching picture of he and O.S.H. holding hands and smiling. It was him and his Daddy playing and having fun, which is so adorable, I can't even make fun of it. (Remember this moment -- it doesn't happen often.)
And THIS is what he drew for O.S.:
Can you believe that?! First childbirth, now THIS?! God, it's like he's begging not to be allowed to taking Driver's Ed!
Nephew, for God's sake, she's building you a hang-glider in the garage so you can take arial photographs for your scrapbook! PUT DOWN THE CRAYONS AND BACK AWAY!
Although I kinda love how he uses blog-speak for the title:
MY. MOM. CAN. CLEAN.
And my sister, God bless her -- she just said, "Well, at least he thinks I clean the house!"
Posted at 06:44 PM | Comments (3)September 11, 2005
How Very Flanders-esque
A two-sided sign in front of a church in Lake County:
MEMEBERS ONLY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE BAPTIZED
And...
FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS
GO TO HELLPosted at 10:50 AM | Comments (1)
September 08, 2005
My Stars
Yahoo's Daily Scorpio Horoscope:
Your intensity is drawing people to you. You radiate power and confidence.
And I went through the whole day without knowing this. Damn. Another day of my natural animal magnetism, wasted.
Guess I'll go home, put on my sweats and eat some cheese.
Posted at 04:02 PM | Comments (2)September 07, 2005
Chippewa Falls, Part I: U.S.S. Disfunctional
Six a.m. is disorientingly early to be getting in the car to drive 320 miles to Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. And it's even worse embarking on said trip with Mom and Dad in the car.
Remember Sigourney Weaver's character -- Gwen DeMarco as "Lt. Tawny Madison" -- in "Galaxy Quest"? Her job on the Star Trek-esque spaceship was to talk to the computer because she was the only one it would respond to or something.
"I have one job on this ship! It's stupid, but I'm going to do it!"
I was Lt. Madison on the U.S.S. Disfunctional. It was my job to talk to Dad.
Now, Mom knows that Dad is half-deaf. I know she knows because she complains about it all the time. But does she compensate for that when she talks? Does the woman, who makes it necessary to hold the phone two feet away from my head while having a phone conversation with her, raise her voice to talk to her husband? No.
She mumbles something from the back seat, and then it's my job to repeat it loudly to Dad, who then answers it loudly, as if Mom were the one whose hearing has been compromised by the ravages of time and way too many homemade explosive/firearm experiments.
So you can see why it was a loooooooooooooong drive, eh?
Luckily, we're mostly not a chatty family, so it wasn't a constant thing. Well, Mom's chatty, but only with herself.
There was a fourth person in my car. Emily. She looks like a pixie, plays bagpipes and is quite adept with a seatbelt, as she demonstrated over and over in helping Mom buckle-up for safety.
Soon after we stopped for breakfast at McDonald's, Dad licked his napkin and started rubbing furiously at the middle console/armrest in my car. I figured he had sloshed some coffee, but then I remember the gaping wounds that he sustained on his left arm when the fireplace at the cabin jumped right out in front of him in the middle of the night.
"DAD! Did you get blood on my car?!"
"Yeah. The scabs are starting to come off."
"Oh, for the love of -- do you have some Band-Aids handy?"
"Yeah."
"Well? PUT THEM ON!"
Technically, he probably should have gotten stitches, but when he went to the local Door County tavern for medical help, they just gave him some Band-Aids and a Manhattan. But chicks dig scars, so he's all set.
Still, as much as the folks can make me wish they had sold me to the gypsies as a child, I think I got the drop on them. I had Emily bring some of the CDs, and I inflicted bagpipe music upon them for several hours straight. MWAH HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!
I love 'pipe and drums.
When I was little, and the whole family would pile in the car and drive to Door County, I would take two Dramamine and pass out in the far-back of the station wagon with the dog and the luggage. And now you know why.
Tomorrow: Chippewa Falls, Part II: Dinner in the StormPosted at 02:37 PM | Comments (1)
Swing Away
Okay, Queen of Ass. You were the 400th commenter -- you ask the question.
Best to stick to the rules, especially since I'm completely anal retentive anyway.
Posted at 09:03 AM | Comments (1)September 06, 2005
I Play Bottles
We had an all-employee meeting today, and I'm terrified that, if I pay too much attention during these State of the Union speeches by our company's V.P., I might accidentally learn something about insurance. That is one thing I just could not abide, so I used the time to handwrite lots of blog material about my trip to Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, over the weekend. Then I realized -- hmmm, I should probably explain why I was in Chippewa Falls over the weekend. It was a working vacation of sorts.
My family is part of a musical-comedy group, I think I've mentioned before. We play bottles. No, really. Our director arranges pre-existing songs -- anything from Bach to the blues -- and we blow, hit and pluck bottles to make the music. My expertise is the bottlephone, which is like a xylophone, but with bottles. Hence the name. I also sing occassionally, play cymbals, kazoo, whatever.
The bottlephone bottles are wine bottles, whiskey bottles, champagne bottles -- yeah, 99% of our bottles are liquor bottles. It just worked out that way. You gotta have a lot of picnics to empty a ketchup bottle, but only one to empty a bottle of gin!
For blowing bass notes, we use green glass Yago Sangria jugs, which were plentiful when the band started over 25 years ago. But they have since gone out of production, so if anyone has some in their basement or something, I will totally pay you to send them to me!!!
The rest of the bottles we blow -- the bottles we use the most of -- are Leinenkugel's. Out of the hundreds or bottles we emptied and tried, the Leinies produce the best sound most consistently. I couldn't make this stuff up, folks.
And, as retarded as it all sounds, we're pretty damn good. We've been on several radio and t.v. shows, including The Late Show with David Letterman -- TWICE. Plus hundreds of shows for various occassions, including weddings and the annual gathering of bishops from the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America.
All the money we make goes to various charities. In 25 years, I think it's safe to guess-timate that we've donated over $50,000, including a recent $5,000 donation to the victims of Katrina. I don't say this to brag, but just so that you know how rewarding it is. I get to perform, have fun, hang with friends, bask in applause and adoration, and help lots of people through donations and benefits. I am ridiculously lucky.
Being a part of this group has also afforded me opportunities to experience many things I wouldn't have otherwise. I played on the same stage that The Beatles performed on! I'll never get over that.
Anyhoo, since we empty a great deal of Leinenkugel bottles -- and we don't exactly keep that fact quiet -- we thought it would be a no-brainer for us to go perform in the Leinie Lodge. And after years of sending them tapes and letters, we finally got an invitation to go play in their gift shop. (Apparently, they have higher standards than Letterman. Go figure.)
Now, when I hear the words "gift shop," I picture a couple cramped aisles of snowglobes and collector plates in an 8" x 8" area. But the Leinie gift shop has two fireplaces, a dozen leather couches, and a BAR. Plus, more square footage than my house.
We had two 45-minute shows on Sunday, 1:00 and 2:15 p.m. But really, the shows are just a minor detail of the trip, and I'll tell you all about it over the next few days. If you still respect me enough to come back, that is.
Posted at 12:35 PM | Comments (5)September 05, 2005
400th Commenter, Give or Take
Okay, I have a conundrum here, people. Yes, besides not knowing how to spell.
See, my 400th comment was posted, but it was posted by Queen of Ass, who already posted my 300th comment and, thus, has already posed a query por moi.
So. Here are my options:
1. Adhere strictly to the rules and let Queen of Ass ask ANOTHER question. (Bear in mind where this led us last time.)
2. Let the 399th commenter ask a question. It's Uncle Twitchy, long-time, uh, friend and possible future host, should I run out of places to spend my exiles weekends.
3. Let the 401st commenter ask a question. It's Fresh Pepper, and he's FRESH! And he can make blueberry buckle, for God's sake!
4. Just let it all slide until the 500th comment.
5. Quit bothering y'all with this piddly shit when thousands of people are homeless and starving and what the hell is the matter with me, anyway?! (Insert obligatory plea to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina here, so I don't appear to be a callous bastard.)
Posted at 05:37 PM | Comments (4)September 02, 2005
The Fly Whisperer
I should have known this trip would be, um... eventful. PJ, Egrau and I all have a tendency to be, um... flighty.
It began at the Oasis, where Egrau and I picked up PJ. Ramone was gonna just drop her off there -- with the truckers and the seriel killers in the wee hours of the morning -- but luckily he stayed. Because I locked my keys in the car.
During the first hour of our trip.
Forcing Ramone to morph into MacGyver and open the door with an umbrella.
Ah, but the best was yet to come.
Now, we all know that I haven't been able to eat lately, and we all know why. But even more unappetizing was Egrau's trouble, which almost kept her from going on the trip. She contracted the Ebola virus. At least, I'm assuming it was Ebola. That's what I surmized from her description.
"You know, at my age," she said, "I thought there was nothing my body could do that would surprize me. But I was wrong."
And then she said something about corn, and I was done listening.
The point is, neither Egrau nor I had had much of an appetite lately, and we were both looking quite peeked and wan. (I've lost 6 lbs! Whoo!) But by the time dinnertime rolled around on Sunday, we were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves quite famished.
It was just sunset, and it felt good to be in a place where the night air is actually chilly -- good sleeping weather. We went to a restaurant with a beautiful, rustic, all-wood interior, a menu full of fish caught that morning by the owners, and a staff of three. We were the only diners, the other tourists having already vacated the town.
PJ and I both ordered the spaghetti with meatballs (I don't know how those Swedes do spaghetti so well!), and Egrau had the whitefish. We had each taken maybe half a dozen bites, when PJ started coughing and gagging.
Egrau goes, "Oh my God, she swallowed a fly! I watched it happen!"
PJ excused herself to the bathroom, and let's just say that the soundproofing in that place left something to be desired. Egrau and I just sat there, forks hovering mid-air, staring at each other in horror.
Barf.
Barf.
Pause.
Barf.
PJ emerged, quite shaken, but remarkably composed, in my opinion, considering the fly had exited her body THROUGH HER NOSE.
Yeah, that's right -- in through the mouth, out through the nose. Are you gagging right now? Cuz I am.
At that point, Egrau and I were done eating, and there was only one thing for PJ to do: ditch the dinner, grab a beer. There are some horrors that only alcohol can help.
I must say, she was quite jovial about the whole thing by morning, joking and laughing. And it wasn't long before I didn't feel bad at all about mocking her!
I give her props for handling it so well. I would have had to spend the rest of my life in a plastic bubble if some insect went spelunking in my sinuses. She's a good sport, that PJ.
And then she got stung by a bee on the ride home.
Posted at 11:05 AM | Comments (1)Hardcore
And his current favorite song is "School's Out" by Alice Cooper.
September 01, 2005
Wenchie Went On Vacation and All We Got Are These Lame-Ass Photos
Ah, a blogger's last resort. The post of laziness. The entry of ennui. Photos.
I know many of you were probably worried that I had been killed and eaten by my stepdaughters, but fear not -- I was able to hold them off with my ninja skills until Husband arrived home.
Actually, I was on VACATION for four days! Which was pure awesome! And relaxing! And fattening! And oh-ho-hoooooooooooooo, do I have the stories for you, my dearest minions! You're just going to have to wait until tomorrow because I'm currently suffering The Curse of the Vacationer, i.e. Lots o' Crap Piled On My Desk.
This is the back of my Explorer. Guess how many friends I took with me? Two -- PJ and Egrau. That's right. This is what three women needed to survive for four days and three nights. And we didn't even bring make-up!
This is my family's shack. I mean shanty. I mean cabin. It's a rear view, so you stalkers (you know who you are!) can't drive around Wisconsin and look for my cabin, in order to catch a glimpse of me drinking Kaluha at 7:00 a.m. and yelling at PJ to hurry up in the shower because I have a turtle head poking out.
This is some of the scenery from our hike through the woods. "But Wenchie, that doesn't look like woods." Right you are! That's the beach. After hiking past thirty "NO TRESPASSING" signs and five barking dogs, we decided that walking back along the beach was less likely to earn us an ass full of buckshot. But we did get scolded by an old lady, which was awesome, and I totally felt like The Little Rascals.
Here are some of the new animal friends we made. This petting zoo cow can put it's tongue up it's own nose, and did so many times. I don't know if he was trying to dislodge a booger or just gross us out. The motives of cows continue mystify me, despite all the time I spent with them in the wild, learning their ways and eventually being accepted into the group.
This is a goat up on the roof of the famous Al Johnson's Restaurant, where we had tastey Swedish pancakes and an even tastier waiter. I'm not sure whether this goat was letting me know what he thought of me, or if he considers this his best side for photos. I know even less about the ways of goats than I do of cows.
And tomorrow:
There was an old lady
Who swallowed a fly.
I don't know why
She swallowed a fly.
Perhaps she'll die!