August 31, 2006
A Different Kind of Terrorist
For Nicholle, on our last day of working together.
I don't normally do socially-relevent-quasi-political stuff because it's boring and doesn't read well a week later. However, I feel compelled to address this particular issue because it covers two of my greatest hates: flying and people.
So. Let's recap. Planes were crashed, soldiers were deployed, tweezers were banned, statues were toppled, plots were foiled.
And where does that leave us? Getting up at 4am for a 10:00 flight and standing in line for three hours while some surly "trained inspector" confiscates a Chapstick from 57-year old Beatrice Jorgenson from White Bear Lake, Minnesota, while somewhere below, the baggage handlers break the lock on my suitcase to steal my $500 digital camera (with all my vacation photos on it) because I'm not allowed to carry anything on with me.
I don't feel safe from terrorists. Do you? I'm just getting butt-raped by a different kind of terrorist. The kind that keeps me from flying, not because I'm afraid of blowing up, but because I'm afraid of blowing a gasket.
No, the added "security" does not make me feel better because all the people checking my bags look like mindless drones who WISH we, the flyers, would all die so they wouldn't have to be bothered.
I've always hated flying, and now I can add another facet to my multi-dimensional fear of flying. I have to take my shoes off and walk IN MY SOCKS where billions of other people have walked IN THEIR SOCKS. And no sock in the world is enough barrier between my pampered tootsies and other peoples' toe jam.
Frankly, it's waaaaaaay more likely that I'll get some itchy, oozing rash from one of my fellow Americans than be killed by terrorists.
And what's more, the government is now supplying little footie socks for people in sandals who don't want to walk on the bare floor! Well, I say, FUCK! THAT! If you're too stupid to know you have to wear socks to the airport, then you don't deserve to be catered to. These should be your options:
1. Go home, so we don't have to wait for you to take off your shoes, put on the little socks, take off the little socks, and put on your shoes. The lines are tedious enough already. If you are ADDING to the length of time other sock-wearing people have to wait, you don't deserve to go anywhere. In fact, you probably shouldn't even leave your house. Ever.
2. Walk around in your bare feet on the filthy fungi-floor. Hopefully, you will contract a flesh-eating bacteria so, next time, this won't be an issue because you won't have feet.
This is my life's motto: Stupid people need to be punished, or they will never learn.
I also always pack my stuff in clear, plastic baggies because, when people root through my stuff, I don't want them touching it with the hands they just touched a billion other peoples' nasty underwear with. And so, you know, it's much easier for them to find what they're looking to steal.
Hmm. I seem to have many other issues besides flying.
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (6)August 30, 2006
After the Tea Ceremony...
August 29, 2006
Worst New Neighbors Ever: Part II
When we last left Wenchie and Heather's Mom, Heather had left them behind to "wait for the cable guy," when, really, it was purely an act of mercy. Heather's Mom is way too fabulous to be lugging boxes, and I, well,... I'm just way too out-of-shape.
We were standing in the topsy-turvy apartment, fighting the urge to collapse [in a fit of passion] on the newly-made bed and contemplating what our next move would be.
A-HA! Decorative flair! Mais oui!
In a corner of the hallway, where there was once a teeny-tiny, three-sided closet, there is now a little display area with three well-lighted, glass shelves. And what goes better on well-lighted, glass shelves than SHOES!
Heather's extensive shoe collection was easily found among the much smaller boxes, so we picked three and, channelling our inner gay men, arranged them artfully on the shelves. Voila!
After that, I barely had time for two lengthy phone conversations before the crew was back with Heather's Fiance's stuff and it was time to start working again, this time with much less enthusiasm.
Within seconds, I was so sweaty, there wasn't even a dry spot on my shirt with which to wipe my face. So I gave up and just shook my head to send the droplets flying off like a dog (you're so turned on right now, I can tell). It was like Flashdance, but without the pole.
Of course, Heather's sinewy arms and dainty shoulders only looked MORE sexy when covered in a glistening sheen. And don't even get me started on Heather's Brother. God-DAY-UM. Red-faced and spikey-haired, he only looked hotter. Thank God Heather's Mom spilled a drop of salsa on her shirt, or you wouldn't have even known she had lifted her fabulous form off the chaise lounge that day.
God, I hate Heather's family.
Now, what happened next has never been fully explained, even by Heather. Which is doubly odd because there was no alcohol involved. (The alcohol came immediately after this incident.)
Heather shattered the top of a glass table. With her chin. While she was holding it.
Seriously, how the hell does that happen?! And the offending chin went unscathed, while her thumb suffered a deep cut that bled for the remainder of the aftenoon.
I still can't imagine how that all went down. By the time I got to the scene, Heather was picking shards of glass out of the neighbor's lawn.
She quietly muttered, "Worst. New neighbors. Ever."
I cried, "And there's the title for my blog about this!"
Posted at 02:27 PM | Comments (2)August 28, 2006
Worst New Neighbors Ever: Part I
Well, my darling pets, I may be uttering my last words sooner than I thought. I helped Heather and her fiance move on Saturday, and as a result, I myself cannot move.
We started out the move amiably enough with donuts and Coke. Breakfast of champions. But the morning quickly digressed with a car accident. Namely, Heather's Brother tearing the front bumper off a parked car when he tried to park the rental truck at the new apartment. Eep. Not good.
But the car's owner was very cool about it. And quite adorable. And braless. Bonus!
I, on the other hand, was one sweaty mess. My teeth were sweating. My fingernails were sweating. Heather and I had used some bags of her various female sanitary products to prop-up some plants in the back seat of my SUV. Upon unpacking my car, I briefly entertained the idea of shoving a few down my pants to soak up some of the asscrack sweat. But I'm pretty sure I would have needed a spatula to unstick my jeans from my sweaty body, and I didn't know which box the spatulas were packed in.
When the truck was emptied of all Heather's crap, er... I mean, belongings, the rest of the crew went to pick up Heather's Fiance's stuff, while Heather's Mom and I were assigned the grueling task of sitting around to wait for the cable guy and mattress delivery guys.
So, while the apartment's residents were out sweating off various body parts, Heather's Mom and I started making Executive Decisions.
Liiiiiiiike, we didn't put the bed against the wall opposite the bedroom door, as Heather had directed. We centered it between the two windows. And we created a couple nightstands out of bamboo boxes or something. And we made the bed, as we saw fit.
And then, being the obsessive-compulsive control-freaks that we are, we started jonesing for things to organize. Unpack the books onto the shelves? No, we didn't know where they wanted the shelves. Set up Heather's desk? We didn't know where the screwdriver was.
Okay, this is getting too long and the afternoon, too short. To be continued...
Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (1)August 25, 2006
Famous Last Words
A woman here at work was telling me about her grandfather's death. It's a Summer Friday here, so most of the office isn't around, and at these times, we are prone to long, meandering conversations.
We talked about farming, then animals, then dogs, then euthanazia, then hospice, then suicide, then death, then the afterlife. It killed a good half-hour of the morning, which was awesome and brought me that much closer to a long lunch at the mall.
Anyway -- her grandfather died at home, under hospice care, of cancer. The last few days, he was so drugged, he wasn't even conscious. But one night, around midnight, he was suddenly wide awake and talking to his wife about all the things he had to do. And he told her he loved her and gave her messages for other family members.
He was dead by morning.
This is not, by any means, the first account of pre-death lucidity that I have heard. And among my many and varied and ever-changing beliefs is the belief that some people are granted one last chance to say what they need to say.
My even-stranger theory is that this last "moment of clarity" is to ensure that the dying person can reconcile themself with their situation, thereby ensuring that they won't resist the "crossing over,"... wherever that crossing may lead them. I don't know. My theories on THAT are too many to list here -- my favorite being The Great A-Ha.
Anyway, it got me thinking -- what if I am one of the lucky souls who is granted one last, precious opportunity to speak? What if I am fully aware that it is, indeed, the last time I will speak to my loved ones? What would I say?
Well, of course, I'll have to include, "Always remember that I love you."
As unimaginative as it may be, it's basically a given, and who am I to balk at tradition? Besides, if those poor people are gallant enough to be at my stinking deathbed, the least I can do is throw them a bone, eh?
But then what? Love is a good opener, but what about a closer? The final zinger! The ta-daaaaaaaaaa! I can't go out without a punchline.
The old axim, "Always leave them wanting more," is good advice in any situation. Except meals.
That would be pretty cool, to whisper, "Tell Billi I never saw..."
And then die.
Everyone would be like, "WHAT? Never saw WHAT?!"
BWAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Damn, they'd be talking about that for years to come!
Or I could pull a Citizen Cane and murmur something like, "Tell Rosalyn it's behind the drawer."
Hee! They'd tear my house apart and drive themselves nuts, not even knowing what they were looking for! And I certainly don't know any Rosalyns, so I'm sure theories would abound on who she is and her connection to me! Oh, it's all so very Victorian-novel. I love it.
It's all well and good to scheme, but let's be honest -- my last words will probably be, "Make sure... the mortician... washes... my hair..."
Posted at 03:42 PM | Comments (1)August 24, 2006
The Questions That Keep Me Up At Night
1. You know that little flap in the front of mens' briefs? Do you guys really use that for its intended purpose?
2. Does anyone really eat Monte Cristos, or are they just on restaurant menus because they've always been on restaurant menus? Seriously, show of hands.
3. How do deaf women know when they're done peeing, if they can't hear the stream stop? Do they just count to twenty or something?
4. Does anyone like clowns? I mean, really? Because I don't know one person who likes them. People's reactions vary from the slightly-creeped-out to the screaming-mimis. Anyone here not find clowns mildly disturbing, at best?
Posted at 01:38 PM | Comments (10)August 23, 2006
Mud Pies
Several months ago, I read a book I really liked called "Julie & Julia." It's about a woman, Julie, who decides to cook her way through Julia Child's entire book of "The Joy of French Cooking" or whatever. Heather gave it to me, and I must say, it was a bold move on her part, what with my hatred for cooking and all things French.
But I really liked the book. In it, the author wrote this:
"...there are two kinds of friends in the world, those who inspire in you all that is great and good and those who'd prefer to get right down on their haunches and help out with the mud pies,..."
That really struck a chord with me, and I pondered it as I fell asleep. Who are my inspiring friends, and who are my mud pie friends?
Well, that's pretty damn easy. Egrau and PJ are obviously the ones who inspire me to new heights of kindness and fulfillment... or at least shame be into not being such a bitter asshole all the time.
Egrau is a Lender of Books. Books that make your soul soar and your heart sing poetry. Books that say, "Come, rise up! This is what you can be! This is what you can write! Or at least learn a couple new vocabulary words so you're not saying fuck so often."
PJ has overcome a lifetime of being Irish, to become one of the kindest, most selfless people I know. She makes me want to bake goodies for strangers and be nice to all living creatures, even cats and children.
And then... there's Nicki and Heather, my mud pie friends. Ah, how I adore them and their limitless capacity for evil.
When Nicki and I are out at the mall during lunch, we often point out what we will buy to decorate our all-pink condo, where we will live after we've divorced (killed) our husbands.
And, oh, how I thrill to see Heather's eyes light up and shoulders hunch in laughter over the prospect of setting unicorns on fire or performing an "ethnic cleansing" of the French.
But now? Heather's new, fabulous, well-paying job that she loves is keeping us from the constant, constant IMing that, once upon a time, brought us into blissfull co-dependence.
And Nicki? Hmmm... Nicki is the reason I'm musing on friendship today because Nicki is totally breaking up with me. Or more accurrately, she tendered her resignation and, as of September 1st, will no longer be working here.
I. Am. Devastated!
Sure, given a choice, it would always be preferrable to lose Nicki and Heather, rather than Egrau and PJ. Given an ultimatum between the Good and the Evil, I could never subject the world to a Wenchie influenced solely by the devils on her shoulder. It would be a chilly, barren world, where even Nicki and Heather would eventually become skittish.
But, GAWD, I'm going to miss her. Nick. Nicki. Nicholle.
No more absolutely imperative walks to the snack shop to vent about a husband's latest lapse in brain function. No more stress-relieving lunches of BBQ nachos and chocolate cake. No more furtive emails bemoaning the unfortunate fashion choices of our co-workers.
Oh, sure she'll email me fairly frequently for a while. Perhaps even call. But then it will drop off, as she luxuriates in her new, employment-free lifestyle -- drinking, napping, walking the dog -- and it becomes more and more difficult for her to empathize with my tedious tales of office life. What is this "fax machine" you speak of, Wenchie?
And I'll be left with only the Barbie she bought me, a mix tape she made me, and the sight of her empty desk, which I will ride my bike past at least once a day, hoping against my knowledge of reality to see her there.
*sigh*
Where's my cookie dough ice cream?
Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (1)August 22, 2006
Kindness & Sour Cream
The other night, I had a few friends over to watch a movie, so I made some munchies. I excell at munchies.
Finger food? Good! Fork and knife? Bad.
Appetizers and desserts? Good! Entrees? Bad.
Food I can graze on while standing up and going through the mail? Good! Food I have to sit down and make a commitment to eat? Bad.
Anyhoo, I got out the Daisy brand sour cream, and printed on the hermetically-sealed foil inner-wrapping was the following proverb:
"Kindness is a bridge to life's opportunities."Fresh thoughts from Daisy
Wow, I WAS going to take this kitchen knife and plunge it into my eye socket, but NOW, I'm going to use it to add this yummy sour cream to a spinach and herb dip and serve it to my friends, who will never know of my brush with suicide because I was saved by an anonymous marketing stooge.
Thanks, Daisy!
Posted at 02:34 PM | Comments (3)August 21, 2006
Getting In My Car Never Fails To Piss Me Off
Dear Idiot at the Corner Who Won't Make the Right Turn Despite the Obvious Lack of Oncoming Traffic In the Right Lane:
I'm onto you, bitch.
I know you have no intention of turning into the far right lane, the lane into which, given your current position, you should legally be turning! I know you're special.
Too special to obey traffic laws. Too special to pay heed to the myriad of cars idling behind you.
I can tell you're special because, even while in heavy traffic, you cannot be indisposed to the no doubt dozens of people with whom you must be in contact at all times via cell phone.
I know you have to pull into the far left lane, in order to more easily facilitate your trip to Dominick's to stock-up on Weight Watchers frozen lunches for the week. So why shouldn't you make the hoi ploi wait while you search for an opening in three lanes of rushhour traffic?
I'm sure you have all the time in the world, and you want to finish your cigarette and your phone conversation before arriving at your destination. And God forbid you miss the end of your favorite Bon Jovi song. But some of us are in our cars because there's some place important that we have to get to.
I hate you and everything you stand for. You're what's wrong with America. You're the reason the world hates us. And your successful turn into the far left lane is proof that the terrorists have already won.
Posted at 01:55 PM | Comments (2)August 17, 2006
Dear Shadey McParkerson:
I guess this week's theme is "Strangers Who Piss Me Off."
Upon returning to work from the Post Office, since my parking spot close to the building had been taken, I decided to park at the far back of the lot, in one of the few coveted Shade Spots. There's not much mature foliage around this building, so shade is hard to come by and vied over, in the summer months especially.
I got a spot on the edge of the shade, but since I'm not Sacajaweeuh or Pokahontus (I'm not as fluent in Apache as I used to be), I didn't know if I was going to be in more shade or full-on sun when I came back out at quittin' time.
I would have gotten a spot more in the middle of the shadey area, except for the fucknut whose car was straddling two spaces. Because, you know, he doesn't want anyone opening their car door into his 1997 Honda.
Well, I was in Full Burn Mode after the Post Office, so I got my pen and little pad of paper out of my purse, and I wrote him a note:
You park like an ASSHOLE!
Then I stuck it facedown under his driver's side windshield wiper.
Hee! It still makes me giggle!
I know it doesn't accomplish anything. I know Honda Boy is going to keep on being an asshole. But lemme tell ya -- I made the trek back to the office with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, and that doesn't happen very often.
Posted at 02:59 PM | Comments (4)August 16, 2006
Also Pissing Me Off...
Dear Person Who Parks Their Car At the Curb Right Outside the Post Office Doors:
You selfish prick.
I know you think it's okay because you're "just running in to get stamps" or "just running in to drop off a package." But you know what?
We're ALL "just running in!"
No one goes to the Post Office to browse. No one picks up a Starbucks on the way over because they're going to just hang out. We're ALL there to do some mindless, 30-second errand.
JUST. LIKE. YOU.
Those parking spaces twenty feet from the door? Are for everyone. You, too! We're all special!
So you don't have to park right in front of the door, making your car an obstacle for both drivers and pedestrians. Because the next time you do?
I'm keying your fucking car.
Get over yourself.
Posted at 01:30 PM | Comments (5)August 15, 2006
Heather Calls Me "Movie Xena"
Well, I was Bitchy, Cranky, Crotchety Old Person this weekend at the movie theatre. It was awesome.
Husband and I went to see "Lady in the Water." Say what you like about M. Night Shyamalan, but I like him. I like his movies, I like his acting. I even like his pretty, pretty eyes. So just deal with it because this isn't about the movie or M. Night.
It's about teenagers. Really, really annoying teenagers.
Now, if you've seen "Lady in the Water," you know it's all about mood. Creepy, eerie, mystical. So it's often very quiet and dimly-lit. It doesn't over-power you -- it sucks you in.
If, that is, you aren't being distracted by really, really annoying teenagers.
I usually attend movies on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday nights, particularly because I don't like people, and I want my movie-watching experience to involve as few of them as possible. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw a movie on a weekend.
Hee! Just remembered something funny. When Husband and I went to see "Troy" (please don't mock me -- I didn't know), there was a couple who brought an infant with them. An infant. It's only the opening credits, and already the kid is fussing and making noise.
Since my Super Bitch costume is really hard to get into, I normally give people a few minutes to stop their annoying behavior on their own. But not the woman behind me.
No, she was all over that couple with, "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!"
BWAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
The couple quickly spirited the infant away from the Crazy, Swearing Lady, while I neatly folded the Super Bitch costume and reverently handed it to her, bowing in acknowledgement of her superior bitch powers.
Ah, good times.
So, there we were, all settled down for the movie with our popcorn and Twizzlers (*Dinner of Champions*), when four teenagers (two boys, two girls) sat down in front and to the immediate right of us. No cause for immediate panic. I'm not so old -- yet -- as to believe that all teenagers are reprehensible slime, so I didn't think much of it.
Until the movie started, and they all whipped out their cell phones and started send text messages.
"Why, Wenchie, what's wrong with that? It's not like they were talking. Why would that bother you?"
First -- it's the principle. If you don't want to watch a movie, do not go to a movie theatre. It's really quite simple. I do not want to climb rocks; therefore, I do not go rock climbing. See how that works?
Secondly -- take your cell phone, go shut yourself in a dark closet, and open it up. Those things are bright! Brighter than you think! I'm serious! Do it right now!
I was trying ever so hard to get into M. Night's vision, but those little bastards kept burning little holes into my retinas, constantly with the texting and the phones and open, close, open close. It was like a swarm of blue fireflies in my peripheral vision. SO annoying.
I gave them some time to settle down, and when they didn't, I leaned over and whispered, "Would you guys put your cells phones away, please? The light is really annoying. Thanks."
See? Completely calm and polite.
And the older boy goes, "We're sorry, ma'am," in a tone of voice that said, "Shut your hole, grandma."
But whatever. They stopped. For a little while.
And then they started up again when, apparently, one of the girls got dumped via text message. She started crying and ran out of the theatre, and one of the boys ran after her. The two left immediately whipped out their phones and started texting the news to the entire Chicagoland area.
More. Blinding. Light.
Then the other two returned, and they all started talking about what an asshole Tyler is, or whatever.
By this time, Husband smelled the smoke coming out of my ears, so he tried to be my hero by leaning over to the kids and going, "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
*sigh* Never a good move. It immediately became a joke to the kids, who started shushing everyone else in the theatre and each other and all that shit.
Finally, I leaned over and said, in my outside-voice, "Hey! Either turn off your goddamn phones or get the fuck out of here, because you're not watching the movie anyway, and I'm really sick of your shit!"
Husband wanted to die, but the brats were thoroughly shamed, for much longer than I thought they'd be. They only required one more, "Shut the fuck up!" from me during the remainder of the movie. Isn't that sweet?
See, this is why swearing is an important part of one's vocabulary. Because if I'm anti-social enough to loudly curse my head off in a public venue, maybe I'm just nuts enough to throw down with the cast of "Dawson's Creek."
And they sure ran outta there once the movie was over.
This is why I love Netflix.
Posted at 01:31 PM | Comments (7)August 11, 2006
Once Upon a Stall
So Nicholle hurt her foot or her ankle or her knee or had a hip replacement or something -- who knows with her anymore -- so she has prescribed for herself mandatory comfy gym shoes for the next... indefinate amount of time, which is kinda presumtuous of her, but I guess that's one of the perks that comes with doing payroll -- no one says boo to her for fear that she'll mess with their check.
That was really long. Been watching too much "Deadwood." I hope Ian McShane gets paid by the word.
Anyhoo, I was bored, so I had two root beers and occupied myself by going to the bathroom every five minutes. I walked in and saw under the stall door a pair of white gym shoes, and I almost said Hi! before I noticed that they were New Balance and not Adidas. Thank God for brand recognition!
Sooooo... what was my point?
Oh yeah. Don't you hate it when you spend an hour willing your sphincter to stay shut against a brewing fart, to both spare your co-workers' delicate sensibilities, and so you don't blow your last remaining shred of dignity (so to speak); and when you finally make it into the bathroon, where it farting is tolerated -- if not encouraged -- you can't fart for the life of you?
Yeah, I hate that, too. Almost as much as I hate all these run-on sentences.
Boy, I am all about the sphincter action this week.
And you know what else I hate? Okay, I know that everyone has their favorite stall, the one that they always head to out of habit. But everyone should also have a back-up stall, in case there's someone in, or -- and this is important -- immediately adjacent to, your favorite stall.
Because if there's someone in the stall next to your favorite stall?
YOU USE ANOTHER STALL!
If there are eight stalls, and I'm the only other person in the bathroom, don't take the stall right next to me! I'm not interested in bonding with strangers in that capacity! I cannot stress this enough!
Simple bathroom etiquette, people. Read it, learn it, live it.
Posted at 01:35 PM | Comments (2)August 10, 2006
A Thoughtful Token
So I get to work this morning, and my Chick Boss hands me a little bag with a notepad in it.
CB: I got something for you when I was shopping in Colorado! It just made me think of you.
PW: WHAT?!
CB: Because you like dogs!
PW: Riiiiiiiiiight.
I'm going to use it to write down Husband's weekend To Do List.
Posted at 02:30 PM | Comments (3)August 09, 2006
The Social Event of the Yarrr: Part II
So, what can I say about Nicki's Pirate Block Party?
Let's see... I was almost sexually assaulted by her husband the minute I arrived. At least, I think I was. He was pretty drunk, and his vocabularly was not quite accurate, so he was either hitting on me, or asking me if I play volleyball.
Here is the kick-ass pirate flag that Nicki painted freehand:
She did it while the black material was laid flat on her garage floor. And when she lifted up the flag to hang it, the paint had seeped through, so there is a skull and crossbones on her garage floor! Officially making her the coolest person I know!
So, Nicki, whatcha gonna do with the flag now...?
Here's her garage (so you all can stalk her) and the pirate ship they built on top. Bear in mind, it was 100 degrees the weekend of the party, and her garage has a black tar roof.
On which they assembled another black flag, black sails, black crow's nest (or something) and black cannons. You have to admire that woman's dedication to house decorating. Thank God they won the Best House Award so no one had to die.
Here's a couple of the guests snarfing down my fabulous chocolate chip cookies:
Yes, I turned my oven on in 100 degree weather. That's how dedicated I am to chocolate, in all its various incarnations.
(Note the cannon in the lower right-hand corner. Dad's.)
Nicki's many tropical-themed contributions to the grub included an idea she got off the internet: Rum-Soaked Marshmallow-Pineapple-Banana-K-Bobs. But when she put them on the grill, the marshmallows incinerated before the fruit even got warm. I don't think it was a home-tested recipe. So we ate them raw, and they rocked.
And the guest of honor, the namesake of The Salty Beagle, the numbnut who wore a fur coat to a block party in July -- Charlie:
I wore a pirate t-shirt and shorts. I wanted to go in full pirate regalia, but I didn't want my liquifying body to pool in my leather boots.
Nicki's husband wore no fewer than SIX different outfits thoughout the course of the afternoon and evening. Cher was like, "Dude, what's with all the costume changes?"
Also? This "temporary" pirate tattoo is still desperately clinging to my leg. I'm starting to suspect that it's some kind of supernatural brand, and I've been marked to play a prominent part in the coming revolution. Which I always thought would include aliens and/or Freemasons. Who'd've thunk it would be pirates?
Posted at 01:41 PM | Comments (3)August 07, 2006
Vacation: The Anti-Poop
I don't know about you guys, but my body seems very reluctant to poop while I'm on vacation. Is it just me?
I don't know what it is. It's like my lower intestine isn't all that familiar with its surroundings, so it gets nervous and decides, "Ya know? I'm just gonna sit this one out."
Oh, sure, I can squeeze off a few nuggets every couple days -- just enough to stave off pharmaceutical intervention. But a nice, big dump, where you leap off the toilet singing and feeling ten pounds lighter? No.
And this phenomenon occurs only on vacations. The rest of the time, I can rely on my bowels for at least one good movement a day -- two, if I'm particularly fortunate. I think that's fairly normal, and hey, it works for me.
The funny thing is, once I get off the expressway and am five miles from my home, my lower intestine wakes up and declares, "Hey, I know this place! Let's party!"
And all of a sudden, we're back in business. I can feel the overture begin, and the last couple of miles are a death-race to my own bathroom -- Wenchie vs. The Sphincter. Who will prevail?
Well, of course, I always prevail, or this entry would be entitled, "Why Wenchie Is Getting a New Car."
So there's a my weird vacation poop confession. Dookie takes a holiday.
Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (2)August 03, 2006
Survey SAYS!
This week has been NUTS, what with the working and the draaaaaaama and the packing for a weekend in Door County. With my mother.
I know.
So, since you were so awesome and did my anti-survey survey, and since I'm in dire need of a quick blog that requires little or no thought, here are my answers:
1. What's your middle name? Marie, after my paternal grandmother, whom many say I look like.
2. What kind of underwear do you wear? To work? Big, ol' granny panties under my yoga-type "dress" pants because it's aaaaaaaaaall about the comfort, bay-bee! Sexxxxxxxy! All other times? A thong, from the Victoria's Secret "Pink" collection. I hate VPL.
3. What is the place and date that you lost your virginity? Second Saturday in October (two weekends before my 17th birthday), 1986. In my boyfriend's bedroom, with the dresser pushed in front of the door, while his family was watching his brother in the homecoming football game.
4. Penthouse or Hustler? Penthouse. Better stories, although not as good as I could write.
5. What is your favorite pasta shape? Bowtie. They're the easiest to pick up with a fork. All the better to shove more rapidly into my pie-hole.
6. Have you ever had anything removed from your body? Most of my baby teeth, an orange-sized mass (from my abdomen), an infected/ruptured appendix, and four inches of intestine. Which they would not let me keep.
7. When and where did you last masturbate? Oh, not recently enough. In bed, sometime in the last couple weeks, before a nap.
8. Mermaid or centaur? I've always wanted to be a mermaid!
9. Orange or raccoon? Orange. Raccoons wrecked my cabin.
10. Who is on the top of your Shit List, and why? Oh, it's a fluid, ever-changing list. Currently, my Dad, for being stubborn and crotchety, forcing me to wonder if it's okay to pick on someone bigger than myself, even if they're really old. Tomorrow, it will be every person on the road between here and Door County. So, stay outta my way!
And now, my darling duckies, adios until Monday!
Posted at 02:30 PM | Comments (0)August 02, 2006
She's Not a French Maid, She's a Freedom Maid
August 01, 2006
The New Breed of Forwarded Email
I'm sure we've all received one of those chain emails about Getting To Know Your Friends Better. With things like:
1. Your full, given name:
2. Day of the week you were born:
3. Who did you take to your Senior Prom?
4. Do you really think anyone is going to send this back?
And we're supposed to fill in your answer for each number, and then send it back to the person who sent it, plus everyone else in your address book.
I have received enough of these that I am officially sick of myself.
Also? I'm sick of all of you. If I don't know where you were born, it's because I don't care. I also don't care what kind of ice cream you like because I don't think it says anything significant about you, and I already have enough worthless information taking up space in my brain, like all the words to every song on "Seven and the Ragged Tiger." I really don't need your hat size taking up more space.
Now, if these chain emails provided me with some different information, I may be more inclined to show some interest.
Here is Wenchie's Getting To Know You List of Questions, as scribbled on a napkin at Graziano's. Please answer them and send them to me at my Yahoo account, so that I may mock you accordingly. Anonymously, of course. Or just leave your answers in the Comments section, whatever, I don't care.
1. What's your middle name?
2. What kind of underwear do you wear?
3. What is the place and date that you lost your virginity?
4. Penthouse or Hustler?
5. What is your favorite pasta shape?
6. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
7. When and where did you last masturbate?
8. Mermaid or centaur?
9. Orange or raccoon?
10. Who is on the top of your Shit List, and why?
If I get enough answers, I may be inclined to answer the questions myself.
Feel free to send this list to your family, your pastor, your health insurance customer service representative, and all your co-workers. I'm sure it will bring you all to a better understanding of one another and bring about world peace just a tiny bit faster.
Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (7)