July 31, 2006
Some Random Hazards of Office Life
GodDAMMIT! Who is using the only color printer to print twenty-four fifty-paged reports -- IN BLACK AND WHITE -- when I have to print ACTUAL COLOR DOCUMENTS?!?!
* * * * *
So this morning, all of a sudden, my left eye started killing me, and I knew my contact had some unwanted company in there.
So I flushed it out with wetting solution and all that stuff, but to no avail. And I could hardly keep my eye open, and all the tearing was making my nose run. I had to walk to the bathroom with my eyes closed, snot trickling down my lip.
Well, I got the contact out of my eye, and then I'm like, "Now what?"
I'd forgotten to even bring wetting solution, and Lord knows I'm not prepared enough to keep soaking solution with me.
The options before me:
1. Throw it out and walk around with double vision all day (I have astigmatism).
2. Try to scrape the offending particle off my contact, put the dry-as-unbuttered-toast contact back in my eye, and hope for the best.
I opted for the latter.
Turned out to be an eyelash, and by the time I got it off, there were a bunch of other unidentifiable specks on my contact. Without checking to see if it was inside-out or whatever, I jammed it back onto my eyeball.
My vision has been blurry ever since. I'm pretty sure I've contracted some horrible bacteria, and tomorrow morning, my eyeball will fall out of its socket and roll around until it is snatched up by some mangy monkey.
* * * * *
I just got back from the printer, where I found that someone had printed off the entire article about Lance Bass being gay.
This led me to wonder -- to whom in this office is this piece of information so crucial that they had to print off the article? And why?
* * * * *
I have a crush on the guy who works the little sundries shop downstairs (and I admit this, knowing that I will now be mercilessly taunted by the few co-workers who read this). He's a big, dumb moose, but he has pretty, pretty eyes.
Nicki and I went down to get a snack, and we were talking about our usual retarded stuff, and I go, "Ooh! I'll be famous!"
And Moose goes, "Can I come with? Strong back, weak mind!"
And, people, do you know how hard to had to bite my tongue not to say That's how I like 'em?
Nicki goes, "I heard you stop breathing."
That hard.
Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (3)July 28, 2006
Off to Boast and Brag with the Boys
Once upon a time, little eight-year old Wenchie's parents joined a community theatre group that performed solely the works of W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. (The name of that group is withheld to protect the asswipes, as well as the innocent.)
The little church at which these plays were performed, annually, was one block from her house. Naturally, during rehearsal season, Li'l Wenchie spent all her freetime there, sweeping up, watching, singing, painting, running around...
Okay, not naturally. Any normal kid would have been with other normal kids riding bikes or playing kick the can or whatever normal kids did back then before video games were prevalent. But my father had the tenor lead in "H.M.S. Pinafore," and by God, I memorized the entire opera at the tender age of nine. Hey, there was only one stereo in the house, and daddy needed to practice.
The years went by, and I watched from the lighting balcony as my parents and their friends became other people, donned ridiculous costumes, sang at the top of their lungs... and soaked up the applause. I worshipped them.
I thought to myself, "I can do that. That's gonna be me someday."
Of course, that someday wouldn't come until I was sixteen, as mandated by my parents. And if you know anything about theatre people, you know they were probably nuts not to make me wait until eighteen. But, hey, I sang alto then, and what chorus doesn't need a good alto who can sightread and hold her own part no matter who is shrieking in her ear?
More years passed, accompanied by voice lessons, and I went to each audition with high hopes. Not that I was in danger of being left out of the chorus, mind you -- no, I had loftier aspirations: a chorus lead!
Not a real lead. I'm not greedy. Just a small, supporting role that sings with the chorus and occasionally has a break-out verse of her own, or maybe a brief duet with a real lead. After all, it was my birthright, no? Weren't my parents founders of the group? Didn't I spend two decades doing ANYTHING that needed to be done behind the scenes? Don't I have a pretty voice and look like I'm eighteen on stage?
Yes, yes and yes.
But there were asses to be kissed, ladies and gentlemen. And Wenchie don't play that.
One year, not long ago, the role I wanted went to a sixteen year old diva with a vibrato you could fly a blimp through. And? I was asked to be in the mens' chorus because they were short on men and, hey, I know all the music to "Ruddigore" anyway, right?
I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed hysterically for hours. Not only was I not good enough to beat some fat, warbling bitch; I wasn't even good enough to be a woman.
That was my last year with that group. I never got to fulfill my dream. I never got to sing in their spotlight. I never got to have my parents watch from the audience and say, "That's our daughter!" I stood behind friends and enemies alike and was the pillar of the womens' chorus. And no one even bothered to throw me a fucking bone for my efforts.
The orgranization is defunct now, due to politics and egos and a dozen other factors. All the costumes and props are in storage indefinately, until the founding members decide exactly what to do. Oh, I could rally the troops and probably re-start the company... but why?
Wenchie has a new home now.
My voice teacher and fellow Thursday Dinner diner, K, finally succeeded in her nagging. And a year and a half ago, I joined a local choir organization. No costumes, no "roles," no spotlights. But it sure felt good to be singing again. And honestly? Felt good to be out of those damn period costumes!
And what do you know? This director likes me! Enough, in fact, to have given me solos in three out of the past four concerts!
Now, there are some serious voices in this choir. This is no rag-tag group of neighbors who got together and said, "Hey, let's put on a show!" These people are good, and for me to be counted among the best of them is incredibly humbling.
Of course, having been humbled doesn't mean I won't gloat... just a little.
On Saturday, we had our spring concert, the theme being "Sequels & Prequels." Gay, I know. What do you want? We're a choir. We sang selections from "The Wizard of Oz" and "Wicked," and "Camelot" and "Spamalot."
A (also from Thursday Dinners) and I sang the "romantic" duet from "Spamalot." And there are quotes around "romantic" because it's not very romantic, and because A is gay.
The song is called, "The Song That Goes Like This." Here are the lyrics, although, unfortunately, they don't specify who sings what. You can also go to Amazon and hear a snippet of it (it's no. 8), if you'd like.
But the snippet doesn't really give you a good idea of the vocal oomph the song requires. There are three key changes (a la Barry Manilow), and it ends on a high B-flat. You non-musicians won't be impressed, so I'll translate -- really, really high.
And in addition to requiring a set of lungs and a pretty voice, it also requires funny. Now, lots of singers -- especially amateurs -- take themselves waaaay too seriously to be funny. But that's where the Wench has a leg up because, let's face it -- I know from funny.
And if I may indulge in one of the Seven Deadlies for a moment... I sang the shit outta that song!
There were strangers coming up to me and gushing about how great our song was! Other soloists from the choir told me, "You guys were the hit of the whole show!" Imagine that!
Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Read all about it!
* * * CHORUS GIRL BECOMES STAR * * *
So, um, all you ex-G&S people? While you're cleaning out your storage locker? Be sure to eat your heart out.
Posted at 03:08 PM | Comments (2)July 27, 2006
Humid
I have to tell you about me weird dream about Fresh Pepper, but first, I have to complain about the weather.
It's hoooooooooooooooooooooooooot, you guuuuuuuys. Seriously, my deodorant has already given out by the time I arrive at work.
Last week, after work, I got into a car that was well above 100 degress inside. (My next car will be white!) And you know what happened? My usually supple, moist, youthful skin started to tighten. Right on my head! I could feel the heat wicking away my moist suppleness! It was insane!
And now, an IM conversation about the weather, between Billi and myself:
PW: don't go outside. it's a sauna
Billi: Ug.
Billi: I was gonna set up the pool for the kids.
Billi: I might die though.
PW: maybe it's less hot by you
Billi: It looks humid out.
PW: yeah, it's gross out
PW: I'm wearing a sweater cuz it's freezing at my desk
Billi: ha.
Billi: I'm wearing a tank top.
PW: wait -- you can SEE humid?
Billi: It's... like..... hazy.
Billi: and there was condensation on our windows this morning.
Billi: humid....
Billi: SHUT UP!
PW: HA!
PW: I'm blogging that. That was hilarious.
Billi: I'm so glad I can entertain all your readers.
PW: I'm also waiting for the right moment to blog, "I just had some underwear that I was going to put on, and now it's gone."
Billi: Who said that?!?!? about the underwear?
PW: YOU!
Billi: WHEN?
PW: several months ago
PW: I was dying! we were on the phone!
Billi: seroiusly? Why did I tell you that?
PW: I don't know -- you were probably muttering to yourself
Billi: I'm Mom.
PW: oh thanks for making me picture Mom without underwear
And since there's no graceful way to transition from that to Fresh Pepper, here's my dream about Fresh Pepper, even though he's "on hiatus," and I have no idea when/if he'll ever be back:
So Fresh and I apparently had a mutual friend, a guy. And Fresh had asked him to go make sure his apartment looked okay for some new girl he was bringing home. I happened to be visiting Mutual Friend at the time, so he brought me with.
What we found was that, in an effort to rid his apartment of all things that might keep him from getting a second date with the new girl, he had totally 40-Year-Old-Virgin-ed his apartment. It was bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard.
Mutual Friend was like, "Oh my God, she'll think he's a serial killer. We have to get some stuff back in here!"
So we went and got furniture and stuff from... somewhere. IKEA? That's what it looked like. And we totally feng-shuied his apartment and put it back together so it looked like a page out of the Pottery Barn catalogue. (Note to self: stop reading so many catalogues.)
As we were finishing up, I mused to Mutual Friend, "I suppose it would be tacky to take a picture of myself in Fresh's bed for my friend Nicholle. Cuz seriously, she'd DIE of jealously."
And Mutual Friend was like, "Yeah, that would be tacky."
Damn. But I was totally thinking of you, Nicky! Even in my dreams!
I think Mutual Friend and I are going to get those necklaces that say "MUT FRI" and "UAL END." Those are so bitchen.
Posted at 02:03 PM | Comments (0)July 25, 2006
Sorry I've Been So Remiss
The cold that I never got all winter has finally caught up with me and is kicking my snot-laden ass with a vengence.
I'll be back soon. I had the weirdest Nyquil-induced dream about Fresh Pepper...
Posted at 04:51 PM | Comments (1)July 20, 2006
The Bidding Starts at Five Dollars
Six months before their scheduled arrival, we found out that my Norwegians cousins were coming to visit us in July.
Two months before their scheduled arrival, my sisters and I hammered out the schedule of when they would be staying with whom.
One day before their scheduled arrival at our house, Husband put in a new, working toilet and sink.
No, not in The Pinecone Bathroom -- that one works. In The Headcheese Bathroom.
And why do we call it The Headcheese Bathroom, you query? Take a look for yourself.
Oh, yeah! That is prime 1968 real estate, bay-bee! Dig it! Of course, that brown, foil wallpaper is on the ceiling, too! You can't have too much of a good thing, know what I'm sayin'?
What's that? Oh, you want to see the sink counter closer? Well, check this out!
Hence -- The Headcheese Bathroom.
Now, over the years, many people have proclaimed our bathroom to be "Fabulous!" As a historical time capsule, perhaps -- but as an actual room in the home of not-completely-insane people? No. It's an atrocity.
Unfortunately, since we put off any work until the day before the Norwegians were due to arrive, we didn't have time for a complete gutting. Still, you can see how big of a difference just changing out the appliances made:
I tried, in vain, to cover up as much wallpaper as possible. The prints are tres chic, oui? I got them in a posh, little gallery called "IKEA." Perhaps you've heard of it?
The sink and counter are still in one very large piece in our garage. No doubt they will soon end up on a friend's lawn, in the dead of night. Probably filled with geraniums.
Posted at 02:27 PM | Comments (4)July 19, 2006
Nicki's Career Threat Level System
I believe I have mentioned, on at least one occasion, my lackadaisical attitude towards my work wardrobe, which more closely resembles pajamas than anything Tess McGill ever wore. I have a head for business, a bod for sin, and a cotton hoodie.
Nicki shares my loathing of corporate dress. She also loathes her job, and with good reason, as she is contractually obligated to be patient and kind with fucking retards every day. So her poor fashion choices may be just a symptom of the larger problem of her husband being unable to support her in a luxurious, work-free lifestyle.
But I'm not her damn shrink, so I'm not going into that here. We both push the limits, is the point.
I have started to notice certain trends in Nicki's appearance. A ponytail means that she opted to sleep in rather than wash her hair. A t-shirt means that she has recently screwed up so badly that one of the C.E.O.s is probably going to jail. Ponytail and t-shirt means to check her trunk for bodies.
To make these things easier for me to interpret (so I'll know when to prepare an alibi and/or wait outside with the car running), Nicki developed a new Threat Level System for her impending career-ending mental snap:
[I have edited for continuity because, let's face it, the broad is barely coherent.]
* * * * *
The following is a chart to help decipher (black dress pants are a constant):
US Homeland Level: Red - Severe
Career Snap Level: T-shirt, No Jewelry
Expanded Description
Employee is not even trying. She sports no make-up and dirty ponytail, paired with a late arrival and excessive sighing and trips to the kitchen for water and snacks to fill the sucking void of corporate gloom.
US Homeland Level: Orange - High
Career Snap Level: T-shirt, Necklace and/or Earrings
Expanded Description
Employee attempts last minute appearance-save by adding necklace to the shirt worn to edge the lawn and sweep the garage over the weekend. Eye make-up only, to balance the bling of the necklace. Hair down and unbrushed.
US Homeland Level: Yellow - Elevated
Career Snap Level: Pilled Knit Top, Gym Shoes
Expanded Description
Employee cannot be bothered to iron but wears full make-up, as this requires less appliances than ironing. Gym shoes are passive-aggressive swipe at draconian corporate policies. Also, loafers are lost in the house due to lack of time to properly organize her life.
US Homeland Level: Green - Guarded
Career Snap Level: Dress Shirt, Coordinating Purse
Expanded Description
Employee must have somewhere better to go directly after work and will undoubtedly skip out at least fifteen minutes early.
US Homeland Level: Blue - Low
Career Snap Level: Same as Green Level, plus Perfume
Expanded Description
Actually the most dangerous level. Contempt and despair so carefully and deliberately concealed that employee may never return from a trip to the copier.
* * * * *
I, myself, am wearing a ponytail and glasses today (as opposed to contacts). Also, we took a two-hour lunch. In about five minutes, I'm just gonna put my feet up and crack open Anne Rice's latest book, I swear to God. Level Orange! Level Orange!
Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (1)Try Something New!
[Note: This is not today's "official" post. I just felt compelled to share my joy.]
My horoscope for today:
Reach out and try something new today -- and be aware that this task may require a shopping trip or other expense. You need to shake up your usual routine and remember what it feels like to try to make sense of your surroundings. Put yourself in unfamiliar territory, both literally and figuratively. Try a restaurant in a different part of town -- take a position in a discussion just for the sake of argument -- check out a radio station you usually skip right by.
How cool is a horoscope that tells me to go shopping and out to a restaurant?!
All you Scorpios out there must do the same thing! Let us band together to try new entrees and accessories! Viva la Shrimp Lo Mein!
Posted at 10:41 AM | Comments (0)July 18, 2006
Ma Soeur Cadet
Guess what, kids! Today is Openly Mock Wenchie Day! Yay!
This is a poem I wrote about Billi in 1983, when I was thirteen. Mom found it when she was cleaning out their attic, in preparation for the move. She gave it to Billi, who promptly emailed it to me, with the appropriate amount of ridicule.
* * *
Billi is my little sister,
and although she's really a brat,
She's sort of pretty, with eyes of blue,
and a body that's anything but fat.
Billi est ma soeur cadet,
and although she's sorta pretty,
She's a selfish little buger-snot,
So it's really a great pity.
She's never had the sheer pleasure
of sharing things with me,
But I like her anyway,
as you can plainly see.
She's alot of fun to play with,
and she throws pillows on me,
And she jumps on me and tickles me,
Then I laugh so hard I could pee!
All and all she's really great,
If she left, I'd really miss her,
I've very glad that she is my
One and only little sister!
* * *
Oh, the shame! The shame!
Actually, I kinda like how I'm all passive-aggressive like "She's a selfish brat, but I really like playing with her. Even though she doesn't share."
And "est ma soeur cadet." **SNORT!** Boy, I just thought I was the shit! Yes, I was taking French in junior high. Intollerably pretentious even then. Barf.
Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (5)July 17, 2006
Hey, Baby, Do Those Legs Go Aaaaaaalllllll the Way Up?
Don't die, Hope! I can give you a reason to live!
See, a while back, Nikki asked me if they make thigh-highs for Barbie.
And the answer to her question is, of course...
Awwwwww, hell, yeah!
Over the weekend, I was fortunate enough to catch The Bitches on their way to open call auditions for "Caberet," and they were more than happy to vogue a bit for me.
(Funny how can I remember to fulfill a reader's request for Barbie thigh-highs, but I can't seem to get around to blogging about The Fate of Molly, or Indian Princesses, or Wenchie's Summer Surgery '03.)
(And speaking of remembering, GARRANCE, have you come up with your List of Demands, yet?)
Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (3)July 10, 2006
Warning, Will Robinson!
As much as it kills me, my flying monkeys, my blogging will be a bit spotty this week, as I have house guests -- my cousins from Oslo, Norway.
If I don't blog at all, please do not desert me, for I will return on Monday with a vengence!
In the meantime, I'll leave you with this thought:
If they can communicate with some space probe on Mars a gajillion miles away, then why the hell can't I communicate with my sister in another suburb while I'm driving near a forest preserve?!?!
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (6)July 06, 2006
Our Flag Was Still There
I'm home in bed with a headache today, my lovelies, so here's a photo for ya.
Happy [Belated] Independence Day!
July 05, 2006
The Aging Cliff
Everyone calls it "The Aging Process," but I don't think it's a process. I don't see it as a slow, steady slide. I've noticed that I can hum along at a fairly decent clip for a while and then suddenly drop off a cliff screaming "Holy shit, I'm ooooooooooooooooold!" all the way down.
For instance. The year I turned 32, I developed allergies where there were none before; I gained 20 lbs. without changing my habits one damn bit (I'm 5'9", so it doesn't look that bad on me, but still); my flawless, wrinkle-free skin suddenly had more zits than when I was in high school; and I had to have an orange-sized mass removed from a 4-inch whole in my abdomen. Dudes -- 2003 SU-U-U-U-UCKED!!!
Prior to and since then, I've been happily treading water, with only the occasional humbling moment to remind me that I'm no longer sixteen, cool, and staunchly wearing white, canvas Keds 365 days a year. In Chicago weather, no less.
The first time I opted for a hat in the winter, despite what it would do to my bangs by the time I got to work? Old.
When I made the conscious decision never to go see a movie on a weekend because of all the people? Old. And crotchety.
Having my tiny nephew tell me, "Dude! This is awesome!" Old.
Noticing that the hardcore music from my teens is now musack? Old.
And most recently?
Over the weekend, Husband, PJ and I were at our shanty-cabin in Wisconsin. On Monday, we decided to rent mopeds and cruise around the place. It was so much fun! PJ said I look like the Orbit Gum Girl in my helmet.
[Gah! I just Googled the Orbit Gum Girl, in order to provide you with a link, and I found a spanking blog with some guy talking -- in great detail -- about how fun it would be to spank the Orbit Gum Girl. And now guess what I can't stop thinking about? No, I'm not giving you the link. Google it yourself, perverts.]
Anyhoo, that was my I'm So Old moment. I actually wore a helmet.
I gave up everything I believe in -- namely, my inalienable right to die a quick death by splattering my head like a melon on the cement -- to suffer flat bangs and a chin strap all day.
Why? Because -- heavens to Betsy -- we were going TWENTY MILES AN HOUR!
Apparently, I turned 63 over the weekend. So where are my goddamn presents?!
Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (4)