July 31, 2007
White Trash Summer
You guys, the summer is two-thirds over, and I haven't been skinny dipping with even half of my hott friends. I've only had, like, three Lynchberg Lemonades. I'm a shitty, friend. I'm a shitty, sober friend.
I wish I could say I've been scuba-diving shipwrecks or following the Sasquach migration or something. But no. Where have I been? Door County and the Renaissance Faire. Could I be more white trash?
After I got meat-on-a-stick at the Ren Faire, I got this:
A henna tattoo. And why did I get a henna tattoo, branding me as a smelly hippie for the next two to three weeks? Because I had nowhere to go that evening, so I didn't want to get my face painted.
I now want to get henna supplies and a book and do my entire body. Seriously. I love this. I'm gonna write my name on Husband's ass while he sleeps. And maybe give Younger Step Daughter a moustache.
But more on the Ren Faire later.
So it's summer, and I'm so tired of my toe. Yes, the nail is still attached. But it's disgusting, and I swear, looking worse instead of better. The part that, apparently, absorbed the impact, in the nail bed, has grown out into view. It's a blood-colored ridge that runs across my entire nail.
And I'm so sick of wearing nail polish that's black or brown or eggplant. I want summer colors on my toes! So I threw away all decency and painted them lavender.
Pretty, no?
Lest you think that my summer has been all sunshine and deep-fried Milky Ways and lavishly decorated appendages, my summer has also been the internal struggle of not wanting that damn huge, metal dog cage in my kitchen, and not wanting to let the world's largest termite to run free in my home.
Look what that bitch Stella did to my wall.
Now, it could be that she's just as disgusted with the prior owners' decorating as I am. But more likely, she's just a retard who eats wallpaper. Oh, crap, it just occurred to me that there's probably lead in that 40 year old paint. The cycle of retardedness continues.
So what's more white trash than a henna tattoo, a dubious toenail and a partially-eaten home? Not much. Oh, my truck is starting to rust along the bottom, too. Perfect.
Posted at 04:12 PM | Comments (4)July 27, 2007
Souring On eBay
Dear Asshole Who Took a Month To Send Me My Watch,
If you're so busy running your huuuuuuuuuuuuge eBay business that you don't even have time to go to the goddamn post office once a week, then perhaps you shouldn't list so many items at one time? Just a little selling tip from me to you, Sparky. Perhaps you bit off more than you could chew with the Internet Get Rich Quick Scheme and should go back to selling insurance.
I don't even want the fucking watch now. And since you sent it after I sent four (unanswered) emails, and since the last one I sent you told you not to bother, I'm not dropping the complain I filed with PayPayl. So there. You suck.
* * * * *
Dear Skanks Who Are Bitching About Their Packages After One Week,
I don't know where you're fucking packages are. Ask your stupid mailman. Or better yet? Go smoke a bowl and mellow out. It's only been a week since the auction ended. And six days since you paid. And five days since I shipped it. And one of those days was a Sunday. Four days is awfully fast for getting your panties so tightly knotted that they're tugging on your pubes.
What do you think -- that I haven't mailed the packages, yet? That I want to keep this shit sitting around my house any longer than is absolutely necessary? Clue time! I'm doing this to get rid of my crap!
Check out my 100% positive feedback from 752 customers, and maybe learn that I'm not a spiteful ogre toying with what little money your husbands make down at the gas station, okay?
* * * * *
Dear Bitch Who Hasn't Paid Me,
Are you unclear on the concept of eBay? Here's a refresher -- you bid, you win, you pay. Reeeeeeeeaaaaaaal easy. Even a flat-headed simpleton like you should be able to figure it out.
I clearly state in my auctions, PAYMENT DUE WITHIN FIVE DAYS OF AUCTION END. You've doubled that period of time, and I've been more than patient, so how 'bout at least clearing all the cigarette ash and moon pie crumbs off your keyboard and answering one of my emails, huh?
* * * * *
Love (to lock you all in a closed car on a hot day),
Wenchie
July 26, 2007
Moms Say the Darnedest Things
I rarely remember to check my PirateWenchDotOrg email account. None of you ungrateful brats ever send me eCards anyway, so it's basically no biggie.
But today I checked it and found a bunch of emails from my Mom, regarding various posts from the past two months. Leading me to ascertain... I think that she thinks that she's leaving a comment when she hits the "Email the Pirate Wench" link.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
It's probably bad form to laugh hysterically at one's mother for all the world to see, but as she has told me many times herself, "I'm just here to amuse you, Wenchie."
And she does a damn fine job of it!
From June 13, More Euphemisms for "Poop"
In the future, when I read your antics, adventures, maladies, etc. with the canine members of your family, I shall do so wayyyyyyyyyyy before or wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy after a meal. I'm just about to put dinner on the table (if you can call Tuna Salad, chips and a big glass of wine dinner, ) and I have to put your tale of Fecal Woe out of my mind. I shall try hard. Better luck tomorrow.
Love, Mommie Dearest
One more thing, doesn't that long "e" word that you typed have an "r" in it someplace? M. D. again
I have no idea what E word she's talking about.
From June 15, Where Has All the Fuck Gone?
Dearest Middle Daughter: f____ you. Oh my God, did I really write that for all the world to see??? I am SO Ssorry, but I hope I made you happy.
Love you, Mommie
I love how she's like, "F you! Love you!" What this woman won't do to ensure my happiness.
From June 23, Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm
I simply ADORED the photos of the doggies. You DO have room for a couple more canines at your place, you know. The garage, the shed, the ugly bathroom. Have I planted an idea in your head?
Love and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXs. Mommie Dearest
She writes this forgetting that she and Dad are our dog-sitters. Unless... the idea that she's trying to plant in my head is that she wants a puppy for Christmas?
From June 25, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
I am soooooooooooooo proud of middle daughter. I may see her hair walking down Prospect Ave. someday and I'll bet I'd just know it, too. Congratulations.
Love, Mommie Dearest
Isn't she awesome? She once said that, "A day without Wenchie is like a morning without orange juice." Awwwwwwwwwwwww. She rocks.
Has anyone here not seen the movie about Joan Crawford's parenting skills, "Mommie Dearest"? Billi and I saw it on t.v. when we were younger. I see it came out in '81, which would make us 'tweens at the time, and about ripe to become the eye-rolling, melodramatic martyrs that we were throughout our teens.
I don't remember, but I'm going to assume that we saw this at a friend's house because there's no way Mom would have allowed us to sit through a movie that would give us so much ammunition.
Billi and I called her Mommie Dearest behind her back for a while, thinking ourselves oh-so-clever. I don't recall how Mom found out, but she soon embraced the moniker and made it her own, proving herself to be much more clever than her daughters.
Thus is the reason she signs her emails/"comments" as Mommie Dearest.
Hats off to you, Mom. No matter how we girls tried to crush your spirit, you always managed to retain your sense of humor.
Posted at 02:58 PM | Comments (3)July 25, 2007
Pigs No More
Like me, New Boss (NewBo?) has added some extra pounds to his near-middle-aged self, like cream cheese to a bagel. He's not in any danger of having to be removed from his own home with a crane, mind you, but he's not happy. Like so many of us, he'd like to scrape a little off the middle, ya know?
As my efforts to organize his office continue, I went on an electronic file purging hunt. Like a territorial animal, I got rid of all my predecessor's files, while resisting the urge to just squat on the computer.
In doing so, I noticed a lot of documents that belonged to NewBo, and yet weren't business-related. So I made him a Personal file and dragged them all into there.
Most of them were traveling league baseball schedules, batting line-ups and such. But one jumped out at me. It was called "Pigs No More." C'mon, I had to read that one! I mean, it's not like he was trying to hide it, after all!
It was... like a menu. A spreadsheet of three meals a day plus a snack. I assumed it was diet-related and put it in his Personal file. And I'm not one to discuss peoples' weight unbidden (this post being the exception, apparently), so I certainly had no intention of mentioning it to him.
In fact, it was all but forgotten when I told him how I had arranged his files, and he's like, "Did you see Pigs No More?"
He sounded quite excited about it, so I told him I'd glanced at it briefly. Then he told me about this diet plan he had going with his friend last year. The whole jist of it was that they had to email to each other a list of everything they ate. And apparently, shame is a great incentive because NewBo lost 12 lbs. rather than admit to Big Macs for lunch.
In my relentless search to shave off a few pounds, I have never come across this method. Sure, I've heard you're supposed to write down everything you eat. But I will tell myself out-and-out bald-faced lies -- and believe them -- so that never worked.
But having someone else hold you accountable... hmmmm, that's an idea worth looking into. So I emailed Billi and bounced it off her. Her reply?
"That's a good idea. Only I'm not ashamed to tell you I just had potato chips and french onion dip for dinner, then a bowl of choc. chip ice cream for desert. No fruit or veggies passed these lips today!"
And therein lies the rub. Neither of us have any shame. I could have an entire tube of Pringles and some Twizzlers for lunch, then a Coldstone Creamery All Lovin' No Oven for dinner, and not only would I have no qualms about admitting that to her, I'd be bragging about it!
I wrote back to her:
"Please. The closest thing I had to a veggie today was the salsa and chips at 4:00. Right after the Chips Ahoy and before the Blizzard."
I guess it's some weird frat-boy-esque thing. Guess what I can eat and still not throw up! So lady-like. I'm sure my mother is beaming.
Well, I'd sure love to hear any other ka-ka-may-mee weight-loss gimics that have worked for others! And don't gimme that "eat less, move more" crap -- that's just crazy talk!
Posted at 02:31 PM | Comments (5)July 24, 2007
Puppy Review
A couple of my friends got puppies this year. You can tell them apart from a Swiffer Duster only by the presence of their eyes. I don't understand tiny-dog ownership. I need a dog I can trip over and not kill. I just don't have the physical coordination for tiny dogs.
Anyhoo, here's Lola Beth's ball of fluff, Gracie. Note that Gracie has more stuffed animals than The Girl Child.
This is Peanut, recently acquired by Laura. Apparently, Peanut is deathly afraid of the other dogs in the neighborhood. But I would be, too, if I was 4 inches tall and my owners named me after food.
And for good measure, here's a photo of Stella thrawting my every attempt to take a good photo of her.
She is, indeed, the Bart Simpson of dogs.
Posted at 02:56 PM | Comments (5)July 20, 2007
The Cabin, Part I
Husband and I will be going to my family's cabin briefly this weekend. Mid-July is awfully late for my first visit of the year. Most summers, I'm at least up there by the first week of July, with the rest of the family, serving as buffer for my Mom so she doesn't go stir-crazy while my Father spends his days in stoic, Scandinavian silence.
My Mother has certainly put up with a lot from my Dad over the years. For example, 'though they have been married for over 50 years now, he continues to introduce her as "my first wife." Nice, huh?
Frankly, the man is lucky she hasn't poisoned him by now. I wouldn't turn her in. His eternal trying of her good will began not long after they were married.
At the time, they were living in a "garden efficiency" apartment. I.e., a tiny, basement apartment. And as any savvy financial advisor will tell you, they were in the perfect position to buy a summer home!
Not.
But Dad did it anyway. He went in on a place with his father and brother. Grandpa had his eye on this sweet, little, white cottage and, apparently, couldn't afford it himself, so he had his sons each pay him back for part of it. Not a bad deal for my uncle, who is quite a bit older than my Dad and probably in a better position at the time to afford $20 a month. But for my parents, that was a lot of freakin' scratch!
Can you imagine, as a new bride, being told, "I know you're the only one working to support us while I finish college, but can you squeeze twenty bucks out of the budget each month?"
I've got one word for you. Anullment.
Oh, and that sweet, little, white cottage? Well, the owner backed out of the deal at the last moment. Some of you might think that that ought to have been the end of the fiasco, at least for the time being. But no one has ever gone to the animal shelter "just to look" and NOT gone home with a puppy.
They came to buy a summer home, and by God, they were going to buy a summer home!
And thus, the shanty came into our lives. An old, three-season fishing cabin that had been unused for a couple decades. The walls are split logs with tar paper in between. The roof requires buckets when it rains. The floor is such that, when you sweep, you don't need a dustpan because you can just sweep the mouse droppings right through the floor! Handy!
It had no electricity and no running water. There was a water pump a ways down the road. There were (are) bats and spiders and mice and raccoons and God knows what else. My Mother cried the first time she saw it.
I don't blame her. We have 8mm film of her washing out Spikette's diapers on the rocks down on the beach. Yes, the poor woman who dreams of satin sand beaches and tropical climes got a rock beach 300 miles north of her Chicago home.
See what I mean? And miraculously, she didn't forever withhold sex from my Dad because here I am! She's a saint.
Also in my parents' collection of 8mm films is footage of my Dad skiing. It's very old footage. Very. I know this because I have inherited my Dad's under-performing knees, and at 37, there's no way in hell my knees would allow me to barrel down a mountain on two planks of wood. So Dad had to be under 37 in the movie.
(Yes, they had moving pictures when my Dad was younger. But no sound. Or color.)
When I was growing up, there were three girls my age on my block. Over the years, I hated them all on-and-off. I distinctly remember their brightly-colored down jackets. A sharp contrast to the faux-fur hand-me-downs Billi and I got from one of my Mom's friends.
Growing up un-affluent in an affluent neighborhood sucked. My clothes were never the right clothes, and I was shunned mercilessly for it. My friends tended to be the class clown, the class bully and the new girl -- all outcasts in their own right.
How I wanted a ski jacket. Of course, I never skiied. My zipper pull would never have the collection of lift tickets that fluttered on the front of the other girls' jackets year-round. I envied them those tickets. And they knew it and flaunted them. Bitches.
But my family never skiied. In fact, we rarely went on any vacation, except to that shack in the woods. Which is probably for the best, if I'm going to be honest. Skiing involves three things that don't sit well with me: cold, speed and coordination. I can't imagine not ending up in the E.R.
So my father perfers snowy, northern climates. My mother yearns for the hot, sunny tropics. I supposed a cabin on an island in Wisconsin was my father's idea of a compromise. Hey, it's an island, right? Just not a tropical one.
Irene, Patron Saint of Non-Murderous Wives. Patron Saint of the Long, Slow Burn.
While the girls on my block were going skiing and taking horseback riding lessons and visiting grandparents in sunshiney Florida, I was spending my summers far away from any modern comforts.
I remember one time, I accidentally left a sweatshirt at one of these girls' houses. It was my favorite -- pure white with the name of the island proclaimed in blue script, a drawing of a viking ship sailing proudly beneath.
I found out later that her mom had asked her and one of the other girls to walk it down to our house to return it. But instead, they had thrown it up on the roof of another neighbor's house and secretly rejoiced when it thunderstormed that night.
I never saw that sweatshirt again. And I take some smug glee in the fact that it bothered her conscience so much that she had to confess it to me a decade later. Hee!
Could it be those over-priviledged girls were jealous of my ramshackle, bat-infested, barefoot, oak- and cedar-surrounded, hot-dogs-over-the-bonfire, red-truck-ridin', wood-stove-warmed, split-log cabin?
You bet your sweet ass they were.
P.S. Back on Tuesday!
July 19, 2007
Frappuccinos for Femininity
Maybe it was the naughty thrill of having a day off in the middle of the week. Or maybe it was the high of winning TWO long-sought-after purses on eBay -- one Coach, one Dooney & Bourke -- within ten minutes, from the same seller, who gives discounts for shipping multiple items. But yesterday was just one of those Gee-it's-great-to-be-alive! days.
I awoke from my Nyquil-induced stupor that morning fairly well refreshed, albeit with cramps and a period-headache. But instead of focusing on the Why me? aspect of the pain, as I slipped one hermetically-sealed, cylindrical package from its box, I looked at it from a different point of view.
Aren't we women lucky to live in an age of tampons and Midol? Only a hundred years ago, women were still sticking wadded up towels in their bloomers. No wonder they never wore pants!
And not only are we not exiled to the red tent once a month, but P.M.S. is generally accepted (among the more enlightened, ahem) as the genuinely valid, debilitating affliction that it is! Gone are the days of hysteria and wandering uteruses! (Uteri?) Gone are the diagnoses of, "You should have a baby. That'll calm you down."
We are so, soooooooooooooooo fortunate!
Good fortune also brought me not one, but two Starbuck's within 5 min. of my home! Oh, hail Grande Cafe Vanilla Light Frappuccino No Whip! Thou are blessed among beverages, and blessed is the fruit of thy beans!
I don't think it's any mere coincidence that caffiene is also the perfect P.M.S. remedy -- it's a gift from above, banishing the lethargy and headache and stimulating the bowels! God be praised!
(I also got an Almond Toffee Bar, which didn't hurt either and I highly recommend.)
Then I got sixty bucks from the ATM and headed up to Billi's to explore downtown Antioch, where I found an adorable antique dresser for a steal, but it's probably juuuuuuuuuust a tad early to be redecorating Younger Step Daughter's room for a guest room, eh? She still has one more year of high school left.
But I did find a few other things to suit my fancy. The local chocolate shop had MARZIPAN, which isn't exactly easy to find. And the resale shop had TWO pairs of my favorite jeans for $16 each. You can't pass that up!
The sky was sunny, the kids were well-behaved, the dinner was garlic-laden -- it was great to be alive!
Jesus, who put a nickel in me? I should probably make Midol and caffiene a part of every morning.
Posted at 02:23 PM | Comments (1)July 18, 2007
Fabulous
When I was young and had a totally smokin' hot body, when I could wear spandex without a bulge to be seen, I was disgusted by the men who checked me out. I thought they were lecherous and vile and should be locked up and castrated.
Oh, how I long for those lecherous looks again. I know it's horribly un-feminist of me, but at 37, it's nice, every once in a while, to be reassured that my youthful smokin'ness has been completely obliterated by old age and extra poundage.
Losing the luscious locks hasn't helped. It shames me to admit it but... I don't feel special anymore. I hate my short hair.
Which is not to say -- before you short-hairs start sending me hate mail -- that I hate short hair in general. To the contrary! Egrau, who has the shortest hair of any female I know -- probably about three-quarters of an inch right before a haircut -- looks fabulous. She's gorgeous. She's got the face of a 40's movie star, and she totally works her buzzcut. She puts those wailing Next Top Model wussies to shame. Shame!
Me? Not so much. I'm a tall, broad-shouldered broad. Aside from the man-baiting melons, my hair is/was the one thing that makes me feel girlie. Now that it's gone, the hogans are having to work extra hard, and they're not happy. Having led a pampered, pushed-up, expensively-cradled life, they're just not used to the pressure of being my sole lure.
The other day, I was out walking the dogs. I was wearing my yoga pants and a slightly-fitted t-shirt. Not horrible-looking, by any stretch of the imagination. And yet male after male drove by without so much as an eye-flick in my direction.
*sigh* I know I shouldn't care. It's vain and shallow and prehistoric. And I wish I didn't care.
I wish I had the guts to shake my fist at their departing cars and yell:
"Oh yeah? Well, you shouldn't look at me! You're not worthy! I'm much too fabulous a human being to be bothered with you! People think I'm witty and well-educated! I'm dynamite in the sack! I bake unbelievable cookies, and just give them away! Because that's how fabulous I am! More than once, I have brought an entire church congregation to tears with my singing! I am generous and talented and cuddly! I AM FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!"
But I don't. And then a 40-ish woman with curly hair drives by and glances at me.
And I nod and think to myself, "Oh yeah. I still got it."
Posted at 10:09 AM | Comments (4)July 17, 2007
Falsies
At last! The long-awaited Wenchie False Eyelash Review!
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?
VICTOR-VICTORIA
After much debate, I ended up buying two different kinds. But the lady at Sephora was correct in her prediction -- I like the drag queen ones much better than the natural-looking ones!
Which leads me to wonder: Is there something about me that screams Drag Queen? Must be the big shoulders.
Posted at 02:00 PM | Comments (5)July 16, 2007
Frittering
Billi called on Saturday.
B: Hey, we're going out on the boat! You and Husband wanna come with us?
PW: Can't. I have a headache right behind my eyes, and if I open them to look at the scenery, they will pop out of my head and into the water and get eaten by seagulls.
B: ... Okay then. Maybe next time.
Billi called on Sunday.
B: Hey! We're gonna go to Old Orchard and have lunch! Wanna meet us?
PW: Old Orchard? That's like... light years away from you guys. Why Old Orchard?
B: Dunno! Haven't been there in a while. We're gonna walk around outside, have lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Come with us!
PW: Can't. All the stuff I didn't do yesterday has to get done today.
B: Like what?!
PW: Painting the stupid mudroom. Getting ready for Movie Night.
B: Fine.
PW: I know. I suck.
And you know what? I really do suck. I mean, where have I gone wrong that Billi and her family are jet-setting all over two counties, soaking up the sunshine, and I haven't done shit this summer?! I'm just frittering away my time like it's March.
My most exciting thought? "Should I look for the green Dooney & Bourke Sac on eBay, or the black? Hee! I said sac."
I need an adventure! A road trip! SOMEONE TAKE ME ON AN ADVENTURE!!!
So yeah. If you were at Old Orchard this weekend, and you saw a woman with three ridiculously gorgeous children and a really tall husband, and you thought to yourself, "Hmmm, that's what I've always imagined Wenchie to look like. Only prettier." That was Billi. Ask her for her autograph next time.
Seriously. Road trip? Anyone? Bueller?
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (1)July 13, 2007
The Week in Review
Oooh, it's Friday the 13th! No wonder you've got such bad luck as to be reading this post!
Husband and I started redecorating the kitchen and adjoinging mudroom/pantry over the weekend. And God forbid I let the man do any project easily -- I'm having him move the whole phone from the kitchen to the mudroom. So he has to relocate all the wires and shit and then patch up the wall. I'm so demanding.
And that's when I noticed that the internet went out again. Which is like cutting off my hands and cutting out my tongue and WHY DON'T YOU JUST KILL ME ALREADY???
So I had my I.T. guy over on Tuesday. Yeah, I have my own I.T. guy. I'm that important. Actually, it's just Marty. But he has three kids and his wife can't cook, so he's not in any huge hurry to go home after work.
He came over and wove his computer wizardry spells for over an hour, much of which he spent on the phone with Bill from SBC. I think they're going steady now, but Marty's not talkin'.
And when nothing worked, Marty clipped electrodes to his nipples and stood on the roof holding rods of tin foil. Nuthin'. So I snapped a photo and sent him on his way.
Tuesday night, it finally occurred to me. Hmmm... the internet stopped working when we disconnected the kitchen phone, sooooo... why don't we try hooking it back up?
Duh.
Well, c'mon, people. You can't expect me to be this good lookin' and brilliant!
So there's my gripping tale of internet woe. Let's see... what other minutae of my life have you been deprived of?
I listed a dumptruck-full of purses on eBay yesterday. I have a friend who is even more of a purse whore than I am. Except that she's a pastor, so I probably shouldn't refer to her as any kind of a whore. Enh -- throw another sin on the pile, boys!
I'm plugging along at the new job, slowly but surely. There's a TON to learn, forms and reports and such. Nothing terribly difficult, just a lot to keep straight. This is where my O.C. is an asset! And the more I can do on my own, the more my boss will be gone, so that's as big an incentive as you could ever give me.
The cicadas are gone from the neighborhood now. I can walk my dogs in relative calm and safety. (I say "relative" because, apparently, now a coyote has moved into the neighborhood. Speaking of eBay, I'm currently bidding on a big anvil.) However, I hear that, at some point, the eggs start dropping from the trees. Like rain. Well, that certainly triggers the ol' gag reflex. I'll be calling in sick that day for sure.
My Victoria's Secret shipment came today! Actually, they had to put it in two shipments. Hee! Annual clearance sale! Stock-up time! I got four bras and five panties. Little Known Wenchie Fact: All my panties have to have at least some pink in them. It's just a thing I have.
But the redecorating of the mudroom isn't going so well, my friends. See, we chose red. Okay, I chose red, and Husband chose not to argue. Now, I don't know if you've heard, but when it comes to paint, red is the hardest color to apply because it's damn near impossible to get the color even.
As we found out while applying the second coat. Therefore, the second coat, technically, didn't actually get... applied. Husband started using the F Bomb, and that's when I knew it was time to come up with a Plan B. See, Husband isn't as comfortable with Fuck as I am (although he's making wonderful progress with Vagina), so when he starts sounding like me, it means then I have to be the rational one. Scary, no?
Anyhoo, I've been taking photos at every stage and will encorporate them into a stunning pictoral blog come August.
Holy crap. The summer is, like, half over. And all I've done is bought some panties, hid from cicadas and futzed around on eBay. I'm such a loser.
And you're still reeling at the thought that a pastor would be friends with me, aren't you?
Posted at 06:31 AM | Comments (4)July 12, 2007
Ugh Haiku
whole pack of Twizzlers
dinner soon, I'm gonna barf
what was I thinking?
July 05, 2007
The Feast of July
The 4th of July has officially joined Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter as a holday at which we gorge ourselves.
Up until this year, the 4th was always summer food: fruity Jello, slurpy watermelon, crunchy coleslaw. You know, foods low in carbs, high in water content. Over-eating is hard to do when your shorts are already sweaty and sticking to you. The last thing you want is for them to feel even tighter.
And there was my first mistake. Yesterday was hot and drippingly moist, so I decided that we would eat inside. On the dining room table. Where the bloated ghosts of past Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter feasts linger year-round because they're too full to float away.
The next mistake? Making Independence Potatos instead of cutting up the half of a watermelon we have sitting in the fridge. Stooooooooo-pid!
[The origin of Independence Potatos: I hate mashed potatos, so for my first big family dinner, my Mom gave me a recipe for what she calls Funeral Potatos because she always makes them for funeral luncheons. (We're Lutheran.) Well, at Easter dinner, Ramone didn't think it was right to be eating Funeral Potatos to celebrate Jesus' resurrection, so he dubbed them Our Risen Savior Potatos. And now they just morph into whatever occassion I make them for, i.e. Independence Potatos.]
The third stop on the way to Fullsville was Egrau's contribution. I had asked her to bring some kind of salad. So what did she bring? Pasta salad! Not that it isn't freakin' awesome and I totally have to get the recipe from her. It's just funny that she chose the same route as I did -- the carb route.
So typical of us. *sigh*
And then. There was dessert.
Of course, for six people, PJ couldn't make just one dessert. She had to make an entire pan of chocolate-chip-caramel-walnut brownies, and an apple pie that was eight inches high. A la mode.
But the piece de resistance was the entree. We had some nice beef filets that Husband was going to grill, but about mid-afternoon, he came down with one of his increasingly-frequent stress headaches.
(No, smart-asses, living with me has not finally caught up with him. Work has become unbearable for him. That kind of I'm-going-to-light-a-match-and-walk-away unbearable. I'll tell you about it when the smoke clears. Whenever that is. But until then, well... I have been advised not to discuss it.)
Fifteen minutes before company arrived, he barfed. (Nothing funny -- just a plain ol' in-the-toilet hurl). So I wasn't about to make him stand over a fire in 85 degree heat. See? I'm nice sometimes!
So we ordered pizza. And had with it potatos, pasta, brownies and pie. The food coma brought on by the meal was so severe, I went to bed at 8:30 last night.
I had eaten so much that, by 8:10 this morning, I had already pooped twice.
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (4)July 04, 2007
A Heroic Tale for Independence Day
Stella got spayed last week. Oh, stop yer fussin' 'n' frettin' -- she's just fine. Doesn't even know she has stitches in. I guess sometimes it pays to be stupid.
So spaying was on my mind when Billi and I were playing "Marry, Kill, Fuck" on I.M.
We had a rule that the names of the people had to have something in common, like: Lisa Kudrow, Lisa Gibbons and Lisa Simpson. Or Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Philip Seymour Hoffman and James Earl Jones (three names).
PW: David Spade, James Spader and a spayed dog.
B: kill spade..... fuck the dog and marry spader
PW: You'd fuck a dog?
B: to rid the world of david spade, hell yea!!!!!!!!
PW: God bless you. You're an American hero.
B: i know
Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Don't blow your fingers off!
Posted at 02:25 PM | Comments (1)July 03, 2007
Barf Story with a Bonus
Since telling my own story about barfing on the Indiana Skyway, and A's story about barfing out the window of his car, it seems that everyone wants to get in on the act. I've had so many people come up to me and tell me their barf stories, I haven't had much inclination to eat lately.
Which isn't a bad thing, so I'm going to relate the story that A's friend, Scott, told me. Now those weirdos searching for "barf stories" on Google will have something new to read.
Scott is in his mid-twenties, gay and very active in his church. He is especially popular with the thirty- and forty-something moms of the church. They're his hags, and he's their little pet. He calls them his "desperate housewives" because they're all rich, pretty and fancy-free.
Scott and his hags often go out drinking. They especially like karaoke. After one such evening, they were driving home, and Scott started to feel sick. Not wanting to barf out of the car window, like A, he told the housewives he would walk home from there and got out of the car.
But as soon as he got out, he felt even more sick and less like walking. So he laid down on some random lawn and very calmly and rationally decided he would spend the night there.
But Terry, one of the hags, was having none of that. She put Scott back in the car and assured him that he could spend the night at her house, on her couch. Now, Terry has three boys, ages four to ten, so there's a good example to set.
Actually, now that I think about it, maybe the boys did learn a couple lessons from seeing Scott in such a state. Lessons like: Friends don't let friends drive drunk. And: Drinking too much turns you into a pathetic, helpless retard.
Come morning, Scott discovered that he had, indeed, gotten up in the middle of the night to barf and it wasn't just a bad dream. He followed the smell to the kitchen garbage can, where he saw his dinner from the previous night all over the paper towels, coffee grounds and other things that normally reside in a kitchen garbage can.
And then he saw it. A large, dark yellow spot on the beige carpeting near the couch where he had spent the night. It could only be one thing.
Scott looked down at his pants. They were still dry. Some time in the night, he must have carefully and very purposefully undone his pants and peed on the carpet.
"Um, Terry?" Scott was forced to confess, "I think I may have... peed on your carpet. I'm so sorry!"
"Oh, that's okay!"
Terry was as non-chalant about the pee on her carpet and she was about the puke in her garbage can. Leading me to think that, in her younger days, Terry probably peed on a carpet or two herself.
There but for the grace of God go I. I find myself feeling quite smug that I have lived my life in such a way that I've never had to utter the words, "I peed on your carpet."
Real pirates can hold their rum.
Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (1)July 02, 2007
Gingstak Tinkjael
Remember that game on... what was it? "Sesame Street?" "The Electric Company?" Personally, I preferred "The Electric Company," and frankly, I thought the kids on "Zoom" were just trying too hard.
Anyhoo, I remember a song: "One of these things is not like the others! One of these things just doesn't belong!"
Let's play that game now! In this list, which of these things is not like the others?
1. ginger spice
2. sleestak
3. jael half black
4. tinkerbell tattoos
5. barf stories
The answer is: Barf stories! Because all the others are sentient beings.
People never fail to amuse me. When they're not pissing me off. That is a list of things that people were searching for that brought them to my sight.
I'm totally embarassed that eight more people in the world now know that I've blogged about The Spice Girls. But my bosom swells with pride with the knowledge that five more people now know that I'm the leading foremost authority on all things "America's Next Top Model."
I'm highly amused that someone was searching for Sleestaks and ended up reading about my weird Hot Foot Syndrome, but that's what you get for giving Sleestaks more than a passing thought. And twenty-two people are looking to get a Tinkerbell tattoo! Sadly, none are looking to get Snow White's Evil Step Mother the Queen permanantly embedded in their skin.
All this is well and good, but one thing keeps puzzling me. Thirteen people came to this site because they were searching for barf stories. Thirteen. Dudes, who -- besides A -- seeks out stories about people throwing up? And what can I do to cater to them?
Posted at 04:46 PM | Comments (1)July 01, 2007
Bad, Bad Mommy
My Barbies are still dressed in their winter clothes. I have been a neglectful mother. I hang my head in shame.
Summer is always the bitches' favorite season because they can dress real skimpy and slutty without freezing their plastic asses off.
So who wants to come over some time in the next couple weeks and help me redress them?
Posted at 11:46 AM | Comments (1)