January 30, 2007
Say "Soho Hobo" Ten Times Fast
I can not be trusted.
Nine o'clock this morning, I'm driving Husband to O'Hare so he can do a business overnight in Louisville, Kentucky.
Four hours later, I'm slapping down plastic in the Coach store.
"This purse is a steal at a hundred and ninety-eight dollars! At that price, I'd be a fool not to buy the matching mini-skinny!"
Frankly, I'm shocked I walked outta there without a key fob, I was so euphoric!
But people, you don't understand how beautiful this purse is. It's the culmination of all my spring/summer purse fantasies. A lilac so soft, it's nearly baby pink. A leather so soft, it's nearly baby butt. A love so forbidden...
Well, nevermind. Let's just say, Husband's side of the bed won't be empty tonight.
Ohhhhhhhhh, sweet Soho Hobo!
Posted at 02:35 PM | Comments (2)January 29, 2007
Usurped!
I've been usurped!
I am no longer the hottest topic of conversation here at work. The Payroll Chick totally stole my thunder on Friday.
See, since Nicki left us and the new Payroll Chick took over, the job STILL doesn't have any back-up or help or anything! So it was really only a matter of time before she left.
But there was an additional factor that made P.C.'s career here much shorter than Nicki's. They switched bosses on her, and instead of having a cool, non-meddling boss, she got G.M.'s Golden Boy. Bringing her that much closer to G.M.'s Evil Lair.
I'd quit, too. Oh, wait -- I ALREADY DID!!!
When I talked (i.e. gossiped) in the bathroom with her for 20 min. on Tuesday, she didn't mention anything about quitting. So I'm thinking that it was some unexpected incident that was the last straw, and she just couldn't take it anymore. Proverbial straw, meet camel.
Seems she gave G.M.'s Golden Boy her resignation and ten days notice. And G.M. waddled over, collected her key card from her and told her not to come back. He really has a way with the ladies.
And as much as I hate being upstaged, I'm kinda tickled that she quit, too. I mean, I'm sorry it got that bad for her -- she's a cool broad. But it just further proves that this place is ass on toast to work for.
I'm kinda disappointed that she didn't tell me. We could have staged some grand mass exodux, a la "Jerry McGuire" or something.
"I! Will go with you!"
That would've been cool.
Posted at 11:47 AM | Comments (0)January 25, 2007
Bueller?
Ganked from Vicki. I like the premise of this. And since there are few things I like talking about more than myself...
* * * * *
Tired of all of those surveys made up by high school kids?
'Have you ever kissed someone?'
'Missed someone?'
'Told someone you loved them?'
'Drank alcohol?'
Here are some questions for the people who are a little more mature. (Meant to be completed by those out of high school)
1. What bill do you hate paying the most? My monthly eBay fees. It's like, Yay! I can afford another Barbie! Oh, wait -- have to pay my fees.
2. What's the best place to eat a romantic dinner? The basement, in front of the t.v. What?
3. Last time you puked from drinking? Never ever. I kid you not. Wanted to, the New Year's Eve I was 20, but never actually have. Real pirates can hold their rum.
4. When is the last time you got drunk and danced on a bar? Heh. People dance on bars for ME, not vice-versa.
5. Name of your first grade teacher? God, I remember kindergarten and second and third grades --McDonald, Klein and Kubala -- but not first. Damn. Did I skip a grade?
6. What do you really want to be doing right now? Napping.
7. What did you want to be when you were growing up? A veternarian. I really loved animals. But then I found out all the gross stuff that goes along with being a vet, and that was the end of the dream. Now I want to be a mermaid.
8. How many colleges did you attend? One. But I partied at many. (Don't tell my Mom!)
9. Why did you wear the shirt that you have on right now? Because brown is my new fav color to wear, and I've been told this particular sweater is very flattering on me. And it was next up in the rotation.
10. GAS PRICES! First thought? Now it only costs $40 to fill my SUV instead of $60!
11. If you could move anywhere and take someone with you... Oslo, Norway, by my cousins. I'd love to live somewhere where I'm surrounded by my ancestral history. My paternal grandfather is somewhat famous in the town I live in, but I want HUNDREDS of years of history. I love my country, but I yearn for a place that doesn't knock down any building that's over a century old to put up a mini-mall. And I'd take Husband with me, but only because Billi and Spikette (nee Older Sister) probably wouldn't let me take their children. Well, maybe Boy Child...
12. First thought when the alarm went off this morning? Crap. Now the puppy is going to start warbling (she doesn't whine, per se -- she yodels).
13. Last thought before going to sleep last night? If Husband doesn't get his ass in bed right now, I'm going to kill him while he sleeps. And then he'll always be in bed.
14. Favorite style of underwear?? Under jeans, thong (hate V.P.L.). Under work pants, granny panties for comfort. But always Victoria's Secret.
15. Favorite style of underwear for the opposite sex? Boxer briefs. The best of both worlds!
16. What errand/chore do you despise? Grocery shopping. Which is ironic, since I love other shopping. But seriously, I HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHATE it.
17. If you didn't have to work, would you volunteer at an art gallery? Why the hell would I volunteer at an art gallery? I'm not against volunteering, or art, but I can think of lots of other places more worthy of my time.
18. Get up early or sleep in? Does anyone ever answer Sleep in? Well, actually, I'm used to getting up early on weekdays now. If I don't, I feel like I've wasted half the day. But I'm all for sleeping in on weekends. It's a must.
19. What is your favorite cartoon character? I'd have to say Stewie from "Family Guy." I admire his honesty.
20. Favorite NON sexual thing to do at night with a girl/guy? Curl up on the couch and watch a good movie, with some crackers and dip handy. I'm a cheap date.
21. A secret that you wouldn't mind everyone knowing? People. My MOM reads this.
22. How many joints pop when you get out of bed in the morning? None. I'm always careful to take the seeds out. Bwaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I slay me.
23. What is the biggest amount of $$ you have made from a yard sale? Who says "yard sale." It's a garage sale, people! Two hundred clams and some change. Speaking of which, I can't wait for spring so I can have another one. Soooooooo much crap in my basement!
24. Your favorite lunch meat? Ham.
25. What do you get every time you go into a WAWA? Am I supposed to know what a WAWA is?
26. Beach or lake? Lake! Lake Michigan, to be specific. I've been swimming in Lake Superior, and it's GORGEOUS, but water that was still a full-on glacier fifteen years ago is just a weeeeeeeeeee bit chilly for me. My nipples almost snapped off.
27. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual that was invented by people who died at 20? Oh, totally. Of course, that didn't stop me from falling victim to it. And I'm not sure I know of any better way, as far as having children is concerned. But if there's no kids, there's no real reason for it.
28. Who do you stalk on MySpace? My long-ago love from grade/middle/high school. Dude STILL has rock-solid abs, and he's my age.
29. Favorite guilty pleasure? Crappy pop music. Like seriously crappy. I'm talkin' Britney, Backstreet, the works. It's just so damn catchy!
30. Favorite movie you wouldn't want anyone to find out about? I have no idea. But I know Billi's! It's "Planet of the Apes!" The original, natch. She can't look away!
31. What's your drink? Water or milk. Oh, you mean booze? Kaluha and cream or a strawberry margarita. Total chick drinks, I know.
32. Cowboys or Indians? One of each, please!
33. Cops or Robbers? Neither. Too stressful!
34. Do you cheer for the bad guy? Put it this way. I was in love with Al Swearengen in Season One of "Deadwood," BEFORE he went all soft. I could really empathize with his character -- just a guy trying to get along, surrounded by fucking retards all the time. Poor thing. And the hair. Love the hair.
35. What Hollywood star do you think resembles you best? None. They're all freaks. But if I had to pick one to play me in a movie, it'd be Reese Witherspoon. Not that she necessarily looks like me, but I would trust her to best capture my essence.
36. If you had to pick one, which cast member of "Lost" would you be? Jack, so I could do everyone else on the island a favor and KILL MYSELF.
37. What do you want when you are sick? Head cold? Lemonade and hot soup. Stomach flu? Sweet, merciful death.
38. Who from high school would you like to run into? Bec Phillips. She'd probably ignore me, but twenty years later, I still miss her on a regular basis.
39. What radio station is your car radio tuned to right now? 87.9 FM, which is a non-station that I can listen to my iPod through.
42. Norm or Cliff? For what? Medical testing?
43. The Cosby Show or the Simpsons? "The Simpsons." It's a perfectly cromulent show.
44. Worst relationship mistake that you wish you could take
back? Marrying the Ex. Worst. Decision. Ever.
45. Do you like the person who sits directly across from you at work? Chick Boss is in the cube right next to mine -- at least for the next week -- and she's awesome. No annoying habits, nice and quiet, and eavesdropping on her conversations with her mom is often hilarious.
46. If you could get away with it, who would you kill? I would think that would be obvious. And I'd be a Big, Damn Hero for it, too!
47. What famous person would you like to have dinner with? You'd think my answer would be Bruce Campbell, but it wouldn't be much of a dinner without me being able to eat or speak. Or stop drooling. So Kathy Griffin. Definitely. And I'd take her anywhere she wants and pick up the bill for it. Call me, Kathy!
48. What famous person would you like to sleep with? Bruce Campbell. I wouldn't have to talk.
49. Have you ever had to use a fire extinguisher for its intended purpose? Fortunately, no. But Nicholle has! In her oven! Hee!
50. Last book you read for real? Currently, I'm finally getting around to the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. 'Bout time, huh?
51. Do you have a teddy bear? No, I have two stuffed dogs. A yellow lab from Billi when I was in the hospital. And a rottweiler from Step Daughters when mine died in Oklahoma in the care of my dumbass Ex.
52. Strangest place you have ever brushed your teeth? In the woods on Isle Royale.
53. Somewhere in California you've never been and would like to go? That famous wax museum place.
54. Number of texts in a day? "Text?" As in -- text messages? I thought this was a survey for people out of high school?
55. At this point in your life would you rather start a new career or relationship? Career. And what a coinkidink! I am!
56. Do you go to church? Nope. I used to, and I'm not ruling it out for the future. But right now, it just doesn't do anything for me.
57. Pencil or pen? Pen. Black. Ballpoint.
58. Bueller??? Bueller??? Bueller?? I say this about once a week, and I feel like no one ever gets it. I'll keep trying.
Feel free to gank and leave me a link to your answers!
Posted at 01:26 PM | Comments (1)January 24, 2007
My Oriental Rug
Okay, all this Wenchie Is Quitting! shit is getting monotonous. So I thought I'd take a breather from that particular brand of faux-drama with... a different kind of faux-drama.
Teenaged poetry, to be exact. Yeah -- mine. God, this is so embarassing. But we could all use a laugh, right? Because we're all getting tired of my whining.
Learn To Ignore
Peaceful incense by candlelight.
I try to remain calm
on my oriental rug.
But knowing that you're miles away --
having fun without me,
not caring about me
-- makes me burn much hotter
than these tiny flames teasing my eyes.
Ignore my anger --
it's so easy for you.
I hate you.
I love you.
I can't come back to you.
Learn to ignore your own emotions now.
PW 8-31-88
"On my oriental rug?" What was I thinking?! What a pretentious moron!
I was eighteen. OBVIOUSLY. I don't even remember who I wrote that about. Some winner, I'm sure. I really knew how to pick 'em back then.
Another one? Oh, if you insist.
Security
I exist in cruel coldness
and surround myself
with decorative boxes
containing the souls
of the soft-eyed and soft-hearted
to keep me safe and warm.
PW 12-29-88
So... yeah. A little dark, even then.
I hope you've enjoyed this foray into the humiliation of Wenchie. Please don't think for one nano-second that I don't know that these poems SUCK HAIRY DONKEY BALLS. They are purely for your amusement.
Ugh. I have books of this shit. Heather, be sure to publish it all when I die, under the title I Was a Teenaged Asshat.
Tomorrow, we will return to our regularly-scheduled bitching...
Posted at 01:29 PM | Comments (4)January 23, 2007
The Schedule
Yes, I'm still obsessing about this. Bear with me. It's traumatic. I have to get it all outta my system before I can get on with my life... such as it is.
A week or so ago, the Receptionist sent out a schedule for switchboard relief for the month of January. Mind you, only an idiot thinks that she put this together herself. We all know where it really came from.
On this schedule, all lunches are covered by G.M.'s Assistant's Assitant. All morning breaks are covered by Yours Truly. And afternoon breaks are divided up between the remaining support staff so that each secretary does about two afternoons a month.
That's two afternoons a month.
Every morning.
Two afternoons a month.
Every morning.
Two afternoons -- are you seeing what I'm seeing? I'll give you a hint. It starts with Huge, and ends with Discrepency.
To my mild surprise, and amusement, the other secretaries immediately started replying to the Receptionist's schedule-related email with heated questions. Who authorized this? Was my supervisor consulted? Can I do breaks at 2:00 because I leave at 3:00? Etc., etc.
Now, I'm kind of disappointed that the other secretaries attacked a person who is, essentially, one of our own. And I'm really sickened that G.M. had the Receptionist do his dirty work for him. God, the whole thing was just screwed-up... however, it was kind of fun to sit back and watch the meltdown. Just another feather in G.M.'s cap!
Something came of this that basically amounts to G.M. eating his hat.
He emailed all the support staff with one of his trademark longer-than-necessary diatribes. It included an explanation of what he did and why; a vague admission that the schedule was "sent out prematurely," or some such bullshit; and an assurance that all supervisors will be met with before another switchboard relief schedule is made. Probably by the beginning of February.
Because that's how long it takes a G.M. to schedule switchboard relief. Because it's a complicated process. Because if he had given it to a secretary to take care of, it would have been done by lunch time.
You're probably wondering, "Well, Wenchie, if he acknowledged the mishandling and promised to fix it, what's the problem? Why did you quit?"
Oh, my darlings, haven't you figured it out by now? I'm special! I'm not like other people! You can't just lump me in with everyone else!
No, no, the apology wasn't geared towards me, and neither was the raincheck for the switchboard schedule. Although I received the email, I was clearly exempt from it, as I found out when I went to H.B. with the news.
Although none of the other secretaries would be doing switchboard until after The Big Switchboard Meeting of '07, I was still expected to cover every, single morning break. See? SPECIAL!!!
More special than the sauce on a Big Mac! More special than the kids on the short bus! More special than the episode where Blossom gets her period!
S to the P to the E to the C to the I to the A to the L!
Special.
To be continued...
Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (2)January 22, 2007
The Gauntlet
Well, I think it's safe to assume that blogging at work is definately BACK ON. I seem to have developed somewhat of a lax attitude about my employment here. Go figure.
This morning, at the Monday Mornings Managers Meeting, G.M. apologized to all of the managers for his bungled handling of Switchboard Relief.
Hey, guys? Where's my apology? Where's the apology for the person most heiniously fucked by G.M.'s bungling?
Don't worry, my darlings -- I'm not holding my breath.
Flashback to January 2nd. I received, via Lotus Notes, a meeting invitation. The meeting agenda? Switchboard relief. The other invitees on the list? G.M., G.M.'s Assistant, G.M.'s Assistant's Assistant, and the current Receptionist.
I took this to mean that I was the only non-Administration Dept. support staff lined up to help with switchboard relief. This did not sit well with me, as you may imagine. There are a dozen other secretaries in this company who know how to answer a phone. Why was I the only one invited to the meeting? Could it be... oh, I don't know... because G.M. hates me with a seething hatred usually reserved for the Packers/Bears rivalry?
Jokingly, I just thought to myself, Heh. I should just decline the meeting. But the more I thought about it, the less of a joke it became. Why shouldn't I decline it? I was being "volunteered" unfairly and against my will! At the very least, I wanted to talk with Head Boss first.
So I did the unthinkable. A staff support person actually DECLINED a meeting with the G.M. I'm sure a series of small strokes followed, which would explain his irrational behavior since then.
I declined with some comment to the effect of:
I would like to meet with my supervisor before committing to any responsibilities outside my department, especially considering that I now work half the hours that I used to.
And thus began the power struggle. Mind you, it is expected of me, according to company protocol, never to let work outside of my department interfere with my main function here -- to support my department. And while I have many, many times over the years volunteered to help out in other departments, I've always made sure I got my work done first. As expected.
But declining a G.M. meeting, well, I pretty much just slapped him in the face with my glove, as far as he's concerned. "I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!" I expect to find Stella boiling in a pot on my stove when I get home today.
I won't detail the numerous trips I made to H.B.'s office in this Battle of Wills. Too long and boring. Besides, I don't remember. I will just highlight a couple of things:
One. Never, at any point, was I allowed to speak to G.M. directly. Have to go through the "proper channels," doncha know!
Two. H.B. didn't really express his own thoughts as much as he relayed mine. So actually, I doubt he did anything the a carrier pidgeon couldn't have done. And far cheaper.
Three. I verbalized many rational points. I'm doing the same amount of work in half the time; I'm the only non-Administration person being asked to do so much switchboard relief; I don't report to G.M.; he's singling out because of the email fiasco. H.B. agreed with all of these points but couldn't make them stick, once he was in G.M.'s presence.
Disappointed in him? Yeah. JUST A LITTLE.
To be continued...
Posted at 04:05 PM | Comments (3)January 19, 2007
The Story of Wenchie & the G.M.
In the beginning, I was a part time temp here at Company. I had, like, three other jobs (nanny and church secretary at two churches -- weird, huh?), and I'd work when I could.
I was the only staff support that my department had. This was back in the days of my Previous Boss (P.B.). P.B. really wanted to hire me to be their full time secretary, and I really wanted to be their full time secretary. But there was an obstacle. A 500-lb. obstacle.
General Manager. Yes, the G.M. of Reading My Emails Fame and Soda Machine Outrage Fame. He didn't want me working there because both my sisters already worked there, as secretaries in different departments, and he apparently was afraid that we would pool our supernatural, secretarial powers and take over the entire company. Wonder Twin powers -- activate! Form of... an ice fax machine!
At the time, all the department heads, including P.B., reported to G.M., who basically had control of the whole company. Ahhh, but with great power comes great responsibility, and since G.M. is no Peter Parker, he abused his power and got "promoted" to a position where no one reported to him. Hee!
P.B. hired me on the spot. Double hee!
Fast forward to G.M. reading my email conversations with Nicki and discovering that we both hate him. As does everyone else at the company. Awwwwwww, he got his wittwe feewings huwt.
Here's my thoughts on that. When you're a petty, spiteful tyrant, you can't rationally expect people to respect you. The best you can hope for is fear. And an assassination that kills you quickly. But you should pretty much assume that people despise you and have started a betting pool on when you're going to retire.
I'm fine with G.M.'s feelings being hurt. And I'm fine with him hating me. I'm even fine with him throwing darts at my photo. But what I'm NOT fine with is him using his authority to totally fuck with me. That's unprofessional and shouldn't be tolerated by anyone.
Now, I didn't mind covering the Switchboard every other day in December because, frankly, I didn't have much else to do and was basically biding my time until I was only working half days. The G.M.'s Assistant's Assistant was brand new and just settling in to things, so I didn't mind helping her out.
I was under the impression that it was a temporary gig and would eventually be taken over entirely by G.M.A.A. Especially since I was cutting my work hours in half, which doesn't really jibe well with sitting at the front desk, trying to beat my high score in Zuma.
Imagine my surprise when, with the consent of no one, it was assumed I would be doing ALL morning Switchboard breaks, once I went part time. Ajeckamonga-HUH???
To be continued...
Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (0)January 18, 2007
Thank You for the Opportunity
No blog yesterday because I was too freaked out. Yesterday will forever be known as Black Wednesday. Well, maybe not forever. Probably more like for the next week or so, until it slips my mind.
But I digest.
Yesterday was the day I was given the thinly-veiled ultimatum of, Continue to turn tricks for the Good Ol' Boys Club or be fired.
But I'll get to that in good time.
Husband has this thing with clothing. Not only does he love it, he calls it his armor. When he has an important meeting to go to at the Mayor's office or something, he'll put on his best suit, a white shirt, his favorite tie, and his shiney dress shoes. He feels ready to do battle when he knows he looks immaculate.
My voice teacher, too, subscribes to this theory. Whenever I'd sing in a voice recital, she'd always tell me, "Wear something you feel gorgeous in because you'll sing better."
This morning, I took a little extra care getting ready. I put on my favorite grey pants, and a pink, V-neck sweater. I curled my hair like a friggin' Breck girl and donned my favorite faux-Tiffany necklace. I'm even wearing flowered socks. I feel confident... and just a little brassy.
And I put this letter on Head Boss' desk:
Dear Head Boss:This letter is to serve as my official resignation from Company. My last day will be Friday, February 2, 2007.
Please send my final check and all retirement fund information to my home address.
It’s been a great pleasure working at Company for the past eight (or so) years. Thank you for the opportunity.
Sincerely,
Wenchie
Currently playing on the soundtrack of Wenchie's life -- "Human Nature" by Madonna.
In her immortal words, "I'm not your bitch. Don't hang your shit on me."
To be continued...
Posted at 12:35 PM | Comments (7)January 16, 2007
We Assure You That We Can Get You Laid
That's what the spam subject line said. They assure me that they can get me laid. Oh, great, cuz I was totally losing sleep over that.
Here's the body of the email:
Interested in having sex with people who live just minutes from you? Meet girls, guys, couples who just think about getting laid?Well, our system can make this happen.....
71% of members hooked up using our system.....Guess what... it's free.....
But that's where their exciting story of free, geographically-friendly sex ends. I did not click the supplied link because I do not want a porn virus on my computer.
I'd call up Marty to come fix it, and he'd be all, "Yeah, I really don't see a problem. In fact, it may take me hours to find one. Why don't you go make me a sammich?"
(I don't know why Marty becomes Jim Belushi in my head.)
So let's examine the selling points of their ad, shall we?
Interested in having sex with people who live just minutes from you?
Yes! In fact, he's in the basement right now. Can't get more convenient than that, unless you're going to have a helicopter hover his/her/their prone, naked body(ies) over me while I go about my business, just in case I happen to trip, fall and land spread eagle on my back with my skirt up over my head. And that almost never happens.
Meet girls, guys, couples who just think about getting laid?
I'll politely ignore the fact that that's not even a sentence and move on, so as to avoid bringing you even more shame.
Who are these crazy people who think only about getting laid?! Wherever would I find such oddities?!
Oh, that's right... everywhere. I tend to leave my house at least once a day, so I'm pretty sure I'm running into actual human beings who are thinking about sex. Probably even while they're talking to me. They're called NORMAL. I'll bet my Mom is thinking about sex right now.
Well, our system can make this happen.
So can mine. It's called The Walk Up To Any Man & Take My Top Off System. Works like a charm.
71% of members hooked up using our system.
Dudes, I could stand in the middle of Bennigan's swinging a dead cat and have a higher success rate than that.
Guess what... it's free.
*sigh* I'm tall and I possess long hair, a nice rack and a pulse. I have never paid for my own dinner, drinks or weed. Free, immediate, no-strings-attached sex just couldn't BE more available to me!
And that's not bragging. It's just simple biology.
Seventy-one percent. HA! I just don't think I'm their target audience.
(Okay, Mom, cut it out. Now you're just being creepy.)
Posted at 04:53 PM | Comments (2)January 15, 2007
The Calls Are Coming From Inside Your Head!
What I want to talk about today may make some of you uncomfortable. It's an issue I have rarely seen addressed by even the most boundary-snubbing writers, comedians and radio personalities. It's even less socially tolerated than an open discussion of vaginas.
I'm talking, of course, of nose-whistling.
You know what I'm talking about. You've probably experienced it at least once in a solemn gathering, either as the whistler or as the person looking around wondering, What the hell is that noise?
I have allergies. So at any given point in time, the inside of my nose is coated with a skin of mucus that varies in consistency depending on time of year, time of day, etc.
Despite this, nose-whistling is rarely a problem with me. I'm not really a heavy breather, ya know? I'm not one of those people you can hear breathing. Probably because I'm barely breathing, and I can't find the air. Don't know who I'm kidding -- imagining you care.
What?
Nothing.
I barely breath. My blood barely moves through my body. My core temperature is below 98.6 degrees. I can't keep myself warm. I'm almost as dead outside as I am inside. You know what problem the undead don't have? Nose-whistling!
However, once I go to sleep, it's a whole different story. I wake up in the morning, and there's Special K in my nose. And man, it clings! It is often eye-wateringly painful to get that shit outta there!
It's the midnight Special K that makes my nose whistle. I've even woken myself up with the nose-whistling. I'll be suddenly awake, checking the Husband for snoring, checking the air for toxic farts, checking the house for sounds of The Murderer.
And as I'm listening, I realize, That's no door creaking open, being pushed ever go stealthily by the hand of an axe-wielding ex-boyfriend; that's MY NOSE.
And that's just the depth of humiliation, isn't it? There's no rolling over and nudging the Husband for a little nookie after that. Heck, you might as well just read a book because even earplugs aren't going to block out the sound.
Because -- get this -- the whistling is echoing in your head!
Trippy.
So, um... I didn't really have any point or advice on the subject of nose-whistling. I just thought I'd get it out there, expose the elephant in the room and open up the topic to discussion.
God, could you imagine if an elephant had a nose-whistle?! It'd be deafening!
Posted at 01:27 PM | Comments (2)January 12, 2007
I Stepped In It
Dear Co-Workers & Cube Neighbors,
Please pardon the smell.
It's not me. It's the puppy poop on the bottom of my shoe.
Yeah, I just noticed it.
"How did you JUST NOTICE the stench of feces following you everywhere?!" you ask.
You raise a good point, but clearly, you don't understand the world in which I live.
It's a world in which puppy pee is clear and insidiously invisible, until it has saturated your sock. A world in which tiny puppy poop is indistinguishable from an autumn leaf in the back yard. A world in which the smell of pee and puppy breath and harsh cleansers have numbed my sense of smell to all else.
Yes, I have cleaned it off my shoe. (Thank God I keep Lysol Wipes in my desk.)
I'm just really, really, really glad that the smell didn't turn out to be eminating from me.
I would have worn my other brown shoes today, but those are covered in even more poop than these are and are currently sitting on my back stoop, waiting for me to work up enough courage to face them. Or throw them away.
Thank you for your understanding.
Respectfully yours,
Wenchie
January 11, 2007
R.I.P.
So, Nicki and I, being the wild party animals that we are, spent an hour and a half talking about death and funerals and such.
Her father's first wife, M, finally drank herself to Jesus, and Nicki's mom, J, has made it very clear that she's not going to the funeral. Why? As she puts it, "M wouldn't want me there."
I think that's totally viable, and J is showing much decorum. And I couldn't help but wonder, If Husband's Ex dies before me, would she want me at the funeral? Would it be appropriate to go; or would it be better to stay away?
Can I get a ruling on this?
Would I want her at my funeral? Probably not. Well, I don't think it would be in poor taste for her to show up, ...as long as she's not wearing a party hat and hanging on the new widower.
And what about the girls? Husband would want them there, but I really couldn't blame them if they had better things to do. They could just come for the free potluck luncheon afterwards and be like, "Oh, sure, we were there for the service -- we were in the back."
But I'm not as concerned with that as I am with my eBay account. What if I put twenty things up for auction and then get hit by a bus? Who would mail the items to the winners? Who would even know what was going on? NO ONE! The money would just sit there in my Paypal account. Or God forbid Husband opens some check addressed to me from Karl in North Haverbrook. I really don't need that kind of speculation going on post-mortum.
Eventually, complaints would be filed, and all those eBayers would get their money back from my Paypal account. But they'd be bitter, and their bids would lack that carefree anticipation they had before I died. And that would be my legacy -- a shitload of negative feedback on eBay.
I'm going to have to type up some sort of informal will for Husband that will include my eBay and Paypal screen names and passwords. And, of course, the bank and account number of my eBay checking account.
Oh, I'd also have to include the name of the fru-fru dog food we get and the website I order it from. Lest Daisy be forced to eat, God forbid, Purina!
I also think it should include some kind of call sheet. Like who to inform when I die. I mean, I can't have New Girl sitting at her desk at work and get an email from the V.P.'s assistant, "We regret to inform you of the passing of one of our employees, Pirate Wench. Wenchie worked here for eight years, and temped here several years before that."
Meanwhile, New Girl is in hysterics and has to go home because she'd be so incredibly grief-stricken by the news of my demise. In fact, she'll probably have to take the whole week off. And I wouldn't rule out Xanax, 24-hour bedrest and long-term disability. She really looks up to me.
But seriously, would Husband know how to get in touch with Heather? I suppose, after a few days, it may occur to him to check the Contacts on my cell phone. But what if I get hit by a train? It's unlikely the phone will survive the impact.
What about my boss? HB will need to start interviewing for my replacement immediately, before the printer runs out of paper. I guess it's up to my brother-in-law who works here to take care of that. But not until after he has erased all the Xena slash-art from my computer. (Thank God I'm related to someone in the I.T. department!)
And finally, my blog. Or blogs. Well, my LiveJournal and MySpace can rot in cyberspace, for all I care, but this blog. My devoted readers will need the news broken to them gently. I hope Heather has started drafting my eublogy. And it had better contain the words Pure Awesome.
Posted at 02:28 PM | Comments (4)January 10, 2007
Answering the Call of Nature
My house is disgusting. I don't even want people coming over to pay homage to Stella because my house smells like The Crazy Cat Lady died here.
Stella has had diarrhea, which is fairly common with puppies. Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus, she's happy to pee outside, but she's not going to tell you she has to go outside. You just have to guess and hope you catch her with a full bladder.
Daisy -- a.k.a. The Good Dog -- has another bladder infection. Between the two of them, we're going outside every seventeen minutes, morning, noon and night.
Now we've all seen the funny emails about How Men Get Ready For Bed vs. How Women Get Ready For Bed, and How Men Shower vs. How Women Shower. And, being a big fan of exfoliation, I can't say with 100% certainty that I wasn't the inspiration for at least one of those.
So allow me to turn the tables a bit, with 100% certainty.
How Wenchie Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.
1. Throws glasses on face.
2. Shoves feet into clogs (regardless of the presence or absence of socks).
3. Gets coat mostly onto body.
4. Clips Stella's leash to her collar.
5. Runs her into the yard.
And lemme tell ya -- if it's over 40 degrees out, I dispense with step three entirely. No neighbors are awake to see my braless, falangling boobs anyway.
How Husband Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.
1. Rolls into sitting position on side of bed.
2. Scratches hair, several places.
3. Gets up and turns on bedroom lights, ignoring wailing of sleeping wife.
4. Puts on pants.
5. Puts on shirt.
6. Neatly tucks in shirt.
7. Fastens belt.
8. Looks around for shoes.
9. Asks sleeping wife if she knows where shoes are.
10. Ignores finger.
11. Remembers that shoes are in basement by couch (with wallet, phone and keys).
12. Puts on slippers instead.
13. Walks to kitchen, turning on hallway light and both kitchen lights.
14. Gets on coat.
15. Gets on hat.
16. Gets on gloves.
17. Looks around for leash.
18. Is confused because leash is NOT where he left it -- on the floor in the corner -- but is instead hanging on its hook.
19. Hooks leash to collar.
20. Takes dog outside (ignoring puddle on floor).
21. Is satisfied when Stella pees on the flagstone patio instead of the grass.
See? This is his great plan. I get more sleep when I take the damn dog out. He's trying to wear me down with lack of sleep, so I'll eventually stop making him take turns and just take the dog outside myself.
I'm onto you, Husband! Don't think I don't know.
Posted at 04:27 PM | Comments (1)January 09, 2007
Doctor's Orders!
I had quite a scare today, my friends, and I would appreciate some love and compassion. Preferrably along the lines of, "Oh, poor sweet baby," accompanied by smooches and hair-stroking.
And speaking of stroking, I totally thought I was stroking-out early this morning. And not in the good way.
I had about a thirty second flash of lightheadedness at my computer. Nothing terribly unusual. I've had them enough to know that it's nothing, or I'm fighting a cold, or I'm typing faster than my brain can think.
But five minutes later, I experienced something I'd never experienced before. No, not buyer's remorse, assholes. Blurred vision!
BLURRED! VISION!
And I'm not even drunk! My peripheral vision in my left eye went all wavy. At first, I found it hard to focus on what I was typing.
And then it got worse, and I'm like, "Holy shit! Waves! Why is my eye wavy? Am I having a stroke? I'm having a stroke! Shit! I don't have time for a stroke! I have to take the puppy to the vet, pick up Younger Step from her trumpet lesson, and then meet Vicki for dinner! I can't do that if I'm drooling and listing to the left!"
My immediate reaction was to do what I always do in important, life-altering situations -- I.M. Heather. She agreed that I should go to the E.R., but she wouldn't leave work and drive me there. (I know, right? She's a terrible friend.)
Stranded by her lack of compassion, I called my eye doctor. (Well, that and I kinda felt stupid. I mean, going to the E.R. for "wavy vision" is even more lame than going for heartburn.)
Dr. J's assistant put me on hold and came back with three questions:
Asst.: Have you experienced a lot of stress lately?
PW: I don't know. What's a lot? Our puppy had diarrhea, and we were at each others' throats all weekend. Does that count?
Asst.: Probably. Have you gotten enough sleep?
PW: We had to clean runny poo out of her cage, every hour, all night long. So, no.
Asst.: Have you had a lot of caffiene lately?
PW: I just had a big mug of chai tea in an attempt to keep myself awake.
She put me on hold for another few seconds, then came back with my prognosis, "Dr. J says that living with Husband is too stressful. Go home and take a nap."
Oh, he is so my favorite doctor. I'm seeing if he can do my next pap smear.
Posted at 10:08 AM | Comments (5)January 04, 2007
And So It Begins
So there I was, at 3:30 in the morning, in the backyard in my cotton pajamas. In Chicago. In January. Stella had just peed and pooped in her cage. Lovely. The ground was frosty, and my feet were regretably sock-free inside my garden clogs.
Stella sat down on her little butt and looked at me like, "What -- you think I could possibly have anything left inside me to excrete?"
We went back inside where Husband was tending to cage clean-up, bless his little heart.
As he picked up the tiny poop, he said cheerfully, "Well, at least it's firm!"
Isn't that sweet? And applicable to so many situations. I think I'm gonna write that in his Valentine's Day card.
At least it's firm.
Posted at 06:55 AM | Comments (3)January 03, 2007
A Star Wars Christmas
First, Redhead Silkstone had to get dressed for the party.
She's all, "What -- this old thing? Why, I only wear this when I don't care what I look like!"
Bitch, please.
Here's capitalism at it's finest. Ol' Dubya is so proud of us!
Yes, we have wood panelling in the basement. I'm not proud. It was there when we moved in, and now that it's become known as "The Brady Basement," we just don't have the heart to change it. Besides, it goes so well with the brown shag carpeting!
The Boy Child got some Star Wars action figures. And THANK GOD because the fourteen thousand he has at home barely keep him occupied.
Obi Wan is either going to deliver the smackdown WWF-style on the stormtrooper, or he's going to make sweet, intergalactic love to him. And with Boy Child calling the shots, it could go either way, really.
This photo of Darth Boy Child is kinda fuzzy because I had already taken two ping-pong balls to the head.
Later, Husband cauterized my gushing headwounds with a lightsaber, so I'm okay.
This is Darth Boy Child's mentor, Darth Sheldon, seen here donning his reading glasses because he can't see Yoda without them.
Yeah, he needs a haircut, but it's so difficult with the helmet and all.
Posted at 06:58 AM | Comments (0)