June 28, 2007
No Freebie
My new job is going swimmingly. Although, truthfully, all I've done so far is clean up the damn pig sty that is my cubicle and organize a bunch of crap. Still, New Boss is pleased with my obsessive-compulsive behavior. Plus, he has said that he doesn't like meek people, which also bodes well for me.
Because I'm going to be dealing with confidential info and stocks and huge mounds of scratch, the company has to do an in-depth background check on me.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again -- Thank God I don't have my name on this blog!
I have to go get fingerprinted today at 4:00 at my local police station. Fingerprinted. So that said fingerprints can be sent to the F.B.I.
Do you believe that shit? People, I'm a glorified secretary, and the last thing I'm going to be doing is flipping through peoples' files for juicy tidbits because it's all numbers and boring as dry, white toast.
But I have to be fingerprinted. Me, who doesn't want to do the one-touch fingerprint check-out dealy at Jewel because I don't want my prints In The System. Well, I'm In The System now and not pleased at all!
See, the way I see it is this -- everyone gets a Freebie. Except here in Chicago, where Freebies are limitless. But in theory, everybody gets one. Like, if you have to commit a felony, you get one, then your prints go into the system. Assuming you don't get caught, it's your Freebie! Because they have nothing to match the prints against! So as long as you never commit another felony, you're golden!
But now my Freebie is gone. I'm Freebie-less. Sans Freebie. And that just doesn't sit right with me because, if there's a felony that really needs commiting, I'm going to have to hire someone to do it. Can't do it myself. It's a very sobering thought.
So now I have an hour and a half left to commit a felony. Damn, I'm going to have to work fast.
Posted at 02:22 PM | Comments (3)June 27, 2007
Holy F*cking Short!
You'd be so proud of me, my darlings. I didn't cry or squeal or freak-out in any way. My hair stylist even gave me a lollipop when it was all over!
Okay, brace yourself. Before and After! (I know you've already seen the Before -- it's for effect.)
Before...
During...
AFTER!
And even more After...
So. I don't hate it. It sure is cooler! Especially on days like today, with the typical Chicago weather -- 90 degrees in the shade and 3,700% humidity. Lovely. I have to wring out my panties every twenty minutes. Which makes for a tricky commute.
Anyhoo, a moment of silence for The Immaculate Hair. Shown here with my consolation pedicure:
I've decided my new look is "sassy." That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
I guess if I've learned anything from this whole ordeal, it's that longer isn't necessarily better.
Unless, of course, you're talking about penises. Then it absolutely, positively is better.
And when it comes to thicker, why, thicker is good for both hair and penises.
Interesting...
I'm sorry -- what we were we talking about?
Posted at 10:19 AM | Comments (5)June 25, 2007
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Can you believe I even used that title? Wasn't that the name of a Bugs Bunny episode? I'm so embarassed.
Well, as I'm sure you've surmised from my plagerized title, I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow. And why is that blog-worthy? you're wondering.
A. Because it's my hair, and I have been named She of the Immaculate Hair.
B. Because I'm getting ten inches cut off. TEN!!! That's a lotta damn hair, people!
It's a crime against humanity, I know. But as upsetting as I'm sure it is for all of you, be assured, it's for a good cause. Locks of Love. Their mission statement is:
To return a sense of self, confidence and normalcy to children suffering from hair loss by utilizing donated ponytails to provide the highest quality hair prosthetics to financially disadvantaged children.
See that? Highest quality hair. Well. I'm practically obligated, aren't I?
But here's the thing. It takes a long time to grow ten inches of hair. Especially when one is actually growing an extra surplus of hair so that one is not bald when the ten inches is cut off. Now, I likes me some long hair, but it's gotten ridiculous.
The washing, the rinsing, the conditioning, the combing out of the knots, the drying, the curling/straightening, the brushing, the styling -- dudes? My arms are tired.
And now, the requisite Before photos. I'll have the After photos on Wednesday. On Tuesday, I will be crying too hard to blog.
This one I took in February. I know because Valentine's Day was the only day I ever wore red nail polish. A mistake I won't be making again.
Do you know how hard it is to take a picture of your own hair? This is my hair Sunday morning. It's pretty much been my standard 'do since retiring. It's easy to grown one's hair out, when one doesn't ever have to look professional.
But said 'do doesn't cut it in an office environment. Unless, of course, I were at the office after hours. Vacuuming and emptying waste paper baskets.
No, I need to look polished and put together. And since we all know I couldn't care less about my wardrobe, I often let my hair do most of the talking for me. And right now? It's saying...
"I'm a damn hippie."
Yes, this is the cascade of glory that is undergoing the knife at 2:00 p.m. Tuesday. My hair dresser is positively quivering at the idea of giving me A Whole New Look. I, however, am less enthusiastic.
So why go through with it now? Why not wait another six months? Well, frankly, what with my employment beginning today, I want to be able to sleep in another 20 minutes each morning, and I can do that... with ten inches less hair.
So. Who wants a lock?
I had this I.M. conversation with Marty, who took the news fairly well.
PW: I'm cutting 10" off my hair on Tuesday. Want a lock?
M: sure! I'll put it in my hope chest
PW: Ok, I'll save one for ya.
M: 10"??? how will I recognize you?
PW: Please. Like your eyes ever make it higher than my chest.
M: sometimes your hair hangs down in front and kinda covers your boobs
PW: Wait. You have a hope chest???? Fag.
M: I'm kind of excited to see it
PW: the short hair?
M: yup
PW: for you, it'll be like not having sex with a whole new woman
Seriously, who wants a lock? I will be selling them for a small fee. Or a small gift. Or a kiss. With tongues.
Posted at 07:48 AM | Comments (3)June 22, 2007
Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm
E-I-E-I-HO. Hee!
Last month, we went to Indiana to visit Husband’s folks for Mothers Day. [My gift to my Mom is that I wasn’t around. Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha!] While there, we stopped by Husband’s Sister’s ranch, where she trains dogs to herd sheep. Like Babe. Only with dogs.
This is Husband’s Sister’s champion sheepherder, Ally. She’s a Belgian Tervuren. She’s smarter than you.
This is Husband’s Sister’s Great Pyrenees, Soliel. She and her brother, Patu (lower right corner), protect the sheep. In this photo, they are protecting the sheep from Husband’s loving hand and scratching fingers. Good Soliel!
How many dogs does Husband’s Sister have? you’re wondering. She currently has six. And three cows. And a flock of ducks. And a herd of sheep. Including 43 baby lambies. And a partridge in a pear tree. She’s utterly insane but fun to visit!
This is Husband’s Sister’s cows, along with one of her sheep. She has waaaaaaay more sheep, and I do have a photograph of all of them together, but it totally creeps me out because they’re all looking into the camera. It’s like a zombie film.
Husband’s Sister’s Friend just had a litter of Shelties. Well, SHE didn’t but… oh, never mind. Sitting in the shade, under an umbrella, in a pen, on a colorful blanket, were five six-week old Shelties. Their faces are so tiny, Japanese schoolgirls are squealing with glee half a world away, and they don’t even know why. I’m telling you, I’ve eaten sandwiches bigger than these dogs. This one already promises to be an excellent sheepherder.
These are our nephews holding puppies. Don’t let them fool you –- they are evil and vicious and will eviscerate you as soon as look at you. The puppies and the boys.
I don’t know which I love more -– the puppy or my manicure. Yes, I got a manicure right before visiting a farm. What of it?
This puppy is so cute, I want to nurse it. Now good luck getting THAT mental image outta your head. HA! Happy nightmares!
This is Stella with Husband’s Mom. No, my mother-in-law is not a midget -– Stella really is that big.
And in case you doubt how big Stella has gotten, here she is about to eat a helpless puppy.
I just realized, I have no photos of Daisy from this trip. I guess she was forgotten among the carnival of puppies and lambies and baby moo-cows. Poor Daisy. I feel bad. I’m gonna go give her a Snausage.
Posted at 05:24 PM | Comments (1)June 20, 2007
Saving Seats
Look out, bitches. There's a new Silkstone in town. And she's a redhead!
For years, I had been content with having just three Silkstones. One of each flavor -- strawberry, chocolate and vanilla. Neopolitan naughtiness. Three fit very well on my little shelf.
But when I came across one for $25 at a doll show -- well, my darlings, you just don't pass up that kind of bargain. But my little shelf is getting crowded.
They hate her soooooooooooooo much.
When she came over and asked to sit at their table for lunch, they were all like, "Oh, sorry, we're saving this seat for Legally Blond Barbie." But she new damn well that Legally Blond Barbie was eating with Calvin Klein Barbie and the Juicy Couture Barbies.
Posted at 04:31 PM | Comments (1)June 19, 2007
Family Reunion Rules of Engagement
Since my Dad is considerably younger than my uncle (and taller, with more hair), all my cousins are quite a bit older than I am. Respectively, all their kids -- I guess they would be my first cousins once removed? -- are in their late teens or early twenties.
The youngest of them graduated from high school this spring. He's going into the Marines, and I just couldn't be prouder. I'd also love to be a fly on the wall the first time he smarts off to a superior. He's got a bit of a mouth on him.
But I digress. The whole family was at his graduation party, and my only female first-cousin-once-removed was sporting a new tattoo. Just above her right boob. It's a peace sign with the word "Imagine." Nice little tribute to John Lennon there. Nothing wrong with that.
I'm like, "Hey, nice tattoo!"
And her mom, my cousin, is all, "Can you believe she got another one?! Can't you talk some sense into her?"
And I'm like, "Um, dude? I have three, remember?"
Three things to remember about Wenchie's family:
1. Don't let Uncle Ron touch you when he's been drinking.
2. Never, ever ask Grandma how she's feeling.
3. Cousin/Auntie Wenchie is NOT a role model.
Posted at 12:01 PM | Comments (1)June 18, 2007
Shortest Career Ever
Friends, I have been struck ill.
On the weekend before I'm to start my new job, my new "career opportunity," I have taken to bed, surrounded by kleenex, Zicam and Nyquil.
(Lest any nasty rumors get started: Yes, Heather got sick on Friday, too. No, we weren't making out. On Friday.)
I'm not the kind of sick where you have some adorable sniffles and a delicate cough. No pretty, little bout of consumption for me. No, I'm diseased to the point where I can't put my head down or I'll drown, and when I cough, green spittle flies out of my mouth. Lepers are like, "Ew, get her away from me!"
Obviously, God has smote me down for not following His chosen path for me -- as a Kept Woman.
Yeah, so, I called in sick this morning. Went a little something like this: "Hi, I can't come in for my FIRST DAY of work today because I'm deathly ill. I realize this means I'm fired, but on the bright side, you don't have to go through the bother of mailing me final check. Since I never really started. Well, it was nice... almost working for you. Good luck with... whatever it is that you do."
How's that for "dynamic?" Shit, I'd fire me.
And to top it all off, I just coughed so hard that I barfed. Which isn't funny at all, so I don't know why I shared.
Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (2)June 15, 2007
Workin' Eight to One, What a Way to Make a Living
Oh, dear Christ, I have a job. You can all stop hating me now. I start Monday. My life is over. A little piece of my soul just died screaming.
I'll be working a grueling four days a week, five hours a day. I'll have Wednesdays off, so I can still have lunch with my Bitches. (You know who you are!)
Monday, I start three full days of training classes. I don't know how the hell I'm going to keep from nodding off for eight hours. But it's a good thing, the training -- considering I have no clue whatsoever about what I'm going to be doing. Seriously. I don't even know what my boss-to-be does. Something about... finances?
Come to think of it, what the hell did we talk about in those two interviews...?
Boss2B assured me I wouldn't have any trouble doing the job.
PW: I emailed you my resume, right?
B2B: Yeah, but I barely glanced at it.
PW: Dude! That took me HOURS to put together! You could have at least scanned it!
B2B: Oh, I'm sure you're qualified.
Why do I feel like Dolly Parton's character in "Nine to Five?" Hmmm, perhaps I can work that to my advantage. After all, I'll be just a hop, skip and a jump away from a Coach store and a Tiffany's. And I look so damn good when I hop, skip and/or jump...
Well, the woman I'm replacing got fired for internet usage. She was reading People magazine online every day. Personally, I would have fired her for bad taste. I mean, why read People when there's The Superficial and The Gilded Moose?
Anyhoo, it probably goes without saying that I won't be installing I.M. on my work computer. So no more Fucking with Heather in the mornings. Except on Wednesdays. No more googling Christian Bale. Or blogging. Or searching for the shoes to the vintage Barbie Little Red Riding Hood outfit on eBay.
What? They were only made for that one outfit and are really hard to find! Besides, you haven't seen naughty until you've seen a vintage brunette ponytail Barbie with scarlett lips in a blue Swiss polka dot dress, a black corset and a red, hooded robe. Scandalous!
Posted at 11:27 AM | Comments (5)June 14, 2007
Where Has All the Fuck Gone?
Yesterday evening, I was pumping gas into my car, and a couple of teenaged girls were trying to figure out how to use Mommy's gas card to put gas in Mommy's minivan. And because they were obviously much more mature and sophisticated than most teenaged girls, every other word was Fuck. Because, you know, that's what grown-ups say.
And to further prove their intelligence and coolness, one of them lit up a cigarette. At the gas station. While pumping gas.
But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I suddenly realized how little Fuck there has been in my life lately. What with Nicki abandoning me, Heather was pretty much my sole daily link to Fuck. And since I often forget to sign onto AOL I.M., I probably hear Fuck less than half a dozen times a day. Sometimes not at all. It's very distressing!
My love affair with Fuck started, predictably, when I began waiting tables. In order to counteract all that fake smiling and niceness that the wait staff must show to the customers, they swear like... well, like wait staff when they're not around the guests.
Working at LePeep was especially hilarious. It was me, the gay host, the token "lifer" waitress, and half a dozen cheerleaders from the local high school. They were all about 5'2", their weight still in the double-digits, and cute as Care Bears. Precious!
Oh, did those gals get an education. They thought they had learned all about Fuck in the smoking bathroom by the performing arts wing. But those girls didn't know Fuck.
After a few weeks, The Lifer and I had it so the Mexican cooks would cross themselves anytime the cheerleaders were around. But it sounded so cute when they said it!
Ironically, I married a man who is barely on a first name basis with Fuck. And now that I'm so far removed from Heather, Nicki, Chick Boss, Assistant Chick Boss and Hott Boss, there's just so little Fuck for me to enjoy.
I miss it. I really do. I find myself "accidentally" bumping into people at Walgreens, just hoping one of them will tell me to Fuck Off.
There's only one clear solution really. Mom, you're going to have to start using The F Word more.
Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (6)June 13, 2007
More Euphamisms for "Poop"
Because I'm clearly bored and have nothing to keep me entertained, Stella has invented another game for me to play. It's called simply Find It.
This morning, instead of pooping at her usual time, Stella chose to, instead, sit down in the grass and watch a plane go by overhead. Sometimes, I just don't have the patience to wait until her fickle colon comes to life. Like this morning. When my shower was long overdue.
I took her back inside and figured we'd try again once I no longer smelled like the ape house at the zoo. But upon exiting the shower, I immediately smelled the telltale smell of an unpracticed puppy sphincter, i.e. poop.
Sighing wearily with the knowledge of the task to come, I walked over to her usual spot, which is currently bare floor, ironically, because our living room runner is still at the cleaners. (That stupid Home Depot runner is probably worth about $800 by now, after all we've put into maintaining it.)
No poop. I turned on a light. Still no sign of poop. So I followed my nose and walked through the living room, dining room, hallway, kitchen...
Once I reached the bedrooms, the smell disappeared, so I knew it had to be in the front of the house. But where?!
I did another circuit and thought, "Well, maybe it was just a bad fart...?" But after 37 years on this planet, I can tell the difference between a fart and the actual deed. (You know, they're just not teaching kids the really important stuff in the public schools.)
This was definately A Deed.
There could only be one explanation. One of them had eaten it before I could find it and swat me some furry fanny. But which one? Daisy or Stella? They've both been known to fancy some fecal matter...
Needless to say, it wasn't hard to distinguish which one of them had Bowel Breath. Stella. And then, because she could tell I was mad, and the guilt was killing her, she wanted to lick me in apology.
With her Turd Tongue!
Posted at 02:07 PM | Comments (0)June 12, 2007
Wenchie's Run
Remember that movie "Logan's Run," where life was perfect because people were only allowed to live until they were 30? (And until I looked it up just now, I didn't even know Farrah Fawcett was in that movie. I just remember Michael York. Sorry, Farrah, I'm sure your hair looked fabulous!)
I'm telling you, that is totally the way to go.
I'm only 37, and my body has been falling apart for years. Since turning 30, I have...
1. Developed allergies, for which I take three different drugs every day.
2. Had my metabolism grind to a screeching, ass-expanding halt.
3. Discovered the joys of adult-onset acne.
4. Undergone major surgery.
5. Injured myself by running across the street.
I could go on, but I'm starting to tear up.
The point is, if someone had killed me at 30, I would have died at the top of my game... and, more importantly, the top of my physical appearance.
Most recently, it's my knees that have been giving me trouble. At first, I thought it was a by-product of my as-yet-unhealed sprained ankle, so I ignored it for six months. In the words of that great philosopher, Homer... Simpson, "I am so smart! S, M, R, T!"
While Husband and I were checking out the barn a couple weeks ago, something happened that convinced me I should quit being a guy and just friggin' tell my doctor already!
See, my knees don't bother me when I'm just walking around. Not a bit. Stairs give me some trouble. The more I do, the worse it gets, especially the left knee.
But the real epiphany happened when I was climbing a completely vertical ladder to the hay loft. I got two rungs up, and it felt like someone was hammering nails directly into my kneecaps. And being the rocket scientist that I am, it dawned on me, "That's probably a sign of real trouble."
So when I was at my latest appointment with Dr. Hottie, I told him all about my 83-year old knees -- where they hurt, when they hurt, crap like that. I was lying down at the time, so he grabbed my left ankle and brought it up to my face. You can imagine the cry of agony that followed.
Mind you, I've always wanted to have Dr. Hottie throw my ankles behind my ears, but I kinda envisioned that we'd both be naked and panting at the time.
[Gimme a moment to go to my Happy Place... Mmmmmmm...]
Dr. H: Your hamstrings are tight.
PW: Well, duh.
Dr. H: Do you ever stretch them?
PW: Of course not. What the hell does that have to do with my kneecaps?
Dr. H: [insert overly technical explanation of how hamstrings are connected to some piece of cartilage or something directly behind the kneecaps]
PW: Well, I'm sure that made sense to you. Dude, I've never stretched my hamstrings in my entire life. Why is this happened now?
Dr. H: I dunno. Because you're old?
PW: Nice.
Dr. H: Surgery is always an option.
PW: I'm not having knee surgery!
Dr. H: Then stretch your damn hamstrings!
And I pay him for this abuse. That's the part that kills me.
Moral of the story: Always go to a doctor that's older and in crappier shape than you.
Posted at 01:54 PM | Comments (2)June 11, 2007
Dynamic Diva
Husband and I had a pleasant surprise a couple weeks ago. A barn just landed in our laps. Luckily, it was empty at the time, so we weren't badly hurt.
Okay, seriously. You know how we wanna buy land up north and build a timberframe? (Thereby ensuring that I'll never, ever see Heather again.) Well, in the timberframing community, there are a very lucky few who get their hands on an old barn and salvage the vintage timbers.
(Oh, God, I just keep getting dorkier and dorkier.)
Such an opportunity has presented itself to us, and we may be able to buy a barn. It's in really great condition; none of the wood is rotting. If you were a Wood Nerd, like Husband, you'd know what a Chance-of-a-Lifetime this is.
But barns aren't cheap. So I reluctantly -- very, very reluctantly -- volunteered to go back to work to help make our wildest dream come true a little sooner.
(I just admitted that my wildest dream is an old, empty barn. Will no one commit a mercy killing?!)
Now, I haven't gone completely crazy. I'm only going to work parttime. As few hours as possible. After all, Stella isn't going to train herself!
I'm a little daunted by the prospect of having to go find a job. I've never had to go GET a job before. They've always just landed in my lap (like dinner, drinks and weed). I had to create a resume, which required me thinking waaaaaaaaaaaay, way back in time. It was like, 'Okay, where was I working before the accounting firm? Who was I dating then?'
That's the only time I can remember when anything happened. Who was I dating then? I could create a dating resume much easier than a work resume. However, it would be much less impressive.
Ever helpful, Heather said, "So. First job that comes to mind... fluffer on the set of Evil Dead IV."
Oh, IF ONLY.
But let's be honest -- we've all seen the Old Spice commercials. Bruce is too old to be kicking evil's ass anymore. At this point in his life, he'd probably rather just pay some neighbor kid to do it for him. Don't get me wrong; I'd still let him bend me over the back of his couch. But I probably wouldn't argue if he wanted to keep his shirt on.
So with that off the table, I'm considering a job as an assistant to our financial advisor. Yes, a job at the Home of the Frowny Face would mean much less of a commute, and they have been courting me.
However, our advisor's office is just a stone's throw away from a huge, upscale shopping mall. AND it has a Tiffany's and a Pottery Barn, unlike the huge, upscale shopping mall by my old job. It's totally an upward career move!
Plus -- and this is the real kicker -- he called me "dynamic." TWICE. I not only want to work for this guy, I want to run away with him! DYNAMIC!!! He knows me so well already!
I'm going back again this week to talk with some marketing guy he wants me to talk with. And more importantly, he's going to let me talk with one of the other assistants, so I'll have a very good idea of what I'm getting into.
Of course, there will still be a last-ditch effort to remain a kept woman, but, failing that, I think being part of my own, little Dynamic Duo is a good fallback position.
Posted at 10:36 AM | Comments (1)June 08, 2007
Two Fires, One Very Special Family
When I was growing up in my charming, affluent town, there were two families that everyone knew – the Jacksons and the McDonalds. They were the names most frequently seen in the police blotter. They were the kids our parents wouldn’t let us play with. They were the kind of people who would die and either be eaten by their own cats or have to be removed from the house through at window with a crane. Or both.
Mrs. Jackson was one of those women you hear about but can’t believe, who was pregnant for the sixth time and didn’t know it until her water broke. True story.
I think they were vying for the coveted title of “Trashiest Family in Town.” Literally vying. They lived on the same block and were actually feuding, for God knows what reason. I think the oldest Jackson boy impregnated the McDonalds’ dog or something. They would throw beer bottles and firecrackers at each others’ houses. I think 50% of the calls to the fire department in the 70s and 80s were from the Jacksons. That place was always on fire.
One time, it was on fire twice in one day.
Gary Jackson had a motorcycle. He liked to ride it through residential streets at breakneck speeds. He also liked to ride it through picnics, parades and Easter egg hunts.
One day, he came screaming around the corner, and his hubcap went flying off, into K and Garrance’s yard. K picked it up and beat him on the head with it! No, she didn’t really, but that would’ve been awesome.
She handed it back to him and said, “I have a two-year old that you are going to kill if you don’t slow down!” Because when I say around the corner, I really mean across their lawn. I think Gary inherited his driving skills from his mother, who once drove her car through her back porch. For reasons unknown.
One day, K saw Gary tear around the corner, over the Jacksons lawn, into their back yard and disappear. Followed shortly by a police car.
K was happy to direct the officers to the Jackson home, although they probably didn’t need much direction.
Mrs. Jackson, 6 feet tall and 600 lbs., came to the door and, of course, started telling the policemen that Gary wasn’t there and she hadn’t seen him all day and blah blah blah. But apparently she hadn’t told Gary of her brilliant plan to cover for him because he came down the stairs in a towel and told the police he had just gotten out of the shower.
By this time, half the neighborhood was on their front lawns, and they weren’t even pretending to water the tulips. They were just flat-out gawking.
But before the officers could decide whether they should haul Gary off in his towel or let him change clothes first, smoke started coming out of one of the basement windows. So one of them walked around and took a look. Yup. Something was on fire in the basement.
Apparently, Gary had driven his motorcycle down the basement stairs, laid it down and put a blanket over it. Because, ya know, that’s sure to fool anyone!
The two Jackson girls started screaming and carrying furniture and pets out of the house. And they had some really beautiful antiques, which was ironic. And unfair. They should be living with milk crates and card tables, like normal white trash!
I guess the jig was pretty much up at that point. Hard to plead innocent when your motorcycle is on fire in the basement and your sisters are emptying the house of valuables.
The fire department came and put out the fire. When K asked if they were going to arrest Gary, they said, “I think having their house go up in flames is punishment enough.” And it wasn’t, in my opinion, but I think the police were probably just fed up at that point.
But just as the firemen were putting their hoses away and getting ready to leave, smoke started coming out of one of their second story windows. Apparently, the fire had gotten into the walls and traveled upstairs. Bwaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! So the firemen had to get all their gear back out and put out the second fire.
Meanwhile, Garrance went around to the rest of the neighbors to take up a collection. They were hoping, at that point, to bribe the firemen to just let the place burn down. But apparently that's a crime or something, even when half the people living there are on the lam.
And I don't know why I felt compelled to share that story except that we were talking about the Jacksons last week. They come up in conversation fairly often, even after moving away twenty years ago. But the motorcycle story is my favorite.
Hokaaaaaaaaaaay, good story. And then I found five dollars.
Posted at 04:29 PM | Comments (5)June 07, 2007
When a Felon IS Engaged In His Employment
I got in my car the other day, and I noticed that it looked... cleaner than usual. Oh, waitaminute -- it's less cluttered because I was ROBBED!
ROBBED, I tell you!
Someone dared to board and pilliage the S.S. Explorer! Doesn't really jibe well with my piratey persona. How embarassing.
The booty the little bastards made off with was CDs, a leather CD case, and a small book. Now, let's examine this.
The leather CD case I understand. It was nice. However, you can get one at Target for, like, ten bucks. I don't even remember what CDs were in it. I think it was a Beatles complilation two-disk set, and two Gilbert & Sullivan CDs that Marty burned for me -- "Iolanthe" and "Ruddigore." Normal people wouldn't posess those CDs on a bet, let alone steal them! I've been robbed by snooty fags!
I also had -- and this will be most missed -- my "Pirate of Penzance" CDs, in their original case, with libretto, by D'Oyly Carte. FUCKERS! Those things are, like, thirty bucks! If you can find them!
Now, I can only hope that the little shits will be listening to light opera about fairies, ghosts and pirates, and it will dilute their insatiable lust for crime, but that's not bloody likely. They'll keep the case, pitch the CDs in it (you can't pawn a CD without a case), and pawn the "Pirates" set for about two dollars.
Now the book. The book was "How Far Will You Go?" It's a bunch of thought-provoking questions that I keep in the car for long road trips.
What the hell are they going to do with that? Pawn it? Get to know his fellow felons better with it? "Okay, dude, here's one. What is the biggest lesson you ever learned from your father?" "Um, I never met my father."
But perhaps more interesting is what they left behind.
They left about five dollars in change that I still have in the little coin holders, despite the fact that I got an Ipass six months ago. (For those of you who don't live near Illinois, an Ipass is a small device kept in one's car so that Gov. Blago can rape us for tolls more painlessly. This is what you get for voting democratic.)
They left a cute, big plate shelf I bought for Billi. Hard to miss. Although I suppose teenaged hooligans don't display many plates. Not like the old days.
They left the two big atlas map books, one for Illinois and one for Wisconsin. Very helpful! Especially considering they'll probably be on the lam soon.
And most stupidly, they overlooked a $150 suede Hobo International purse that I left in the car to remind me to take it in to be cleaned. (Yes, I'm too lazy to clean it myself, despite the fact that I don't even have a job. Shut up. These nails don't paint themselves!)
Obviously, the thieves were teenaged boys because anyone else in the world would recognize suede and the financial opportunity it presents at the pawn shop. Duh. But I'm SO ETERNALLY GRATEFUL they are retarded because I got the purse for thirty bucks on eBay, and it's soooooooooo kewl.
The weird thing is, I always lock my car. ALWAYS. Even if I only leave it parked in front of an abbey to run in for ten seconds, I lock it. It's habit. My car is never, ever unlocked, so how they got in is a mystery to me. There are three possibilities:
1. They happened to check my car on the One Day EVER I left it unlocked overnight.
2. They check my car every single night and finally got lucky.
3. They jimmied the lock.
I know what you're thinking. 'Now, Wenchie, why would a thief check your car every single night?' Because he lives next door to me, and it's convenient.
To the south are the awesome-est neighbors ever. They take in our mail when we're gone, keep their yard nice, and once the husband got out of the shower to lend me some nutmeg. They're what every neighbor should be.
To the north is Damien. His father is incommunicado, and his grandmother is raising him while his mother works 23 hours a day. His "friends" all drive Hummers, Mercedes and Porsches and think that midnight is an acceptable time to drop by on a school night. He's a total drug dealer, and the cops are over there every six months.
I'm sure it was him. And now I have to be extra vigilant about what I leave in my car. Ooooh, I think I'll leave him a note!
Dear Drug-Dealing Bastard Next Door,
In the end, the pirates turn from their life of crime and get rewarded with 17-year old pussy. Listen, learn it, live it.
Love, Wenchie
And I have to remove the change from my coin holder. In fact, I'm going to do that right now.
Today's lesson is: Just say NO to opera!
Posted at 03:24 PM | Comments (2)June 06, 2007
Timberrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
This is what Stella did to our kitchen chairs.
They were oak. Now we have a couple metal folding chairs in our kitchen. I hope she breaks a fucking tooth.
Oh, and? She didn't just chew the wood, she ate it. Consumed it. What goes in must come out, and it has done so in a supremely odorous dribble.
A random, odorous dribble. Like, when she's in the yard, it takes her five minutes to squeeze out a piece of timber, while I stand in the rain. And cicadas.
And yet, when she's in the house, on our nice living room rugs, she can stealth-shit in 0.3 seconds. And I don't notice it until my eyes start tearing up. I just brought our runner in to be cleaned for the fourth time. I have a punch card.
I hate the puppy.
The puppy who is 7-1/2 months old and just 10 lbs. shy of Daisy. Yeah, that puppy.
We have a new game that we play now. It's called Puppy Jeopardy. It goes like this: I notice Stella has something in her mouth. I wrestle it out of there. I look at the mangled piece of wood or plastic and try to answer the following questions:
1. What the hell is/was this?
2. How much of it is now missing?
3. If she ate it, will it pass easily, or will I be cleaning up puke?
4. What object in my home is now missing a crucial piece of itself and will soon fall apart?
Stupid, stupid dog. For my revenge, I will humiliate her with the following photo.
So there.
Posted at 02:14 PM | Comments (6)June 05, 2007
Bar Slut Logic
As you may have noticed, my internet went down on Memorial Day and stayed down for a week. Fucking terrorists!
Lucky for me, I know an I.T. guy who'd rather do anything than be at work, even if it means working for me for free, amidst the stench of Stella's recent sphinctorial events. (More on that later.)
I was quickly reunited (and it feels so good) with Heather via AOL I.M., and we lost no time in sinking to our usual ass-hattery.
Heather: WENCHIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Pirate Wench: SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT!
PW:Marty fixed my internet! and I have 1,000 emails to catch up on! and I have to blog!
H: DUDE! I've MISSED YOU! WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS!!!!!!
PW: I'm a selfish, selfish wench
H: SERIOUSLY!
PW: and I have to find time to take a shit cuz I'm dying and I've been at the computer for 2 hours.
H: ???? turtle!
PW: god, it's been HELL
H: I'm SURE!
H: you need to blog about hte new pirate tv show! and the third pirates movie!
H: have you been ok, other than your stupid internets?
PW: oh, yeah, I'm groovy
H: what was wrong with it, btw?
PW: no idea what was wrong. ask marty
PW: he told me, but all I heard was "blah blah blah"
H: hee.
H: also? the internet SUCKS without you.
PW: awwwwwwwwww. and you?
H: doing pretty well. nothing earth-shattering excpet for me and Heather's Husband spending two hours last night lingering around a dying kitten on the cornerr, waiting for the animal control to come get her... and both of us being too chicken to pick her up for fear of getting rabies or something, and feeling like HUGE pussies for that.
PW: a feral cat? fuck that. i wouldn't even poke it with a stick
H: yeah. we didn't know anything about it, but she was pretty fucked up and staggery and we didnt' want to just let it die there, on teh corner, where kids and doggies walk every day....
PW: good call
H: anyway. 2 hours before animal control came. 2 hours of staggering and explaining to people who walk past asking "is that your cat?"
PW: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
H: like, dudes. if it was my cat, she'd be in a box in the backseat of a taxi with me crying hysterically and Heather's Husband giving frantic directions. IDIOTS
PW: HA!
H: thank god you know what i'm talking about when I say "can't pick her up, I don't know where she's been" - Bar Slut Logic, really.
PW: Bar Slut Logic is appropriate for so many, many occassions
H: you would know!
PW: I never touch myself without wearing gloves because I KNOW where I've been!
H: hahahahahaHAAA!!!
H: to his credit, Heather's Husband totally called 311 to report the cat before i could even suggest it - I nudged her away from the street when she tried to walk to the curb... it was so heart warming for Heather's Husband, seeing my sensitive side.
PW: kicking the cat to the curb
H: ha! yeah, that sounds less nice than it was at the time.
PW: I can't believe we had that whole kitten conversation with no pussy jokes. we're losing our touch
H: oh, Heather's Husband and I had a bevvy of them, on teh way home...
PW: I should hope so!
H: there was this older woman, like...halfway through menopause, in jean shorts and puffy white gymshoes, who stopped, asked us what was wrong with 'our' cat, then started crying and actually moaning outloud as she walked away.
PW: oh for fuck's sake
H: as soon as she got out of earshot, I cracked him up with one word. "lesbian"
PW: HA! "vegan"
H: SERIOUSLY
PW: which reminds me -- I'm hungry.
Posted at 04:18 PM | Comments (0)June 04, 2007
Thank God I Have a Treadmill!
You know that scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” where they’re trying to leave the school? And there are birds covering every inch of the playground equipment? And they’re totally still, but you just know that they’re watching? And waiting?
That’s what this morning was like.
We’re fortunate enough to live a half-mile from a lovely public park and nature preserve, so most mornings, I walk one or both dogs (depending on how much hassle I feel like dealing with) down to the park and around the pond. It’s really quite lovely and peaceful.
But the cicadas showed up in significant numbers for the first time in my neighborhood this week. Every tree over seventeen years old is covered with them. So much so that the disgusting creatures are starting to migrate to cars, fences, garden décor and even an old couch that someone left out for the garbage men. *shudder*
The last time the cicadas showed up, it was for Spikette’s wedding in June of 1990. She got married in a pretty, little chapel… in the forest. The time before that, I was just three years old. You wouldn’t think I’d remember anything about it, but I do. I remember them falling off the trees onto us. Gross gross GROSS.
The town I live in is one of the “Tree City U.S.A.” towns, meaning we have a certain number of trees per square mile or whatever. It’s a pretty town, but more trees means more cicadas, and that’s just not sitting well with me right now.
I know the cicadas can’t hurt me. Logically, I know this. And I like to think that my Wenchie persona is above such things as creepy-crawly-bug-fear.
But I’m not. There, I said it. These damn cicadas give me the chronic heebie-jeebies, and I don’t care who knows it!
I was pretty much fine for about the first quarter of our walk. The crunching beneath my sneakers had made me only mildly nauseated. But when I got to the park entrance and saw All… Those… Trees…, I thought to myself, There’s no fucking way.
So we turned around and headed home. It was then that the cicadas sensed my presence. The signal went through the trees. Small squadrons were sent out intermittently to dive bomb my head. One flew within inches of me, and I squealed like a little girl. The sound of their wings makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and do jumping-jacks.
Still one-third mile from my home, I picked up my pace. I kept looking behind me and making ridiculous movements because I was sure one had landed on my back. Thank God I was the only person stupid enough to be out walking this morning.
For the next few weeks, I’ll be sticking to the treadmill, thankyouverymuch.
Posted at 04:30 PM | Comments (4)