June 30, 2006
Not Yer Run o' the Mill Clutter
I can't lift my arms over my head today, despite them being pumped-up to near-Schwartzenegger size. I had to bend over to wash my hair. My torso didn't get soaped at all. I apologize to all my co-workers, it was just too much to ask.
My father, the brilliant mechanical engineer, doesn't know how to pack a box.
No, I have to go back farther than that -- my parents are moving. Moving from their huge, 1900's farm house to a 1960's ranch. A decision it took my mother ten years, five temper tantrums, three nervous breakdowns, two death-threats and one chronically painful leg to convince my father that it's the right thing to do.
The farm house is almost 100 years old. As are my parents. It has four bedrooms upstairs, two staircases, a parlor, a maid's room, PLUS a full basement and attic. It's HUUUUUUUUUUGE. And it's on a double lot.
That's a lot of space to maintain, so this move is actually a really good thing. But, as to be expected, it's causing a lot of stress, drama and commotion. Three things they haven't had to deal with since Billi's last day as a teenager in 1991.
Recently, my parents' realtor told them to move some of their "clutter" to the new house because prospective buyers will want to picture their own clutter in the old house.
[Wenchie deadpans to the camera.] Dude, it's aaalllllll clutter.
My parents have lived in that house for -- what -- thirty-five years? That's thirty-five years of clutter, accumulated by a man who has been garbage-picking since he was tall enough to peek inside the cans. My mother was forced to burn down their old garage in order to acquire a new one that she could actually fit her car into. (True story.)
Now, my mom packed up the usual Clutter Suspects, per the realtors instructions: photos, knick-knacks, brick-a-brack, gagadills and tchatchke. Like a normal person. She carefully wrapped the fragile things and -- here's the key -- made sure a normal person could still lift the box.
Dad, on the other hand, packed his entire encylopedic set of Arms & Armor into one box. Weapons & Weaponry was also crammed into a single box, and -- you guessed it -- War & Warfare also got it's own, solitary box. No lids because the books are too big.
AND? He packed them on the floor. So I go into the basement to help him, and scattered all over the floor are boxes crammed full of the hugest, heaviest books you've ever seen.
I'm like, "Dad, how am I supposed to carry these? Let alone get them off the floor?!"
And he goes, "But you're my strongest daughter!"
I'm gonna assume he meant it as a compliment, but "strongest" treads close to my favorite word of his for me -- "sturdy." Yeah.
Thank Yahweh that Dad found a hand cart to move those things because I had forgotten to bring my Arc of the Covenant. You know, I had the Arc in my car for weeks and had just taken it out the day before to take Daisy to the vet. Figures!
Upstairs, mom continued to move things like small tables and the umbrella stand.
Down in the basement, Dad gave me more stuff to lug out to my car. And lemme just say, a Ford Explorer is the next best thing to the Arc of the Covenant because we loaded:
1) a cement statue of nude young women,
2) many guitar and banjo cases,
3) various nautical lanterns,
4) two three-foot tall, cast iron, French knights; and
5) a life-sized painting of my father, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword.
And why, you ask, does my father have a life-sized painting of himself, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword? Because he didn't want a life-sized painting of himself, from the feet up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword. So he cut off the bottom half.
And it still creeps the bejeezus outta me.
Finally, my car could hold no more, so we drove to the new place. Where my father proceeded to make himself a Manhattan.
My parents don't have food in the new place. No t.v. or radio. No towels. No kleenex. This carload of crap constitutes Thee First Official Posessions that have entered the new house. And yet? Somehow, there's whiskey, vermouth and bitters.
The second thing Dad did? Made ice.
Posted at 12:20 PM | Comments (4)June 29, 2006
Even Barbies Get Self-Conscious
I have not one damn thing to do at work today. Okay, not entirely true -- I filed four pieces of paper for Chick Boss, and I have to enter five checks that came in. But you can see how it'd be easy to mistake that for not one damn thing to do, no?
Yesterday was the same way, so I spent the better part of my day snort-giggling over the sheer comic genius of Alien Loves Predator. So much so that I sent a link to Husband, who ALSO thought it was funny. Which now brings the total of Things Husband And I Agree Are Funny up to a whopping three.
1. Kathy Griffin
2. Farting and/or Pooping
3. Alien Loves Predator
Last night, Husband was still singing the praises of A.L.P., when he said to me, "You should do that with your Barbies! You already take pictures of them for your blog, right?"
Oh my God. I could TOTALLY DO THAT!!!
Wait. Could I?
Well, I'm practically doing it already, just on a smaller scale. And I'm funny, right? Take photos, add captions -- BINGO!
So I ran the idea past Heather this morning, and we were reduced to puddles of pee while exploring the possibilities. I'm really jazzed about the whole thing, and I was considering feigning "female trouble" to The Boss in order to buy myself an unquestioned day off.
But I figure I should start small and see if I have any sort of penchant for this sort of thing. And small means I can get started using what limited resources I have available to me at work.
And you know what I discovered? Cartooning is HARD. Dude, I am so not funny! But with the help of Heather, the Barbie Collector Website and many, many hours of idle boredom, I came up with a few that I'm not too ashamed to include here.
Nope, I was wrong. I am ashamed.
Posted at 02:28 PM | Comments (3)June 28, 2006
469 on Thee eBay
I think I've mentioned before that I eBay a little. Okay, I eBay a lot! (Is eBay a verb?) I was going to write about how geeky I am when my feedback hit 300, but that moment came and went rapidly. Now I'm at 469, and 300 is like Pfft, 300 is for pussies. I'll blog it when I hit triple digits.
Anyhoo, whenever I list stuff, I always send Heather a link cuz she likes to point and laugh at the crazy lady who tries to add a little humor to her eBay photos and descriptions. When she saw this one, she insisted that I blog it. And I always do what Heather says. (That's my story, and, under the advice of my lawyer, I'm sticking to it.)
Heather has entitled this photo "What up, bitches!"
The doll was not actually for sale -- the auction was for the nightie. But it just looks so naughty on, I had to have PJ model it. Seriously, Mattel sold this outfit to little girls in 1962. And people complain that Bratz dolls are too trampy? Fugly, yes, but trampier than this? No one out-tramps a Barbie, bucko!
(Golly, when did I start channelling Richie Cunningham?)
And since we're doing Barbie, I had to include this one as well.
I call it, "Who has balls? Oh, nevermind -- I do."
Dude, you'd better hit those tennis balls right at Barbie because if she has to run around to hit them and breaks a sweat, she's going to come right over that net and give you a beating that would make Alexis Carrington cringe! That skirt didn't pleat itself!
Posted at 01:58 PM | Comments (5)June 27, 2006
The Social Event of the Yarrrr: Part I
So I got an Evite the other day, and in the email it just said:
What do you do with a drunken sailor? Bring 'im to the Block Party.
And there was a pirate flag.
I'm intrigued...
TO SAY THE LEAST!!!
I clicked on the link to find out that Nicholle is participating in a PIRATE THEMED BLOCK PARTY!!!
Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love her more. *sigh*
Oh, and? Her sister Vicki, of Retarded German fame, was like, "Well, you have to invite Wenchie!"
I think I'm falling for Vicki now, too. Vicki is starting a band called "Smelly Pirate Hookers," and I'm going to play spoons. I've already come up with my Pirate-Indian name -- Will Blow Parrot For Rum.
Anyhoo, I immediately sprang into action and sent Nicki links for Pirate Food and Pirate Supplies and Pirate Jargon and Pirate Costumes. Aye, a good Pirate Wench always has two things at the ready -- a weapon, and many pirate-related links. What -- you think it's easy being a pirate in 2006?!
Within twenty-four hours, Nicholle and her hubby were at my place picking up my Dad's cannon and ship's wheel. Yes, my Dad always has a cannon and ship's wheel at hand. Believe me when I say -- those are the two least bizarre things he has in the basement of the house in which I grew up. Explains a lot, don't it?
Not to be outdone, Nicholle started brainstorming on the theme and decided she's transforming their garage into a pirate port-of-call. And she sent me this list of possible signs and slogans:
One Eyed Willie's CruiselineCome Rest Yer PegLeg at the Salty Beagle
Wet yer Whistle at the Salty Beagle
Ration of Rum - 6 gold Doubloons
We Card Hard - No Cabin Boys Allowed
While yer in port - get yer Rum on at the Salty Beagle
Swashbuckling Every Night at the Salty Beagle
The Salty Beagle - the Dog is Small - the Rum is Large
As you might have guessed, she has a beagle, named Charlie. I'm not certain whether or not he's actually salty; he has licked me, but I have not returned the favor.
Only Nicholle can make me pee in my pants and wonder what Pirate Karoke might be like...
Oh, I'm totally singing, "Brandy."
But my life, my love and my laaaaady... Is the sea (Doo doot 'n' doooooo doo-doo)
[COMING SOON! Well, after July 15th... The Social Event of the Yarrrr: Part II -- PHOTO SPREAD!]
Posted at 02:13 PM | Comments (3)June 26, 2006
Facial Quality
When I went to the bathroom just now, there were two stacks of boxes outside the door, obviously for restocking. One was paper towels. The other was:
Facial Quality Bathroom Tissue
Wha-huh????
Okay, I'm assuming that Bathroom Tissue is what they call toilet paper in polite circles. Because paper towels are taken care of in the other stack of boxes, and there's no kleenex in the bathroom. One can only conclude that Bathroom Tissue is what we all use to wipe our hoo-has and/or sphincters.
So.
Why use the qualifier Facial Quality???
I don't want to think about using something on my butt that I'd use on my face, or vice-versa! It's all so weird! Like, this is their way of saying -- Soft enough for your face, but made for your ass? That's a terrible marketing idea!
Especially when you consider that their so-called Facial Quality Bathroom Tissue is barely preferrable to drip-drying. I gently exfoliate my face in the shower every morning; I'd never let that burlap near my face.
Yes, these are the things I think about while I pee.
(I really should make a new Category called Potty Talk or something; it's such a common topic with me.)
Posted at 01:51 PM | Comments (0)June 23, 2006
Being a Woman Is Hard
It's the answer you've all been waiting for -- YES, I finally have an outfit for the two weddings!
Losin' sleep, werentcha?
One night last week, I drove all the way home to pick-up Heather (who is carless, which, to me, she might as well be homeless, it's so unfathomable). Then I drove all the way back where I came from because my office is literally right across the street from The Big Huge Awesome Mall.
Stupid Heather and her stupid carlessness.
We arrived around 7:00 and immediately headed into Nordstrom's because that's Where You Go when you have to be Ultimate Arm Candy.
Nuthin'. Got a little excited about a Carmen Miranda-esque skirt but couldn't find anything to go with it. Imagine that.
Next up -- J. Jill. Found an ADORABLE skirt but, again, nothing to go with it.
(Riveting storytelling, I know.)
Banana Republic (or BanRep, as I like to call it -- I'm hoping it catches on) yielded yet another fabulous skirt, like this one but in sky blue so gorgeous it's edible.
By then I was sick of finding amazing skirts and nothing to match them. Sick of standing naked in a dressing room while Heather brought me armfulls of clothes. Sick of looking at myself under fluorescent lights.
So I wimped out and got this little twinset in white. A cop-out, I know, but it was 8:55, the stores were closing, and I was groggy and crabby from lack of food.
But I have the perfect jewelry to tie it all together: borrowed a multi-blue Brighton necklace from Billi, and I got the matching bracelet on eBay. They so nicely highlight my grey-blue eyes, if I do say so myself. But I don't like the matching earrings, so I just got some grey pearl studs, also on eBay. Ah, eBay -- is there anything you can't do?
But even with adorable, Stepford outfit and eye-enhancing jewelry, I was still only partway to my goal of Ultimate Arm Candy.
Yesterday at lunch, I took a team of very well-dressed salaried staff women to DSW to find me some sandals that don't make me cry. I basically went fetal in the loafer aisle while they shopped within my parameters:
1) No really high heels.
2) Nothing between my toes.
The result is a pair of simple, white slingbacks with a kitten heel. (The met just heard "The result is blah blah white kitten blah blah," and are now totally confused.) I didn't trip on the practice walk, so I'm greatly encouraged.
Awesome, awesome me! Fabulous skirt? Check! Adorable twinset? Check! Stunning jewelry? Check! Strappy sandals? Check! Matching purse?
Purse?
Purse?!?!
FUCK!
No, I don't have a white purse! Why would I own a white purse? I never wear white!
Deep cleansing breaths, Wenchie. You'll get through this.
Okay.
I'll forgo the purse for the wedding I'm singing at tomorrow cuz I'm not even going to the reception. (Have cousins coming in from Norway on Sunday I must prepare for. And not be hung-over for. They are sure to yeild at least a couple humorous posts, I'm sure. Because foreign = funny!)
I'm currently watching several white leather Coach wristlets on eBay. I'm sure to get one before the July 8 wedding, right? Right?!
Posted at 02:36 PM | Comments (7)June 22, 2006
Catholic Guilt Is Not a Myth
You know all the stereotypes about Catholic Guilt? I am sure they all got their start in my friend, PJ. PJ makes the Pope proud. She's on his Christmas card list.
Every once in a while, I'll get a phone call from PJ, apologizing for something that, a) she never did; or b) I have absolutely no recollection of. In either case, she is often begging my forgiveness as I stare off into space and try to conjure up what in God's name she could possibly be talking about.
I received such a call this afternoon.
PJ's all, "I was walking down the hall, and all of a sudden, I saw your face in front of me, with your stern eyebrows and pursed lips, and I realized that you were mad at me!"
And I'm thinking, Oh, Lord, what did she imagine doing now?
As she continued to babble, it slowly became clear to me what she was talking about.
On our vacation, PJ, Egrau and I stopped at Kopp's in Milwaukee for the best damn frozen custard on the planet. And yes, I have tasted all the other frozen custard on the planet. I get around.
While eating, we noticed a young lady in line with such severe VPL, I thought she might be one of those circus freaks who was a twin that didn't really separate, so they have some weird, superfluous body part -- namely, an extra set of buttocks.
Egrau and I laughed, and PJ asked what VPL is, so we told her -- Visible Panty Lines.
"It's why I always wear a thong with jeans," I explained.
"But why wouldn't you just wear looser jeans?"
And this was the ghost in the form of Wenchie's pursed face that was haunting PJ. See, she meant the you as in y'all everybody in general. Whereas I thought she meant you as in you tight-jeans-wearin' whore Wenchie.
So I gave her a dirty look. And then promptly forgot about it because I am a tight-jeans-wearin' whore, so why quibble about it?
But no, Patti's guilt lay dormant and festered for twenty-four hours and then manifested itself in an apparition of my pursed face. And she did use the word pursed a lot.
She goes, "Please forgive me and make your face go away!"
Uh-huh. So now she has a whooooooooole new issue to feel guilty about. I'm expecting another phone call this evening.
Posted at 03:53 PM | Comments (3)June 18, 2006
Move 'Em On, Head 'Em Up, Rawhide
Oi, I have been on my feet since 7am Friday. Deeds include defrosting and cleaning out the entire fridge, organizing a five-family garage sale, and hosting a Father's Day BBQ. Hence my absence on Friday.
And, I'm sorry to break it to you, I will forthwith continue to be absent until Thursday. I got an emergency telegram from Wisconsin that the economy needs more bolstering, and I'm just the gal to bolster it. I'm even bringing in The Big Guns to help me -- Egrau and PJ.
Until then, my lovelies, sleep well and dream of me. Perhaps, upon my return, Garrance will have made his requests...?
Posted at 09:55 PM | Comments (2)June 15, 2006
Barbies 'n' Beige
Photo spread today because I'm moonlighting at work. Doing a PowerPoint presentation for a co-worker's husband, for which I'm being paid. Haven't decided how much, yet, 'though...
Anyhoo, it took much searching and toil on eBay to finally bring together this vintage vacation-in-Holland look for Midge and Allan (Barbie and Ken's best friends, duh):
And since that small glimpse of my desk no doubt left you wanting to see more, here's where the magic happens:
Now you know why some of my posts are so uninspired. Could there BE any more beige?!
Posted at 04:00 PM | Comments (5)June 14, 2006
Flick!
Has this ever happened to you?
You've got a tiny bit of a drippy nose one day, due to allergies or something. Not really worth blowing your nose for -- just annoying and there.
So you're chatting with someone, and they say something mildly amusing, so you give a tiny laugh. Only it's more of a small, quick exhale through your nose than an actual laugh.
And a tiny bit of your drippy mucus kinda flicks out of your nose or does a bubble-pop or something, and the only way you even know is because you feel it. But you stand there, horrified, wondering frantically if the person you were talking to saw it.
Is it just me? Because I've never noticed it happen to anyone else.
So, either I am the only one in the world this has ever happened to; or it has happened to everyone at one point or another, and it's just not something you notice on other people.
Needless to say, I'm hoping it's the latter.
Posted at 01:12 PM | Comments (6)June 13, 2006
My Hate For All Things Strappy
I am morose and limp with apathy today. No inclination to blog. I shall go home, flop on the futon and drink beer from a coffee mug.
Why? ask my beloved readers (both of you), ever concerned for my health and well-being.
Because I have TWO weddings coming up, and nothing to wear.
Yes, nothing to wear. Men, these three words may elicit weary eye-rolling from you, but from us women, it falls nothing short of SHEER TERROR.
I literally have nothing to wear to a summer wedding, as the last one I attended was my own. You men have it soooooo easy, and I say that with so much derision that I had to wipe spittle off my monitor. Suit, shirt, tie, whatever. It never changes, it can be worn anywhere, any time, any place.
I envy you.
Last wedding I went to, I wore black skirt, black shoes, colorful top. But I know that's a look that says, "I didn't know what to wear, and I waited until the last minute, and this was my fallback position." Booooooooooooor-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!
Oh, and the other factors? The chilling, mind-exploding factors? It's not like this is just Heather's wedding (to which I am dressing like a pirate -- for reals).
The first wedding? I'm singing for it.
The second wedding? Is one of Husband's employees, so I have to be Stepford Arm Candy that night. I have to look classy. I have to act classy. I have to smell classy.
And dudes? I ain't classy.
Here's my entire wardrobe:
Work:
* Jersey-knit pants in black, brown and grey.
* V-neck shirts and sweaters in various colors, never tucked in.
* Medium-heeled loafers in black, brown and grey.
* Silver jewelry, so it's not too obvious that my outfit is just one step above pajamas.
Going out:
* Levi's 515 jeans, low-rise, bootleg, in blue, grey or tan.
* V-neck shirts and sweaters in various colors, never tucked in.
* Medium-heeled boots in black or brown.
* Silver jewelry.
Staying home:
* Hello Kitty! pajamas.
* Pink slippers.
Was I wrong? NOTHING TO WEAR.
I just spend the past two hours looking at Special Occasion Dresses and Strappy Sandals on Nordstrom's website. Everything formal is strapless or spaghetti straps, and with shoulders like a linebacker, I just don't do bare shoulders. Or bralessness. Plus, there's the tattoo to contend with...
I just went and got me a pack o' Ho-Hos. Dinner tonight? A brick of cream cheese.
Posted at 12:24 PM | Comments (8)June 12, 2006
I Knew I'd Rue the Day
Ladies and gentlemen... and the rest of you: the 1000th commenter is... Garrance of Jello Fame!
And the winning comment? Added to the post about my mini chairs (which generated more comments than anything I've written in the past several weeks -- you people are maddeningly unpredictable!):
Where are those Christmas trees from Wisconsin?????????????????
Ah, Garrance, such a wordsmith. Such a lover of question marks. And Christmas trees. And yea, a lover of Wisconsin.
And ironically enough, his comment wasn't -- technically -- even about this post, but rather a post from earlier in the week.
Okay, Garrance, Gar-Bear, GarBaby, Garrance Garranstein, for your efforts (pathetic as they may be), you are entitled to the following three things... because 1000 has three zeros or something:
1. A photo spread of the infamous Wisconsin Christmas trees, to appear in this blog as soon as we get the damn thing outta my car and find a place for it in the house. (Yes, it's still in my car! So what?)
2. You may ask me any question in the universe, and I will answer it, completely and truthfully, right here in my blog, for all the world to see.
3. Because you are the 1000th commenter, because you broke the four-digit barrier, you may make any request of me that you wish. Providing it doesn't get me beaten up by K, cuz she's scary as hell. Any request, any belonging, any favor, any thing -- it's yours for the asking.
Bring it, sistah.
[And because I can't resist the potty humor: Boy Child and Girl Child stayed at our place over the weekend. They were really good, except for when Boy Child firehosed the entire bathroom. I didn't give him anything else to drink for the entire weekend.]
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (2)June 09, 2006
I Got the Bottom Three
I have been wanting a set of these miniature chairs from Pottery Barn since 2004. I don't know why. We've discussed my mini-chair fetish with no insights forthcoming -- let's just accept it as reality and move on.
I found half the set on eBay, and that's quite enough for me. Because, really, who needs six miniature chairs when three miniature chairs is plenty? I mean, six miniature chairs?! That's ridiculous!
The woman who sent them must've only wanted three of the set, also, because the three she sent me still had tags on them. Each chair had a tag that admonished me "Decoration Only." Well, good thing they told me! I was going to sit in one! THAT would have been embarassing, eh? Especially the trip to the E.R. for removal...
Anyhoo, here are the chairs, quite at home on our bedroom wall with the rest of the brick-a-brack.
Yes, that's a Christmas stocking and Santas. No, this photo was taken last week. What's your point?
Posted at 02:44 PM | Comments (8)June 08, 2006
Products Already Delivered
So. I have a male friend -- well, actually, I have many, but this one shall remain nameless, for reasons that will become clear.
This friend recently celebrated twenty years of not getting fired. For this auspicious occasion, his company gave him a catalogue and told to pick out anything he wanted, which would be his anniversary gift.
The selection was nice. And by nice, I mean nice, in the blandest sense of the word. Quality merchandise, yet... nothing a normal person would actually want, you know? Binoculars, chess set, grandfather clock -- that sort of shit. Grown-up executive shit.
So he emailed me a link and asked me what I thought he should get, since he had no idea. See, this is where my shallow materialism comes in handy helping others. I'm practically Mother Theresa. Only taller.
I clicked through, nodding off, until -- what to mine eyes should appear but a BLACK, LEATHER COACH PURSE!
I'm like, "Dude, get the Coach purse and give it to me!" In jest, of course, because it's not my anniversary. And did I mention he's happily married?
And he's like, "Okay!" And I'm like, "I was kidding. You can't do that. Your wife will kill you." And he's like, "What's she going to do with it?"
He had a point there. His wife is a total hippie and couldn't care less about a Coach purse. Or any purse, really. Or bras. But whatever -- I was totally kidding (only a tiny bit kinda not), and he took me seriously when, really, he should know better.
The other day, a package arrived, prompting me to immediately spring onto IM, like Lindsay Lohan springing onto one of Paris' ex-boyfriends.
Wenchie: I HAVE COACH PURSE!
Male Friend: Yes, yes you do!
W: OMG, I saw the same one at Nordstrom's yesterday
MF: Did you make out OK? I have no idea what they are worth...
W: dude, they didn't even have a price tag on it, and it was behind locked glass cuz if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
MF: Yikes!
W: that size? leather? about $200, I'm sure
MF: Wow. I rock.
W: YOU TOTALLY DO! I think this is it
MF: Yeah, I think that's it. I didn't pay that close of attention. Kind of like you get when I start talking comics or computers.
W: I'm sorry, what?
MF: Brat.
W: oh, how I love this one, but I'd get it dirty in 2 seconds
MF: Um...OK.
W: and they have SHOES that MATCH!
MF: Seems like something that [my 6 year old daughter] would carry, but whatever floats your boat.
W: bitch, please, that purse is worth more than she is
MF: Well, I could see that for easter or something... Nice poofy dress. Pumps and white gloves. And a big easter bonnet.
W: in all seriousness, this is the one I would sleep with you for, in white. wow, I'm such a whore
MF: $450? Damn. Not sure you're worth it...
W: oh I'm totally not worth it, are you kidding?
MF: I think, $250 is more in my price range. Hey, how about a hand job for products already delivered?
W: you're hilarious
MF: (I don't think you should blog that last part...)
W: (Oh, I won't)
Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (3)June 07, 2006
Wenchie Waxes Philosophical
Newsflash: I have been known to use some eyebrow-raising vocabulary on this blog.
Fuck, asshole, shithead, cunt, retard, dicksmack... Actually, I don't think I've used dicksmack, yet. Better get on that.
I use them because I think they're funny. I like words. I like to play with them. And I'm not going to limit myself to only those words it's okay to say in front of Grandma because I like to have a wide range to choose from.
(And, to my mother's credit, she has yet to chastise me about any of them. She's one cool broad.)
I don't really think there are any "bad words." Granted, I don't like being with Boy Child and Girl Child at the mall and seeing some skeez in a shirt emblazoned with The F-Bomb. That's just classless.
But is the word -- in and of itself -- "bad?" I don't think so.
What is a word but merely the expression of an idea? It's a name. It's not the thing it represents. And while the idea behind the word might lack the purest of motivations, is that the word's fault? No. The word is doing its job and clearly conveying the meaning.
So if someone is a total douche, doesn't it make sense just to call him a total douche? It's not a "bad word" if it's an accurate word. And should the wordsmith be condemned for using a word correctly, to best convey his/her message or thoughts? Again, I don't think so.
If I say, "Dean a really bad person." You'd figure Dean routinely comes in late for work and rarely picks up the tab at lunch.
But if I say, "Dean is a total dicksmack." It clearly conjures up the picture of a smarmy figure who steals money from his mom and routinely comes onto his buddies' girlfriends.
See? There's a difference. Just like there's a difference between irritated and totally fucking pissed off. They convey varying degrees of the same general principle and aren't always interchangeable.
I've had some people comment that my vulgar language is "beneath me." When, clearly, it's not. The only thing beneath me is my office chair right now, and I have no idea where I was going with all this. I guess I just wanted to get it off my chest.
Thanks for listening.
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (5)June 06, 2006
The Bitch with a Heart of Gold
Nicholle is an evil person, which is both: a) why I love her, and; b) how she puts up with me. The funny thing about her, though, is that I seem to be the only one who knows how evil she is (until now, I guess).
Everyone else in the world thinks she's a peach. She's sweet and adorable and charming..., until one has walked away. Then the whips out her voodoo doll and starts muttering curses and slaughtering chickens. She's so effortlessly duplicitous -- it's kinda scary and often makes me doubt my own sanity.
For example.
I'm in charge of our in-house company newsletter. I have help, but I do a lot of the work because I'm anal-retentive, and I want it the way I want it.
We have an office in Raleigh, NC, and they were kind enough to send me some tidbits for an article (the hoi polloi are not allowed to write their own articles). Apparently, in the space of one month, the Raleigh employees -- the whole damn office, mind you -- sponsored and worked a rest stop for a local MS walk, and helped old people in a retirement home color Easter eggs.
And it's not like it was during work hours, and they were being paid for it. On no. This was extracurricular, volunteer work.
I looked around my own office and thought, We are selfish, horrible people.
I also feel this way after Husband insists we watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." The person who gets the new house is always like some blind, widowed pastor, who is also an army veteran, with seventeen disabled, adopted children, in addition to her three orphaned nephews, who take in runaways, abandoned animals, and battered women, while running a soup kitchen and suicide hotline.
After seeing such selfless giving and looking around my own cushy lifestyle, I can't help but turn to Husband and ask, "Can we rescue a pony or something?"
I voiced my self-reflective concern to Nicholle, and she was very sympathetic. She even tried to help me think of ways our office could help out in the local community.
She reached deep inside her black heart and said, "How 'bout we do makeovers of other people in the building -- it will be fun and charity wrapped in one!"
See? This is why I love her.
Posted at 03:42 PM | Comments (1)June 05, 2006
Honey, I Found a Pine Tree for Forty Bucks!
This weekend, Billi and I bolstered the Wisconsin economy to the tune of $400 each. On pottery, antiques and folk art. Yes, Heather, folk art. (I love making her cry.)
We also ate ice cream for lunch each day. Two scoops in a waffle cone, and dude, those ice cream monkeys don't skimp. It was a total buttload of ice cream for four bucks (just look at my ice-cream-inflated butt to know what a buttload is).
Oberweis can kiss my dairy-saturated butt. You can't lick the sprinkles they spilled on the floor for four bucks at Oberweis. Now it's lunch time and where's my ice cream, dammit?!
Within a fifteen minute period, the following four things occurred:
1. I spilled Birthday Cake ice cream on my new Coach wallet, while trying to spit out a gnat.
2. I bought a seven-foot faux pine tree (complete with pinecones) for $40. Oh, yes I did! And I drove all the way home with the trunk protruding into the front seat of my Explorer, to earn myself the title of Best Wife Ever.
3. I ripped part of the pocket off my cute, cute embroidered jeans. While getting into my car. I have no idea how. Not a word about my butt, dicksmacks.
4. I was photographed and interviewed for an article for some tourist periodical, along with Billi. I'm never gonna live this one down.
So, yeah, pretty much a typical vacation weekend for me.
Among the things I purchased:
1. Two antique child-sized chairs. GOD, how I love little chairs. I don't know why, since I pretty much can't stand child-sized people. Perhaps I just enjoy the idea of them sitting uncomfortably on straight-backed, wooden chairs? Sit still, or you'll get the ruler again!
2. Faux tree. Well, trees, actually. It's a cluster of three trees on one base. One four feet, one five and a half feet, one seven feet. See, Husband makes original wooden Christmas ornaments every year, and we've been wanting a place to display them year-round. Geez, that declaration is even gayer in writing than it is verbally.
3. Two bud vases -- one pottery, one wood (purple heart). Apparently, diminutive vases hold the same appeal as diminutive chairs, and I've acquired enough in the past couple years to now warrant calling it a collection.
4. Small, partitioned, antique fruit crate, which I will stand on end on my dresser, to display my bud vase collection. I hate myself so much right now.
5. A jar of Cherry Honey Mustard Sauce. So yummy with pretzels!
6. Zest soap. It's the only thing that will sort of rinse clean in the damn soft water they have up there. Stupid well water! I HHHHHHHHHATE soft water. Can't get clean! Can't get clean!
I'm going back up on the 19th with Egrau and PJ. And I have permission from Husband to buy a ten-piece folk art nativity set. Yay! Weirdly-stylized baby Jeebus with chicken and bunny!
Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (2)June 01, 2006
At First I Was Afraid, I Was Petrified
Oh, Lord, I'm turning into Fresh, with the song lyrics as blog titles. But who doesn't hear that song in their head when they hear the word survive?! Or is it just me?
Oh, suuuuure, and I suppose I'm the only one who puts on glitter eye shadow and rainbow leg warmers, whips her hair around and sings into her thumb. Whatever. You guys are such liars. You all do it -- you know you do.
Anyhoo, now included in the vast array of Ways That Wenchie Is a Crappy Blogger is Reason Number 37: Didn't answer the question that Queen of Ass' earned by being the 900th commenter until it was nearly time for the 1000th comment.
If you were moving, and had NO internet connection for 10 WHOLE DAMN DAYS, how would you survive?
I'm double-awful because this question bears a sense of personal need and desperation, like she's actually seeking an answer, and yet, I totally forgot about it. It's a wonder I have any friends, isn't it?
But luckily, Marty is stalwart enough to put up with me because Marty is how I'd survive without Internet for ten days. When I had my surgery -- what is it, three years ago now? -- and couldn't move around much and couldn't go to work for six weeks, Marty hooked me up with a laptop and remote access and the whole works. And several seasons of "Buffy" on DVD. Marty rocks.
But that doesn't help you because Marty is here, and he's mine, and you can't have him.
The surgery is a story for another day. Remind me. (Man, I keep thinking of good lines for other entries -- not this one, obviously -- so I have to keep stopping and writing in other entries before I forget. So annoying!)
My other answer is a long, boring story about my childhood. Excited?
My family owns a summer home, a.k.a. log cabin, a.k.a. dilapidated shack, in Wisconsin. Yeah, it's a shack. My tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin roof... rusted. But it definately has its good points, such as: BEACH FRONT PROPERTY, BAY-BEEEEEEEE! Oh yeah, private beach. Also? Upkeep is minimal because why clean a dilapidated shack? Which leaves more time for drinking. And swimming. And napping.
Of course, those are grown-up activities. When I was a kid, Billi and I did kid activities. Biking, hiking, building a tree house, shooting beer cans off a log with a slingshot and a BB gun. (Older Sister was a teenager at that point and was no doubt too busy feathering her hair to hang out with us kids.)
I grew up in a beautiful, huge, old woodframe house built in 1908. It has servants' quarters. The woodwork is to die for. The lack of air conditioning is to die from.
When the weather went above 80, the house became unbearable, so Mom would pack us kids into the faux-wood paneled Mercury station wagon and take us up to the cabin, where Dad would join us on weekends.
And here's the stuff that makes Heather the Wisconsin-Hater weep softly. We bathed and washed our clothes in the lake. There are bats and mice and raccoons. There are four churches, three taverns, one grocery store and no movie theatres. And? We have no phone, no television and no radio.
(Actually, I'm going up there this weekend, and I'm bringing back a corn husk doll for Heather. And she'll be obligated to keep it because it's a sentimental gift from her dear friend.)
And the weird part? I never missed those things. And when I go there as an adult? I still don't miss them. So, yeah, Wenchie secretly has no problem living without technology (for pre-determined spans of time). I'm kinda embarassed by it, actually. It seems not to fit my persona, along with Fear Of Flying and Makes Herself Eat Yogurt Once a Day. But it's those little anomylies on my personality that make it so rich and fascinating, right? Right?
Don't get me wrong. I love my blog. LOVE, in the purest, strongest, most spiritual sense of the word. And I love eBay. I hate the thought that auctions are ending without me bidding on them. But... I just so love peace and quiet and stillness and doing nothing, that I'm pretty much okay without the Internet for ten days.
God, this turned into some gay, zen-like Glimpse Into Wenchie's Childhood. I'm so sorry, Queenie.
Of course, if I didn't have the Internet at work, I would impale myself right now on a company pen. But that's hardly good advice.
Hmm. I'm gonna have to think of something really special to do for the 1000th commenter. It's a landmark number that deserves special recognition. Any suggestions?
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (4)