September 29, 2006
You'll Be the First To Know... After I Find Out
So last night I had a dream that Billi was being induced today because yesterday was her due date, but when I woke up, I remembered -- oh yeah, she's not scheduled to be induced until Monday -- which I thought she'd find funny, and really I just wanted an excuse to call her, but when I did, her father-in-law answered the phone so HELLO! obviously he's there to watch The Children because Billi's in the hospital scrunching out Child the Third, but I didn't know that until after I got to work and after I had stopped for a grande frappuccino at Starbucks and sucked it down like the magical elixer it is so between the vast amounts of caffiene -- which, if you'll remember, I have 99% sworn off of due to my ability to stay awake for days at a time -- and the excitedness I'm feeling about the impending New Nephew, my hands are shaking and my heart is palpatating dangerously and THERE'S JUST NO FRIGGIN' WAY I HAVE THE WHEREWITHALL TO BLOG TODAY!!!
Posted at 12:46 PM | Comments (0)September 28, 2006
My Biggest Fan
My favorite blog posts are the ones I don't have to write. Like yesterday's. And today's.
You guys just have to see how hilarious my Mom is. She just kills me, and I don't even know if she means to. And every time I laugh, she's like, "That's why I was put on this earth, Wenchie -- to entertain you." Which, of course, just makes me laugh harder.
So every once in a while, when I remember to check my email, I find an email from my Mom, which in and of itself is hilarious.
See, I have three email addresses. My work one, my Yahoo one for people who know who I am, and the one I created for this blog. My Mom has my other two email addresses and has been using them for years. And yet, she insists on using my blog one.
I suspect that she thinks she's leaving a comment when she does that because I don't think she knows how to work the Comments. Either that or she knows it's an email address, and she's just too lazy to go to her AOL homepage and use one of the ones that I actually check on a daily basis.
Come to think of it, she may be emailing me because she doesn't want her comments published. In which case, I guess I can kiss my Christmas presents good-bye this year because how can I NOT publish this stuff?!
So here's Mom's email regarding my post about shopping for new, ginormous bras with my Asst. Chick Boss:
I heartly enjoyed your novella about your bra. But with Blogs brought to us by the letter P and then the letter D (or versa-visa), what, indeed, is lurking between those 2 letters?I will be sitting on the edge of my Lazy-Boy recliner, waiting to learn the answer, so I can clear my mind of such trivial annoyances.
Do not degrade your lovely "girls" - it runs in the family, so just live with it.
Love and Kisses, Mommie Dearest
Ha! Novella! Love it!
(Yes, Mom has sizable hogans, too. In fact, she's not bad, for an old broad.)
And here's what she wrote to me after Talk Like a Pirate Day:
Dear Darling Daughter:Please don't beat yourself up because you forgot Talk Like a Pirate Day. I am here to let people know that you do, every day, talk like a Pirate, and have been doing so for many, many years. I could also tell them that you were, (it was a secret till now) indeed born wearing a pirate eye patch and swearing like the best of them.
I do not say this to condemn you, just to set matters straight and to let people know that your family (well, most of them) love you anyway.
Hope this helps your cause.
Mommie Dearest
Well, most of them?! It's riotously funny and frighteningly disturbing at the same time!
So now you see where I get it. Oh my God, she just cracks me up.
(I'm sure the "most of them" doesn't include my Dad. Eleven years ago, Mom had a lengthy illness. When I went to visit my folks one day, Dad excitedly told me, "I did my own laundry!" And I said, "What do you want -- a cookie?!" He's never forgiven me for that.)
Posted at 02:47 PM | Comments (0)September 27, 2006
I Hate What I'm Wearing. Can I Go Home?
I should really just have a blog category called "My Boobs," since I can't seem shut up about them.
In an attempt to answer that age-old question, "Why do my clothes always look better at home than they do at work?" Heather and I had the following innane and mostly irrelevent conversation via IM (edited for coherency):
PW: I'm so getting rid of this shirt. it's pretty, but it just doesn't hang right and looks so retarded. but how come I never notice these things until I'm already at work?
H: oh, I know. it's because we don't have indirect florescent lighting at home.
H: I am dressed like murphy brown - didn't realize it until I got here. and now my editor is laughing at me. if he had a blog, I'd be RIGHT UP in there.
H: what are YOU wearing?
PW: oh, it's a pink, v-neck shirt, but it just... doesn't hang right. and I feel stupid and frumpy.
PW: and I put my black cardigan over it cuz I"m cold, and now it looks even dumber cuz it has 3/4 length sleeves
H: so, both tops don't fit right? I hate THAT!
PW: well, the cardigan is awesome but looks stupid over the stupid shirt
PW: I think I"ll go take off the shirt and leave on just the black one
H: ohohoh. yeah. take it off, baby.
PW: I'm too sexy for my shirt.
H: does it hurt?
PW has changed status to Away: I am away from my computer right now.
PW has changed status to Available
PW: not really, but now that I've changed, my neckline is waaaaaaaaay plunging
PW: and I don't have a necklace on
H: you don't have backup jewelry? anything you could borrow from barbie?
PW: no, back-up sweater is an organized as I get
H: ah. I dont' even have that.
PW: and I need a safety pin for this sweater. my tits are bursting out
H: how is that a problem? wear it backwards!
PW: HA! I work at Conservative Insurance Co., not Playboy
PW: it's not porno, but I would still feel better if it were an inch more closed
H: scotch tape? paper clip it to your bra?
PW: it's Banana Republic! I would totally use double-sided tape, if it were Old Navy or something
PW: well, at least I can blog about my boobs today... which is pretty much my fav topic anyway, so I'm always happy for an excuse
H: yay! awesome!
PW: Female Co-Worker just offered to lend me a sweater, and it's totally cute, but she had, like, three lunches spilled on it.
PW: I'm like, "Take your sweater home and wash it!"
PW: I'd rather be a slut than a slob.
H: that is hilarious
H: I don't keep a sweater here, because I hate that whole sweater-on-the-chair look. I'd rather be cold than ugly.
H: becuas ei am weird.
PW: I keep it in my drawer, not on my chair! I'm not an animal!
H: I don't have drawer space - it's full of porn!
PW: you have way better priorities than me
H: obviously.
And then we started talking about porn, which is appropriate because I look like Chesty McMelon. In fact, this illustration is pretty accurate:
Ah, Captain Cleavage. You can always find her throwing back drinks at The Salty Nipple. She's the scourge o' the seven seas... as long as it's not too windy.
To make matters worse, I did this last week, too -- decided I hated my shirt and changed into my sweater. Of course, I had a pink tank on underneath, so it wasn't as risque. But still, people are going to think this is the only top I own!
I'm just going to start telling people that I gave all my worldly posessions to George Clooney so he can save Africa or whatever it is that he's doing. Oh, who cares what he's doing? It's George Clooney! Why wouldn't I give him my clothes?!
Posted at 11:26 AM | Comments (1)September 25, 2006
White Trash Vacation
Oh, my darling loves, I committed a most unforgivable sin -- I went outta town and didn't warn you!
All vacation long, I was plagued by thoughts of my poor schmoopies hitting Refresh over and over and over, only to be devasted by the utter lack of new Pirate Wench musings.
Unfortunately, today is no different. I got nuthin'.
I can't even blog about my vacation because we didn't do a damn thing. Seriously. Here is every day's schedule:
8:00 - Roll outta bed because dog can't hold it any longer.
8:05 - First breakfast, usually some sort of baked goods involving pumpkin.
8:15 - Shower and get ready.
9:30 - Go out for breakfast. Hashbrowns a must.
10:30 - Read trashy magazines and talk about what to have for lunch.
11:30 - Shopping.
1:00 - Lunch, consisting of chips and some sort of cheese-based dip.
2:30 - Nap.
5:00 - Wake up because dog wants to eat.
5:15 - Read trashy magazines and figure out what to have for dinner.
6:00 - Go out to dinner. (Is there anything that Wisconsiners won't deep fry?) Cocktails a must.
8:00 - Get home, play cards.
9:30 - Go to bed.
My life is a senseless parade of gluttony and sloth.
Tomorrow will be more of the same, but with a better blog entry, probably involving my own stupidity.
Posted at 02:21 PM | Comments (5)September 19, 2006
Depp Is a Poser
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's Talk Like a Pirate Day. Grrr, argh.
I'm so disappointed in myself. Every year, I swear I'm going to make a big deal out of it, and every year, I totally wiff it.
It seems everyone remembered but I. Even Marty remembered and sent me two comic strips, Order of the Stick and Nodwick, who also remembered.
I'm the worst pirate ever. I might as well just give it up and start collecting butterflies.
No, no -- don't try to cheer me up; it's true. Daisy's pirate costume is tucked away in the basement somewhere. I'm not wearing my sword necklace. I don't even have one of my Barbies dressed like a pirate.
Thank God pirates have no honor, or I'd be obliged to throw myself in front of a cannon or something.
What's even more distressing is that I was on the forefront of this whole pirate movement. I'm not just another Johnny-Depp-loving sheep. I've been a Pirate Wench for YEARS before the first movie ever came out! I should totally be on top of this!
And since we're on the subject, Depp gets all the credit for starting the movement, but that's only because he's a hugely-talented, filthy-rich, impossibly-sexy box office draw. People should be buying lunch boxes with MY picture on them! But then, all great artists are unappreciated in their own time. My genius will be discovered when I'm dead.
Does anyone use lunch boxes anymore?
Also? I got my tattoos waaaaaaaaaaaay before everyone and their mother started getting them. Over fifteen years ago! When only bikers and dykes and dyke bikers got tattoos. So there!
God, it is SO unfulfilling being so much cooler than everyone else. (No offense, my darling chewtoys.) You'd think it would be awesome, but it sucks. Everything I do becomes embraced -- and therefore, cheapened -- by the masses.
Talk Like a Pirate Day, indeed. It's not some affectation you can assume for one day and cast aside the next. It's a way of life, people. And you're either in it, or you ain't.
Here's to you, my fellow Pirate Wenches, wherever you may be.
Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (4)September 18, 2006
Luke and Han, Sittin' In a Tree
For Christmas, I want to get The Boy Child one of the Lego Star Wars video games, but I've been having trouble deciding which one. I'm leaning towards the classic Luke/Han/Leia trilogy, but since he attaches no sentiment to either set of movies, I know I should get him whichever one would be easiest for him to play.
(Although it is dang funny to hear him wail, "I diiieeeed-ed!")
I was reading through the reviews and leaning towards Lego Star Wars II: The Original Trilogy, when I came across the following:
WARNING Game has homosexual overtones September 16, 2006Reviewer: Zachary Buckholz (Mesa, Arizona United States)
"I loved playing the first Star Wars with my 5 year old. We got the second one, and from the beginning I had a weird feeling about letting him play it. In the game itself (during game play) naked male characters are taking baths together. Also in the instruction booklet they show you being able to dress characters and one of the examples is shown with a womens bra being put onto a male character. While this is a great game for my son and myself to play, if I had known about these gay overtones I would not have let him play it. It's rated E for everyone. Very bad choice Lego."
Now, from other reviews of the game, I have learned that Chewbacca has the capability to rip peoples' arms off. Verrrrrrry slooooowwwwly.
Dismemberment? Good! Personal hygiene? Bad!
And I seem to recall Princess Leia wearing next to nothing at one point. On a leash.
Objectification of women and bondage? Good! Consenting adults enjoying each others' company? Bad!
Men pee together all the time. So what's wrong with bathing together? Maybe the people on that planet just have different customs!
I contend that Mr. Buckholz's "weird feeling" was in his pants because it brought back shameful memories of how a very young Harrison Ford made him feel all funny down there.
And really -- he didn't see anything wrong with Anakin's hair-do in the first game? C'mon. GAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
I am totally buying this game for The Boy Child BECAUSE of this guy's review. I want to see naked Lego men in bras getting it on!
I hope this guy knows better than to buy any of the "Lord of the Rings" games. I don't know if you've heard this, but Sam and Frodo might have been more than just friends...
Posted at 01:57 PM | Comments (4)September 14, 2006
Ever Singing, Ever Dancing
My friend, Marty, is currently in rehearsals for a Gilbert & Sullivan play called "Iolanthe." It's about fairies. No, he's not a fairy; he's a palace guard. But I can see how you might think that. After all, he watches "Gilmore Girls."
(One year, many eons ago, Billi, Older Sister and I were all fairies in a production of "Iolanthe." The other fairies called us Shimmer, Glimmer and Dimmer. Guess who was which.)
His beautiful and charming Thing One (10) is going to be in the show, too, as one of the mini-fairies. Which makes my teeth fuzzy just thinking about the cuteness.
She's quite enamored with her little fairy costume, replete with flouncy, sparkly wingy-ness. I believe she has crazy glued it to her body. Or maybe she's just naturally that sticky. The crowning touch -- and the current bane of her siblings' existence -- is, of course, her fairy wand.
She uses it for everything: Putting spells on the dog, smacking her sister and brother in the head, spreading peanut butter, bestowing papal blessings...
I was having dinner over there, and Thing One was skipping around the table, gently tapping (because we're grown-ups) everyone with her wand, saying with each tap, "Baptized by Jesus! Baptized by Jesus!"
Except it was more like, "Bap-taaaaaaaahzed bah Jee-zuuuuuuuuuus!"
So, yeah, a Christian fairy with a southern drawl.
I'm adding her to my very short list of Children Who Amuse Me More Than They Annoy Me.
Posted at 02:32 PM | Comments (2)September 13, 2006
He's Too Sexy For His Shoes
I haven't seen the sun in days. I appreciate the cooler weather, but I'm slowly losing my will to live. (Although not my will to shop because I bought two pairs of blissfully soft yoga pants at lunch. I have mastered the position called Sleeping Dog On Couch.)
With motivation down 79%, it's all I can do to muster up this photo of The Boy Child, reminding you that "America's Next Top Model" starts again in a week.
Note the shoes.
September 12, 2006
Open Call
I was just asked, for the billionth time, "What are you going to do, now that your friend Nicholle is gone?"
I don't really buy their faux-concern. They might as well be commenting about the weather, for all they care about my mental state. Nor do I have any sort of cognative answer for them, so I've just been answering with, "Die."
And then it occurred to me -- does everyone in this company assume I have no other friends? I mean, sure, Nicki is my BESTIE, but not to the exclusion of all others. New Girl is adorable and just ripe for apprenticeship in The Ways of Bitchery. And really, I just couldn't ask for the women in my very own department to be any cooler. I hang with them... when they let me.
Wait. Do I have no other friends here? Is that a company-wide seret, to which I am not privy? Oh, dear.
There's only one solution.
I'm holding an open call for auditions to be my new Cubicle Comrade. My BFF in Business. A Lily Tomlin to my Dolly Parton.
I don't have a questionairre prepared or anything. I guess I'm just waiting for someone to Wow me. But I will give you a few guidelines.
I suppose my needs are mostly dietary: When we go out to eat (as we will, at least once a week), I would prefer to get something and split it. Portions are just too huge in restaurants. So here are the things we cannot eat: seafood of any kind, mushrooms, onions, califlower, cilantro, jalepenos, olives, pork.
Also, you can't dress very well. Now that Nicholle has gone, and taken her unwashed hair, wrinkled t-shirt and Target jewelry with her, I am dangerously close to being Worst Dressed Employee. The only people standing in my way are the few who wear golf sweaters, shop exclusively in JC Penney's Sag Harbog dept., and who think that seasonally-themed appliques on their clothes are okay for people over the age of seven.
I don't always have to be the center of attention, but I can't have someone in tailored business suits, Prada shoes and perfectly coiffed hair making me look even more slovenly than I already am. A half-hearted collection of dark clothing from New York & Co. and the clearance racks at Coldwater Creek would really work best for my second in command.
A bitter hatred for all of humanity is a must. If your soul has long since fled you, leaving behind a dark and empty shell, you're one of the few people I can stand having lunch with. Also, no morals whatsosever -- I don't appreciate being judged.
A nice plus, but not a necessity, would be a completely insane set of in-laws to dish about. Possible topics would include: alcohol abuse, inability to function in any social situation, adultery, age-inappropriate clothing and questionable parenting skills.
So, yeah, if you or anyone you know seems to fit these qualifications, give me a buzz on extention #2928. It's a pretty attractive position, and I'm sure there will be dozens of applicants, so if you'd like to bake something to sweeten the deal, I'm totally open to bribes. No carrot cake.
Couch auditions are, of course, always welcome.
Posted at 01:30 PM | Comments (2)September 11, 2006
Reflections On This, the Fifth Anniversary of Nine-Eleven
Since I am a public figure, I am obligated today to do a piece entitled "Reflections on 9/11." And if I don't, all the 9/11 babies are going to stage a sit-in on my front lawn. So here goes.
(And me and Heather just had a big discussion because she thinks that 9/11 babies are the ones concieved right after the attack, and I think they're the ones whose fathers were killed in the attack while they were still in utero. We have no idea. Either way, the thought of a bunch of toddlers on my lawn fills me with Hitchcock-esque horror. But I digest.)
I work in the 'burbs, as you know. The Chicago 'burbs. My job requires no traveling, no training, no continuing education. Hell, it barely even requires a pulse.
But once upon a time, one of my bosses whom I never write about because I make it a point to have as little to do with her as possible, decided I should take an insurance basics class. Yeah, and people think the only atrocities committed that day were by terrorists. Insurance Basics Class!
The class was in some building downtown, and really, I'm, like, Amish when it comes to going into the city. "Trains? Transfers? It's east of what Tower? Jebediah, help!"
Thank God that Husband, then Fiance, took pity on me. Of course, I was still cooking dinners then and had just started doing his laundry, so that might have had something to do with it. He drove me right to the front door of the building and dropped me off, before going to his own building just outside of the Loop.
My building was some dark, ancient, low-ceilinged, windowless nightmare, smooshed between two newer, glossier, taller buildings. The plan was that I would call Fiance whenever I was done, and he'd come get me. If he wasn't done at work, yet, I'd just go hang out at his office until he was. Anything was preferrable to getting home on my own.
Driving into the city, we listened to our usual radio station. (Yes, we are old.) And that's when we first heard of the plane crashing into the tower.
My first thought was, "What idiot can't see a goddamn TOWER?!"
My second thought, and I'm sure Fiance's, too, was left unsaid -- If that wasn't an accident, this is some serious shit...
By the time he and I each got to our respective destinations, the second plane hadn't crashed, and the buildings had yet to collapse.
I found it hard to concentrate on insurance basics. I know, hard to believe the question of that plane crash could distract me from the differences between property and casualty, right?
The instructor called morning break, and immediately, we were all on our cell phones. A woman who had a voice message waiting for her was the first one to announce, "A second plane crashed into the other tower."
And there I was, in the shadow of the tallest building in the country. Yes, my first thought was of my own safety. My second was of Fiance. But the Verizon satellites were melting in orbit with all the calls being made, and I couldn't get through.
That's when the instructor made the announcement that Chicago was a suspected target, and they were evacuating the entire downtown area. Can you say P*A*N*I*C, boys and girls? I knew that you could.
I couldn't get a hold of Fiance, and I didn't know where the hell his office was, and I was being swept along in a stampede of people all headed in the same direction.
I had no fucking clue what to do. So I did the only thing that came to mind.
I swallowed my pride and announced to the surrounding crowd, "I need to get to Suburbville, and I don't even know where the train station is, let alone which train to get on!"
A woman immediately grabbed my hand and said, "I live two stops past Suburbville -- follow me!"
She might as well have said, "Come with me if you want to live." That's what it felt like. And I never even asked her name.
As far as we knew, another plane was already headed for the Sears Tower or the John Hancock. Or O'Hare. Jesus, most of my family lives within blast-range of O'Hare. And as we stood in the train station, on the constant brink of terrified stampede, it occurred to me -- wouldn't this be a good plan? Flood everyone to the train station, and then blow it up.
Frankly, I'm amazed at how quickly my new friend and I got on a train. I think the CTA did a great job, under the circumstances.
I still hadn't reached Fiance, but I left him several messages telling him what was going on and where I was and to get the hell outta the area already!
When I reached my stop, I happened to be equidistant from my apartment and my office. Easy walking distance to both. I kinda just wanted to go home and curl up on my couch with a blanket and hit redial until I got Fiance on the phone. I knew my boss would totally understand.
But even more, I just wanted to be around people.
When I finally spoke to Fiance that evening, I threw a raging hissy-fit at him for not leaving downtown (his office was just outside of the evacuation zone).
He's like, "But if they scare me away, then the terrorists have already won!"
And I'm like, "Yeah, well, I don't want to have to tell that to your daughters at your funeral."
That got him. Next national emergency, he's running like a sissy-mary.
One tiny little miracle did happen that day, though. See, normally, when there's any deviation from my usual life, I call my Mom and let her know. Yes, the umbilical cord has been cut -- I'm not one of those people. I just don't like Mom to worry if she's trying to reach me.
But, for whatever reason, that time, I didn't tell her I was going to be downtown. I don't know why. Normally, I would make a point of letting her know I'd be icognito for the day. But I forgot. And thank God I forgot because, if she had known I was being evacuated from a potential danger zone, she would have completely lost it, as any mother would.
As it was, she shed a couple tears of relief and that's it. People left work to go get their kids from school, and the office closed early.
Just figures, huh? The one time I have to go downtown for something, the world goes crazy, and they evacuate the entire Loop area. Just my luck.
And yes, I had to retake that stupid class.
And now I'm going to The Red Cross to make a donation to atone for this blog.
Posted at 03:12 PM | Comments (2)September 08, 2006
Tempting Fate
Yesterday, I fell back on a Barbie "comic" I had done weeks ago because I didn't really have anything to write about. Well, I do have a couple things meandering around my brainpan, but I lack the motivation to devote any time to developing them.
(I put the word comic in quotes because the jury's still out on the comedic quality of it.)
It's what's known in the business as writer's block. (Heh -- like I'm "in the business.") It's not fatal. Like everything else it life, my muses tickle me in fits and spurts. (Ewwwww, spurts.)
Lately, I've been cursing my boring life. Why haven't The Kids done anything hilarious lately? Why does nothing cool ever happen to me? Why do people even read this? Why haven't I quit my job to go live in the wild with a pack of meerkats?
And I should know better. I mean, really, have I already forgotten what happens when I tempt fate like that? Have I forgotten that the universe is run by a sick, spiteful bastard?
Apparently.
Before leaving work on the looooooooong twenty-five minute commute to get home, I always stop to pee. It's Pavlovian. Leaving anywhere? Pee. I was all ready -- had my keys out and my sunglasses hanging on my shirt and my briefcase packed.
So I peed and pinched off a loaf. I leaned over to get some toilet paper (because God forbid they actually put the t.p. near the toilet), and my sunglasses fell off my shirt, between my legs, and through the narrow gap into the toilet.
What are the odds.
They were my favorite pair, off the four I have. I call them my pink Charlie's Angels shades. I'm not sure exactly why. But there they were. My favorite sunglasses. Lovingly spooning a fecal log. Traitors.
I went over my options:
1. Retrieve them. Yeah, that wasn't happening.
2. Flush. Hmm. I could just see the toilet overflowing and little poops swimming across the floor, and I wasn't sure I could outrun them.
3. Leave it. You know, that's not really nice. The women who keep this bathroom sparkling clean are so nice. I'd be a real asshole to do that.
4. Fish them out. I'm no McGuyver, and there was nothing in that stark bathroom, or my purse, for such an occassion. And even if there WAS an appropriate instrument in my purse, hell if I was sacrificing TWO of my belongings to the poopie water.
Which brought me back around to option #1.
I sighed resignedly at the realization that I had to suck it up and take care of my own problem. Then I did what any decent human being would do -- I stuck my hand in the exrement-tainted toilet and fished out my sunglasses.
You heard me -- I stuck my hand in the toilet.
I dropped them in the little trash recepticle because they certainly weren't going on my face again.
My hand, however, wasn't so simple to dispose of. I pulled up my pants as best I could with one hand and quickly ran to the sink for MUCH SOAP AND SCALDING WATER, leaving my belongings still hanging on the stall door. But I doubted the only other woman in there was going to steal them, especially after hearing what she just heard.
That'll teach me to long for something interesting to blog about.
And no, I'm not telling you which hand I used.
Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (5)September 07, 2006
Gunter Gets Shot Down
September 06, 2006
Today's Blog Is Brought To You By the Letter "D"
The Victoria's Secret Stores have undergone some changes recently, as you may have noticed, if you've wandered past one -- or steered clear of one -- at the mall.
They sell clothes now -- athletic wear, for the fifteen-to-twenty-five demographic, who work up such a sweat running and jumping and flinging their ankles behind their ears.
The in-house product displays are... well,... I heard a Frederick's of Hollywood model walk by and go, "Check out the hootchie mamas, damn!"
And they now have Bra Technicians (I gotta get that on my business card) who will give you a fitting, i.e. measure you. Yeah, thanks, Hilda, but I have a measuring tape at home. I'll figure it out.
Besides, the thought instantly calls to mind my very first bra-shopping experience with my mother -- she and the saleslady both grappling my tiny, tiny lumps and going, "Does this seem like it fits?" As I silently implored the Lord to make me a boy.
Anyhoo, my shopping buddy, Chick Boss' Assistant, needed some new bras, so I figured, what the hell? I'd try a couple on, too. So Hilda gave me The Box of Bras in my size. Seriously, it's a black, laquer box, and it has a representative of each Victoria's Secret bra in my size.
It was a really big box.
I'm sure you're all quite titillated by this point, picturing me in some bra-trying-on montage, probably set to the song "Rag Doll" by Aerosmith or something. Black 'n' lacey! Red 'n' push-up! Pink 'n' frilly! Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Trust me -- it was not so.
When you get to be a certain cup size, bras are no longer frilly and dainty and alluring. No, when you're a D cup, it's all about structure.
C.B.A. was quite envious, as her entire bra could fit inside one of my cups, but it's no party, lemme tell ya. The under-the-boob sweat, the men who can't look you in the eye, the women who hate you because their men can't look you in the eye -- ugh. What I wouldn't give, in August, to throw on just a tank top and wash the car without getting arrested.
Long story short, Victoria's Secret makes some damn fine bras. When I got back to work, I decided I just had to change into one right away.
So I took my blazingly hot pink, unmistakable Victoria's Secret bag in hand and made the long walk to the bathroom. On the way, I passed just about every man in the entire company, most of whom glanced at my bag and, upon recognizing it, suddenly found the ceiling incredibly fascinating.
Ah, well, it was worth the embarassment. The Girls look GREAT! Just ask C.B.A. -- I had her do a before and after comparison. They're so perky!
And now Grover will sing a song about donuts.
Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (4)September 05, 2006
Today's Blog Is Brought To You By the Letter "P"
Billi is our guest blogger today because, when I read her email, I laughed my ass off and then merrily thanked God that I'm not her.
Her rant follows; my comments are in [brackets]...
Okay, Dee came over today with her kids. Right after lunch, C (the youngest one) complained of a headache. Ten minutes later, he was puking on my family room carpet [which is off-white].Dee took him in the kitchen, and some more puke went all over the floor. Then she took him to the sink, where he puked on clean dishes on one side and dirty on the other. [What the hell is she feeding this kid?!]
So, he sat on the counter. Dee cleaned up the chunks, and I washed the floor [on her hands and knees, even tho' she's eleven months pregnant with vicious vericose veins] and put the dishes in the dish washer. She spot cleaned my carpeting.
C got off the counter, sat on the yellow chair and puked again. WORST PLAYDATE EVER!!!! If me or the kids get sick, I'm going to kill someone!
So, after she finally leaves, I wash the floor again [again, the preggo lady in pain] and call [500 lb.] Father-In-Law and ask him to bring over their carpet shampooer. To which he says No, but we can come get it. The fucker. [Personally, I feel that being eleven months pregnant and in constant pain trumps being 500 lbs. and too goddamn lazy to get your fat ass in the car, but that's just me.]
The Boy Child spills orange juice inside the fridge. I call Brad and start freaking out on him, and he says he'll come home and get the shampooer from his Dad. [Brad is, on occassion, a very smart man.] He ended up just buying one.
So, he moved all the furniture out of the family room and shampoos the carpet. Awesome new shampooer, but guess what was glowing on the clean carpets????? Hawian Punch!!!!!!! For the love of all things good in this world!!! Control your children, people!!!
Okay. I'm done.
Have a nice day.
At least My Nemesis, The Color Printer can't puke on me.
The letter "P" is for puke, preggo, playdate, punch and pissed. And now, Grover will sing a song about pancakes.
Posted at 03:24 PM | Comments (1)September 01, 2006
And It Moves Us All
The other day, eleven-months preggo Billi commented that The Boy Child thinks she is carrying twins and wants to name them Superman and Batman. Frankly, I'm surprised he doesn't want to name them Yoda and Darth Vader, as he is very into Star Wars lately.
He and his dad, Brad, were watching "Star Wars: The... Um... One Where Yoda Dies" the other night. (My nerd powers do not reach far enough to retrieve which episode that is.)
Yes, he's only three, but Brad fast-forwards the really scary parts, and this is not your child! So shut up. At least Brad's not taking him to the theatre to see grown-up movies. I have no qualms with parents terrorizing their children in the privacy of their own homes.
So, Yoda's on his death bed, and he's making his dying speech, complete with moans and groans that sound (for obvious reasons) like Miss Piggy on a three-pack-a-day habit.
Boy Child was not all that concerned with Yoda's impending doom, but he was concerned with all the noises.
He turned a serious face to Brad and asked, "Is he trying to poop?"
For the Boy Child, everything comes back around to poop. It's his own little Circle of Life.
Posted at 01:25 PM | Comments (0)