August 31, 2007
No Smoking
I have about two dozen blogs floating around my Draft pile that I started and lost interest because I'm just a -- hey, look! Something shiney!
Oh, nevermind. Just saw myself in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. Where was I? Oh, yes -- unfinished blogs. I wrote this one about March of '05, I believe, after a record number of days of complete cloud cover, when Nicholle and I were still working together at our previous place of employment...
Here comes the sun!
Doot 'n' doo-dooooooooo
Here comes the sun!
An' I say...
It's all right!
Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely two weeks without the sun! But it's back! I had to wear sunglasses at lunch, lest I be hunched over and hissing like a sleestack! Pure! Awesome!
And thanks to global warming -- and my S.U.V. -- it's also over 50 degrees out! So Nicholle and I went on our first round-the-building walk in months.
As we got off the elevator and walked to our exit, I saw, through the huge windows, that there were three young men smoking just outside the door. Not a big deal, except for the many NO SMOKING signs posted within four feet of them.
I don't smoke. However, I don't lecture people on smoking. And I think Mayor Daley's new smoking ban IN BARS is kinda retarded. However. I don't like the smell, and the smoke irritates my eyes, especially now that I have contacts. Therefore, I don't go to bars, and if I see someone smoking, I keep my distance for the duration of their cigarette. I don't like cigarette smoke, so I make it my responsibility to stay away from it. Just like I don't like seafood, so I don't eat at Red Lobster. See how that works?
But what happens when you open the menu at Outback Steakhouse and see only salmon, squid and clams?
There are four entrances to our office building, one on each side. Two of these entrances -- exactly half -- are designated SMOKING areas, complete with shade trees, lovely landscaping, garbage cans, ashtrays and benches. They are much more inviting and picturesque than the NO SMOKING entrances, lemme tell ya.
But that's okay! I get what's going on! They want to lure the smokers away from the NO SMOKING areas, and I thank them. I don't enjoy having to walk through a cloud of smoke to start my day, so I always park by one of the NO SMOKING entrances.
So it really irked me to see three assholes puffing away less than four feet from where Nicholle and I were going to exit the building. There's plenty of room in the SMOKING areas! Why force me to walk through your stinky cloud? I just washed my hair with Pumpkin Pie shampoo, for God's sake!
As we neared the door, I expressed my irritation to Nicholle through eye-rolling, snorting and swearing.
"Are you gonna say something?" she asked apprehensively.
Well, sure, I always fantasize about saying something when I see people flicking their butts into the bushes when they should be putting them in the garbage recepticles provided solely for that purpose at the NO SMOKING entrances! But it never occurred to me that I could actually do it.
But I could actually do it. Any why not? Why shouldn't I? It's certainly not rude to point out other peoples' rudeness. Husband gets mortified when I tell people in movie theatres that their crying baby is disturbing everyone around them. But how is that rude? IT'S TOTALLY NOT! If you spit on my shoe, and I go "Ew!" I'M NOT BEING RUDE!
The other obvious fact is that they're going to call me a stupid bitch the minute I'm outta earshot, but do I care? Why would I? If stupid assholes think I'm a stupid bitch, I think that pretty much cancels out the whole insult.
The final possibility is that they might get mad and, since their cigarettes are laced with PCP, go totally insane on our asses, biting off our ears and whatnot. But how likely is that? God, do they even make PCP anymore? I'm so not up with the cool drugs.
So we go through the door, and I'm totally geared up to say something. Something silly, though, not bitchy. There's no need to be obnoxious right outta the gate, blah blah blah, flies and honey.
I said, "Hey, is that a NO SMOKING sign right there? Well, I'll be!"
Deer. In. The. Headlights.
For about two seconds, which seemed like two minutes, they just stared at me.
Finally, one of them broke the curse and said, "Oh, is that what that says?"
Meanwhile, I notice that Nicholle is walking about six feet behind me. And as she was not wearing a burka at the time, I have to assume that she thought they were going to kick my ass and did NOT have my back. Or she just didn't want to be associated with the crazy lady.
And at first I was hurt, cuz, I mean, I'd totally have her back. But then I realized that she had to have some distance between her and her victims if she was going to get a good spin on her ninja throwing stars.
So, um, yeah. Never finished it. And I don't remember exactly how it ended, but there was no fight, so I'm assuming it ended with Nicholle being mortified and me being called a stupid bitch behind my back. So pretty much like every other day.
And then I found five dollars.
Posted at 03:04 PM | Comments (1)August 30, 2007
The Rainbow After the Flood
Ah, I love the sound of woodchippers and gas generators in the morning!
Actually, post-flood life around here is settling down. Most people have their power back, and the debris is mostly cleaned up. Here's our story.
This is the day the rains came. You can see the dark patches of water on the carpet. For once, it's actually water and not dog poop or puke. How novel! Oh, and the rolled up rug on the left? Also wet.
All the boxes piled on tables and such are full of things I've promised to eBay for various people. Methinks I've over-extended myself. For example, here is just part of the second largest Charlie's Angels collection in the U.S.
Unfortunately, dozens of video tapes got wet with muddy water. But Kelly is cool and assured me it's no big deal. Thank God! I was afraid I was going to get karate-chopped.
When the weathermen started predicting another bout of rain that would make our neighborhood, in a nutshell, uninhabitable, I started hauling stuff upstairs.
It all ended up in the dining room, since we're cavemen and often eat standing up at the kitchen counter anyway. Yes, that's Stella's little silhouette in the corner. I'm so tired of looking at that damn cage. But I think she likes being tucked away in her own little cave. I know I'd like to crawl into some unnoticable corner of the house and curl up!
While I was hauling heavy shit upstairs, Husband was working on a project of his own. He bought a couple new sump pumps, batteries and pipe, and he rebuilt the entire system.
These are the times I am sooooooooooooooooo glad to be married to him. He doesn't loose his temper under duress, and that man can fix and/or build ANYTHING.
Growing up on a farm, his parents didn't call a professional to come out and deal with any plumbing or electrical problems they had. When something needed doing, Husband's dad got a book from the library, and the whole family learned what had to be done.
Pretty damn smart, if you ask me. I'm such a sissified city girl, my only solution is to make a phone call, open my checkbook and grit my teeth.
Husband and I actually work pretty well together, when it comes to projects like this. I'm the brawn and he's the brains. I.e. I haul heavy stuff while he figures out plumbing.
Afterwards, I moved allllllllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the dry side of the room.
(The "Titanic" poster is his, okay? It was here when I moved in, and he won't part with it. Unfortunately, it survived the flood.)
Then Husband ripped up all the wet carpeting, and I moved allllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the non-carpeting side of the room.
The couches were easy. It was moving all the damn books that killed me. I may have to rethink this facade of intellectualism I try to keep up...
You'll notice that there's a few feet of space between the leather sofa and the t.v., so we can still watch. I don't mind that my entire house is topsy-turvy, as long as I can sit on my ass and watch the boob-tube.
We dragged all the dead carpeting and mushy video tapes and such to the curb. Wenchie Ave., Where Floor Covering Goes To Die.
Our neighbors two doors down had it worst. They had three feet of sewer water in their basement. They literally had to throw out every single thing. A third of their worldly posessions were curb sculptures.
As if invitations had been sent out, all the lawn care guys in the county started trawling our streets for treasures. They were picking some chairs off our neighbor's pile of sewage-sodden stuff, and the guy who lived there was trying to explain to them that it was wet with sewer water, but the garbage pickers didn't speak English. It was pretty funny to watch. They couldn't understand why this guy didn't want them to take his garbage!
Since then, I've been on carpet shampooing duty. Every other day, I lay one carpet out in the driveway and go to town with the Bissel. Then I just let it lay there to bake in the sun.
Last night, we brought home 20 boxes of faux-wood laminate flooring for the basement floor. Next week, I'll show you why, along with HGTV-worthy before and after pictures!
Posted at 03:35 PM | Comments (1)August 29, 2007
My Life, My Love and My Lady Is the Sea
Today, I bought the following songs off iTunes:
"Criminal" by Fiona Apple (genre: heroin chic)
"Don't Disturb This Groove" by The System (genre: 80s R&B)
"Africa" by Toto (genre: essential)
"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass (genre: nerdy)
"What Is Hip?" by Tower of Power (genre: can't not dance)
"The Dutchman" by Steve Goodman (genre: folksy angst)
"Freedom" by George Michaels (genre: supermodel)
"Dream a Little Dream of Me" by The Mamas & The Papas (genre: pure awesome)
"Don't Answer Me" by The Alan Parsons Project (genre: 80s angst)
Yes, I actually paid a dollar of Husband's hard-earned money for "Brandy." You're rolling on the floor in pain, aren't you?
Oh! I forgot to buy "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder! And there's a song about eBay by Weird Al that I want.
Speaking of Weird Al, my bro-in-law and Spikette went to see him the other night. Bro-In-Law knows Al's drummer, so they got to go backstage and hang with Weird Al and the band. B.I.L. is the guy in the middle:
The other guy who's not Weird Al is Jon "Bermuda" Schwartz, Al's drummer. I don't know who the chick is. Probably some Weird Al groupie. Love the hot pink bra strap. Sexxxy!
Nephew was home with a babysitter, so B.I.L. had Al call Nephew and tell him to Go to bed! But Nephew is a Weird Al fan, too, so I doubt he could sleep after that!
B.I.L. is so ultra-cool -- in ways that you and I will never be -- the he also knows the drummers for Styx and R.E.O. Speedwagon. Know how? CUZ HE'S A DRUMMER!
A'doi. And he's awesome. And he just joined a new band called Luna Blu. Okay, yes, the name is a bit gay and sounds more like a boat than a band, but he didn't pick it, and it in no way reflects the personality of the band. So shut up.
If you live in the NW Chicago area, Luna Blu is gonna be at Arlington Park "Party in the Park" next Friday, September 7, at 3:00 p.m. So go and be groupies so they will book many gigs and make lots of money and B.I.L. can buy me presents!
And if you spot some blonde in a sparkling skull shirt dancing like a spaz, come ask me for my autograph! Or just go up to the drummer and say, "Hey, I read your sister-in-law's blog. Tell me horribly embarassing stories about her." You'll be there 'til Tuesday.
Their playlist looks like my iPod list:
"It's My Life" by No Doubt
"Hit Me with Your Best Shot" by Pat Benetar
"Missionary Man" by The Eurythmics
But no "Brandy." Dang.
Posted at 04:06 PM | Comments (3)August 27, 2007
Because Heather Never Blogs Anyway
And because I don't have time to blog today. I caught some kind of hybrid virus from handling mildew-y carpet all weekend, and I must now take to my death bed. (Last minute confessions of love welcome!) And when I get up? I get to haul area rugs onto the driveway and shampoo them! Wheeeeeeeeeee! My life is so glamorous!
Anyhoo, I got this little delicacy in an email from Heather, and it's way funnier than what I did this weekend, so here ya go. And I don't even have the energy to correct it.
went to a wedding on sat, at Carnivale- just a few blocks away from where my reception was...totally great place, but the most memorable moment of the evening for me was when a waiter slipped and dropped an ENTIRE TRAY OF MOJITOS right next to a baby in a baby carrier and although she was covered in booze and garnish, the baby didn't wake up.and I wanted to scold the parents for leaving the baby in a carrier ON THE FLOOR at a party, and acting like the WAITER was the jerk? WTF? either way, 'drunk baby' was the catchphrase of the evening...
Isn't Drunk Baby an awesome name for a band?!
Snippy Bitch, I hope that, while helping me this weekend, you didn't contract Hybrid Mildew Virus. I doubt my homeowner's policy would cover that.
Posted at 01:58 PM | Comments (2)August 24, 2007
Don't Wake Me Up, Just Go-Go
Husband just can't stand to see me asleep when he's awake. I'm going to start sleeping with a stun gun beneath my pillow.
I don't know if the rest of the country knows or cares, but Mother Nature opened up a pissload of rain on the midwest yesterday. Sideways rain, green sky, no electricity -- the whole sh-bang. And this was after a whole week of wet weather.
I have mushrooms growing in my backyard. Fer reals. Stella tried to sample one, but I got it out of her mouth. Just what I need, for her crazy-ass to be tripping.
Anyhoo, the fun began at 3:30 Thursday morning when the power went out. Husband woke up the second the ceiling fan slowed down. I was sound asleep, but he felt compelled to wake me and tell me that he was going down to the basement to check the sumppump. As if I cared. He could have left for Siberia, and I would have been nothing but pleased at having the bed to myself.
Sure enough, the holding well was filling with water, so he had to set up the gas generator to run the pump. But first, he had to wake me again and tell me he was going to do it.
I'm like, "Do you need help?" I figured there must be some reason for him to wake me, right?
No. He didn't need help. There was no reason.
He set up the gas generator on the back porch, right outside the back door. So. The power is off, which means we don't have any A/C. The generator is as loud as a half-dozen lawn mowers, and the exhaust reeks horribly. But all this is no reason to CLOSE THE BACK DOOR!!! Why no! Why on earth would one want to keep out the ROAR and the HUMIDITY and the STENCH?!
So I dragged my crabby-ass outta bed to slam the back door shut.
TWICE.
Before he got the hint and kept it closed himself.
Stupidly thinking the worst was over, I had Billi bring Boy Child and Girl Child over Thursday morning to spend the night. After all, the power was back on, so why not?
Halfway through the afternoon, the sky opened up and the tornado sirens went off. As did the power. Know how much fun it is playing Monopoly in the dark with a 4 and a 6 yr. old? About as much fun as hearing Girl Child mumble, "Welcome to Poor Town."
I'm like, "Girl Child! We didn't forget to pay the electric bill! The entire neighborhood is dark! It's a power outage! Sheesh!"
Instead of making the princess eat dinner by candlelight, the kids and I left Husband behind to go to Thursday Dinner at K's, who had power. The drive there was fairly trecherous. There was tons of standing water. I'd drive through with the water splashing up as high as the car, and the kids laughed and yelled like they were in a waterpark. Meanwhile, I'm praying that the car doesn't die.
In the middle of dessert, Husband called to say that our poor, little pump just couldn't keep up with the water coming in, and we had water in the basement.
Let me give you a list of what, besides water, is in our basement:
1. Husband's home office and all his files.
2. Half of Husband's tool collection.
3. All our Christmas decorations.
4. All the stuff I have stored to eBay for other people...
5. Including the second largest collection of Charlie's Angels memorabilia in the U.S. I shit you not.
6. Our t.v. room, including t.v. and several couches.
7. Our treadmill.
8. Half my Barbie collection.
9. Our piano.
10. Lots and lots of carpeting.
In 1986, when I was in high school, part of my home town was under water for over a week. My aunt, Egrau's mom, has a photo of someone in a canoe in front of their house. We now live three blocks from my aunt, as do my parents. If it rains again today, as it's threatening to do, we're Fucked.
But back to my annoying spouse.
This morning about 3:00, the power went back on. So Husband woke me to tell me that he was going to disconnect the gas generator. Great. Have a lovely time. LEAVE ME ALONE!!!
This morning, he had to wake up at 5:00 to get to an early morning meeting halfway across the state. And being the courteous gent that he is, he left the bedroom door open and turned on every light in the house. As happy as I am that we have power again, I didn't want every, single watt of it shining in my face before dawn. I got up and slammed the bedroom door, hoping he'd get the hint.
But just as I was falling back to sleep, he woke me the hell up again to tell me that he was leaving for work. So I reemed him out. He left me no choice. And then I was too mad to go back to sleep, so I could just cry from tiredness at this point.
With the nearby river already at flood level and two to four more inches of rain expected any minute now, there will be no rest for me. As soon as I hit "Publish," I'm going to start emptying our basement.
Then we play the waiting game. What will the water take?
Posted at 11:35 AM | Comments (3)August 22, 2007
Treasure Hunt
"Get her some Webkinz trading cards," she says, like it's sooooooooooo easy.
I'm having The Girl Child and The Boy Child overnight tomorrow, and I'm doing a treasure hunt for them. And since there has to be treasure at the end of the treasure hunt -- hence the name -- I asked Billi what little goodies she thought they might like.
Webkinz trading cards. Why don't I just go locate the Holy Grail, for God's sake?!
Billi secretly hates me and is passive-aggressively making me drive around the globe on a hot, sweaty day. I had to go to three Hallmark stores before I found Webkinz trading cards. Three! Oh, the humanity!
And then, when I went to get a few groceries at Jewel for dinner, it was closed due to a power outage. So Husband is getting last night's leftovers tonight because, after running around the 'burbs looking trading cards, I didn't feel like driving to a different grocery store.
So there's where Husband's dinner lies on my list of priorities -- right after Little Things That Amuse The Girl Child. I'm so her bitch.
I bought five packs of something that I have no idea what they are. (Is that even a sentence?)
Oh, I know what Webkinz are. They're the little stuffed animals that lie on your bed, seemingly innocent and harmless, when really they have this whole secret life inside your computer! With games and fashion shows and fifteen room homes!
I really resent the fact that some stupid plushies have a more fulfilling double-life than I do. My double-life is: administrative assistant by morning, blogger by afternoon!
Oooooooh. Gripping.
Damn Webkinz.
I want one.
Posted at 03:49 PM | Comments (1)August 21, 2007
Whatever Happened To Molly?
Remember Molly? The sweet, sad-eyed dog with pneumonia that my parents got from the animal shelter? To refresh your memory, she looks like this:
And I keep meaning to tell you the rest of her story! I'm so freakin' flighty sometimes.
(And Marty goes, "Sometimes???")
When K found out about Molly's lung affliction, she goes, "Oh, man. When that dog gets better she's gonna eat your couch!"
Well, Molly didn't eat Mom's couch.
She ate some wall decorations. Right down off the wall. And part of my Dad's dinner. While Dad was sitting at the table! Stupid dog just came up and started eating off my Dad's plate like friggin' Helen Keller!
So, yeah, Molly wasn't so much "sweet" as she was "weak with fever." And once she was feeling her oats again, she proceeded to tear my parents' house apart.
Needless to say, my parents no longer have a dog. The gave Molly to a no-kill shelter, and I'm pretty damn sure that's the end of their dog-owning days for good.
Which reminds me -- when I was in grade school, we got a puppy that was a German Shepherd mix, I believe. His name was Oly. One day, we arrived home to find that Oly -- who was kept in the kitchen to keep him from ruining the rest of the house -- had jumped up and turned on all the burners on the gas stove.
I'm sure he was thinking, Won't let me in the rest of the house, eh? Fine! I'll just burn the whole thing down! How do you like them apples?!
I don't even know where Oly disappeared to after that. Probably some nice farm where he had lots of room to run around.
Posted at 03:17 PM | Comments (3)August 20, 2007
Teal Is a Four-Letter Word
I was looking through my computer for a photo -- because I want to take a nap in fifteen minutes, so an easy photo blog seems the way to go -- when I came across this little gem. I can't believe it has taken me this long to share it with y'all!
You long-time readers may remember J of golf sweater fame, from my previous place of employment. He is the loooooooong-time owner of this sweater:
I have blogged a description of it once, and I got a photo of his other golf sweater. But it wasn't until my last day of work that he granted my wish and opened himself up to more ridicule by wearing this particular monstrosity. Rumor has it he had to get special permission from his wife.
Yes, that is an aqua and burgundy plaid elbow patch you see on the left there. And yes, he bought a teal mock turtleneck to match it.
He offered to let me have it when I left -- probably at the urging of his wife -- but then we'd be going steady, and I'm not really into dating football players. Besides, he wears quite a bit of aftershave, and I just didn't feel like fielding those kind of questions from Husband.
But now I'm kicking myself for not taking it. I want to have an 80's party when I turn 40, and this sweater would have been the PERFECT outfit! Tuck my jeans into my pants and do that rooster thing with my bangs, and I'd be a vision indeed!
Alright, off to sleep and dream of Simon LeBon.
Posted at 01:09 PM | Comments (3)August 17, 2007
A Little Boofing
First, the definition of boof. Boof is, apparently, a manuver in kayaking, an Iranian fast food chain (I hear their logo is a sheep), and "a common slang term for anal sex."
I believe the term butt fuck was shortened to bufu (pronounced boo'-foo) and finally abbreviated to simply boof. Ah, the gays. What color they add to our language!
I bring this up because of Kelly Garrett's accomplishment as 1,500th commenter and subsequent demands:
Pirate, I had a good mind to ask if you've been boofed since you last babysat me, especially since you did not answer me the first time and if you did it was fucking bullshit since you didn't even know what boofing was.
First of all, Kelly, I can't imagine I gave you any answer the first time because my jaw was on the floor, rendering me uncapable of speech.
The answer to both Had you been boofed then? and Have you been boofed since? is No. Well,... mostly. But not on purpose!
I'll explain.
Mom, this is where you can stop reading.
Seriously, Mom. Stop it.
I'm not kidding.
Is she gone?
Okay. In my post-high-school years, I was kind of... free-spirited, shall we say. And when you pair a free-spirited hottie of 20ish with an old friend just back from military boot camp, well, things happen.
Naughty, sweaty things.
Things done as the canines would.
You see where this is going.
Mom, if you're still reading, I'm not going to explain, and I'm not going to tell you who it was, so don't even ask.
So, things were humming along, and in the position... er... I guess he sort of... at some point... confused the entryways, if you will.
Needless to say, the pain and yelling made it quite clear to him that we would not be continuing the day's activities, thankyouverymuch.
He swears it was an accident and apologized profusely. And I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt cuz he really was a nice guy, and why would you spring that on someone you aren't hate-fucking?
So there's the answer.
Kelly continues:
Instead I will demand the same prize that Garrance did -- lunch with you next time I am in the neighborhood. And who's to say a little boofing won't come up in conversation.
I'm sure it will, Kelly. Ya big 'mo! Shall we do the Mecca, same as Garrance and I? If so, let's wait until after January 1, because by then, the Chicago-wide no-smoking ban will have gone into effect. And I hate it when my hair smells like smoke!
As for Kelly's final rambling:
Second, I don't know who this "Heather" is who claims to have babysat me. Please identify yourself. (If you have a younger brother that I had broadcasting with, then there is no need -- just confirm that.) I should really have a "where are they now" type of blog about former babysitters. None have risen to the heights of Pirate with her internationally notorious blog or M.E. who is the bassist of one of the best post modern punk garage bands in the country.
Only Heather can answer this. And Kelly, if you had a class with Heather's Brother, then I envy you cuz he is hott.
"Risen to the heights of Pirate." Heh.
Posted at 09:56 PM | Comments (4)August 16, 2007
Top Ten Best Things About Last Night's Dinner Cruise
10. I opted for the cute, white, strappy sandals, certainly sufficient for walking to and from the buffet table, not realizing we'd be walking half a mile from the parking garage to the boat. I don't know which hurts more -- my blisters, or every bone in my feet.
9. The "light shower" that began as we started walking turned into a downpour by the time we got to the pier, making for fabulous hair.
8. At least I was wearing two layers of white on top, so it didn't become see-through.
7. Our host and hostess were in the midst of an all-day spat.
6. A young, Chinese woman walked in on me in the bathroom. While I was wiping.
5. The wait staff was introduced by the d.j. and forced to dance for our enjoyment.
4. I got to listen over and over as the old ladies there told me how perfect and pure and angelic and noble and righteous Husband is.
3. The boat didn't sink.
2. I won some Mardi Gras beads for correctly identifying the theme from "The Fat Albert Show" in two measures. Younger step daughter won for recognizing "Saved By the Bell." A couple of cultured musicians, we.
1. I didn't barf.
Posted at 04:17 PM | Comments (1)August 15, 2007
The Dress Code
What's more awkward than having to attend your husband's ex-wife's aunt's 92nd birthday and ending up sitting at the kiddie table?
Nothing.
Not one damn thing.
Oh, wait! Yes, there is! Showing up in pants and loafers (because Husband said it was FINE) when the size 2 ex-wife and your pocket-sized step daughters are all wearing black cocktail dresses and strappy sandals. And all have long, flowing hair.
WANTED. TO. DIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, how I wish I were willowy and petite and demure. Instead, I'm "statuesque" and "Rubenesque." Call it what you want, people -- I'm a friggin' amazon.
And even if I stopped eating solid food today, I'd never be petite. I've got the shoulders of a linebacker. I'm just big-boned! screams my inner-Cartman.
Oh, sure, small women have their insecurities, too. The darling Audrey Hepburn, it is said, used to bemoan her too-long neck.
"Oh, woe is me and my slender, graceful, gazelle-like neck!"
Yeah, BOO-FUCKING-HOO, Audrey, you goddamn adorable pixie!
Tonight, the 92nd birthday celebration continues with a dinner cruise on Lake Michigan. Starting at 7:00 p.m. Which means another late night because I'll be stuck on a boat, and my dream of turning into a mermaid has yet to come true.
Well, I don't want to be under-dressed again, so I emailed Ex and asked her about the dress code. She hasn't decided what she's wearing, yet. I'm sure it's hard to narrow it down from the forty things she must have in her closet because she's been the same damn size 2 since high school. But she said "dressy."
And we all know what "dressy" means, don't we, boys and girls? It means Wenchie has to go shopping because Wenchie thinks career clothes are yoga pants and t-shirts with a necklace, and holiday clothes are yoga pants and hoodies. "Dressy" is something that I've structured my life around carefully avoiding.
Not wanting to stick out like a nasty toe that has its nail coming off, I found a black, A-line skirt, which I will pair with my white, cashmere twinset and some black, wedge slip-ons. Can't go wrong with black and white, right?
Of course, this probably means The Petite Triplets will probably all wear pink, but whatever. Heather approves of my outfit, and that's what really matters. That and an open bar.
Heather my Personal Stylist made sure that I will not be embarassing myself.
H: what purse are you using?
PW: Oh, yeah, I guess I can't use my current aqua blue leather with brown strap, can I?
H: no. do you have a black one?
PW: I have my small, black Coach one!
H: perfect. now what about a splash of color?
PW: Hadn't even thought of that. Um, I have a silver necklace with a big, red stone? Or should I use my pink Coach purse instead?
H: black purse, big red stone
PW: Thank God for you, Heather.
But then Ex emailed me to say that the coordinator of the party, auntie's favorite nephew-in-law, will be wearing khakis and a polo, so she's wearing a casual summer skirt.
PEOPLE! I don't HAVE a "casual summer skirt!" For the love of God, I just get my shit together, and they change the dress code! What is this?!
Screw it. I'm sticking to my original plan. Better to be over-dressed than have to shop for a summer skirt when the only thing on the racks is fall clothes.
I'm so glad that I'm related to a bunch of slobs. These issues just don't come up when we gather with my family. Jeans are perfectly acceptable apparell to everything but weddings and funerals.
I have a cousin who thinks that the overalls-and-no-shirt look is okay to wear to someone's house for dinner. Think I'm kidding? Ask Billi.
Now, there's just one appearance-related decision to make. Do I shave my legs, or just continue to milk the shave job I did on Saturday?
Posted at 11:48 AM | Comments (6)August 14, 2007
Holy Barfimony
Since I was M.I.A. all weekend and my week has suddenly gone mental, I'm being a lazy-ass and relying on a Guest Blogger to entertain you today.
Donning the blogging hat today is Kelly Garrett, who is currently "kvelling with excitement about my 1500th post!"
[You know I won't be able to resist an occasional bracketed comment or two. It's my nature.]
* * * * *
“A, did I barf before or after the relatives left?” Not something a 31 year old plans on asking his brother at a family wedding.
“Wait... you barfed?”
Even better, I thought. No one knew, not even my brother, who was sharing my room.
After A’s face remained in an inquisitive and confused stupor, I lifted up the pillow next to me and revealed the chunks I blew last night. Yes, I slept with my own barf. Why?
Well, picture it. Sicily, 1922. Just kidding.
Seriously, picture it. Los Angeles, 2006. I arrive at the airport an hour early for a 4:35 p.m. flight into San Francisco. My cousin Erik’s rehearsal dinner started at 7:00 p.m. (BTW, is it really a rehearsal dinner if you invite 60 people? Do all of the guests really need to rehearse sitting down and pretending not to be bored? WTF?) The 4:35 flight was to get me in just in time.
After a series of mishaps that included pilots and flight attendants not showing up for work (this was not even Northwest Airlines), a computer crash (no, I do not fly JetBlue), and an onboard lavatory back-up (I wouldn’t dream of boarding Continental), the plane did not take off until 8:15 p.m. This left me with almost five hours of free time to spend drinking white wine.
Needless to say, I arrove (I know this is not a word. For those who know my brother, this should not need an explanation) at the dinner quite drunk and naturally, drank more white wine while watching videos of my cousins impersonating Def Leppard in 1986. Will someone tell me what went wrong in the 80’s?
After dinner, A and I invited the cousins and uncles up to our room to have more drinks. I should have had one more glass of white wine, but what is it about white wine that whets ones appetite for champagne? So, I had 2 champagnes. Not glasses -- bottles.
[What is it with the Gays and their champagne?]
I was quite garrulous for the next 45 minutes (the time in which I drank both bottles) and then all of sudden passed out. I woke up five minutes later, rolled over to the unoccupied side of my queen bed, barfed what looked like a raw chicken tender and tomato stew, rolled back over, and went to sleep until the next morning. I was so drunk that I did not even care. (At least I didn’t cuddle with it.)
[The most shocking part of this is that the other side of Kelly's bed was unoccupied.]
Well, A sure got a kick out of this (you know, laughing hysterically with great exaggeration in his own annoying little way) - especially when K came into the room and started cleaning it up. Pirate, if you think K is really scary in normal day-to-day relations, you should see her cleaning up barf!
[I can't believe she cleaned it up for him! I would have rubbed his nose in it and swatted him on the ass with a newspaper.]
But, as the great Ignatius J. Reilly would say, fortuna smiled upon me when, not one hour later, it was A who was hurling is guts out(albeit in the toilet), and it was I who was laughing my ass off.
And for you regular wenchies out there -- no, he did not pee on the carpet.
Posted at 01:18 PM | Comments (9)August 10, 2007
I Am Too Pissed Off To Sleep
Stella, having had the run of the house for a couple months, is now back to being in her cage while we're out. She can't be trusted to not gnaw on the home we generously let her live in, so that's the way it has to be.
She is, however, allowed to sleep in our room at night, unfettered. Until now, that is.
At 2:00 this morning, Husband and I were roused by the scent of fresh shit. (God, this story has a familiar ring.) Turned out to be a puddle of runny poo at the foot of our bed. On the rug. Bitch didn't even try to make it to the back door or anything. She just rolled outta bed and squatted, which is how we know it was Stella. When it comes to poo, Daisy always does it by one of the doors.
Isn't it sad that it has happened so often, we've noticed a trend?
So there we stood, hands on hips, surveying the damage, our muddled, sleepy minds fully comprehending the crappiness of the situation but having no idea what to do about it.
It was finally decided that we would just roll up the rug and haul it to the curb, even tho' garbage day isn't until Tuesday. No, no, no. We can't just pitch it. Let's at least try to hose it off.
We both put on some pants and rolled up the bedroom rug, being sure to cover the ass-juice with plastic, so as not to smoosh it into the rest of the carpet. It was at this point that I noticed the 2" by 4" section of woodwork behind the bedroom door that had paint missing from it.
Fucking puppy.
No doubt, she had done it one night when Husband was snoring and I was wearing earplugs, so neither of us heard.
My puppy eats paint chips.
IS ANYONE SURPRISED???
Stella will now be back in her cage at night, as well as when we're out. She turns 10 months on Aug. 23. Perhaps when she's a year old, we'll try trusting her again. In the meantime, I think it's enough that we didn't simply kill her.
The turn from the kitchen through the mudroom out the back door was too sharp, so we carried the rug out the front door and around the house to the back yard.
I was bringing up the rear, and Husband is whisper-yelling, "Don't let the screen door slam behind you!"
"Why."
"The neighbors!"
I'm out there, in my pajamas and bare feet, carrying a turd-laden rug at two in the morning, and he thinks I give a rat's ass about disturbing the neighbors? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. None of them are stupid enough to have the windows open anyway, considering the 1000% humidity. Everyone has their A/C on.
Thanks to Husband's superior hosing skills, the poop actually came off the rug pretty quickly. Of course, then there was the even-heavier, sopping wet rug to contend with. So I moved my car, put my keys on the fence post where I'd remember them (that's called "foreshadowing," boys and girls), and we draped the rug over a couple work horses in the garage, where it will need to stay for the next several days.
Bleary-eyed and weary, and more than a little snippy with each other, we turned off all the lights, put Stella in her cage and fell back into bed. But the scent of crap was over-whelming. Not wanting to open our windows to the moist night air, we cleverly lit a pumpkin pie-scented candle. Yeah, that worked wonders. Pumpkin poop.
I laid in bed, too angry to sleep, thinking about the day I have ahead of me. I have to get up at 5:45 to be at work by 7:30. Goes without saying that I will be stopping at Starbuck's on the way. Get off work at 12:30, and I have to be waiting at my front door, costumes in hand, by 1:45, when Bro-In-Law (not Brad, the other one) will be picking me up for our bottle-playing gig at Navy Pier for 1,800 Lutherans.
Of course, we don't actually start playing until 8:00 tonight, but we have to schlep all the bottles and props and tables, then set-up, then do a soundcheck, then reherse, then have dinner, then wait around for our introduction. Hopefully, the audience will be good and drunk by then.
But wait. There's more.
Just when I had managed to slow my heart rate a little, we heard Daisy puking.
Now, Daisy's chronic bladder infections have finally been diagnosed as bladder crystals. Apparently, she's part cat. So we were wearning her onto her new, fancy, expensive, prescription dog food to take care of the crystals when she got some kind of stomach virus and hurled on the living room carpet four times in two days. Always in the middle of the night, naturally.
She was on a chicken and rice diet for a few days, until the virus cleared up. Then we started her back on a mix of half her usual food, half the new food. She was fine with that, so this afternoon, I switched it to a ratio of 2-to-1.
I'm guessing, by the pile of undigested food on our carpet, that it wasn't a virus at all. Daisy is just having trouble keeping down the new food.
Greeeeeeeaaaaaaaaat.
She'll be going back on her normal food come breakfast.
And why the hell is it always the living room carpet? To get from our bedroom to the living room, she has to walk through the uncarpeted hallway and through the entire linoleumed kitchen. And God forbid she ralph on the large uncarpeted section of the living room, where once the rug runner had lived, until it got pooped and puked on too many times, and we just threw the damn thing out instead of taking it to the cleaners for the ninth time. That's right -- I said ninth.
Husband is all, "We should just throw this rug out."
I know he was speaking in anger. The anger of a man who had to clean up TWO different toxic bodily secretions in one night and knows he won't get a nap in that day. But I don't think that's such a bad idea. I want to just get rid of ALL the rugs and do the entire first floor in slate.
I'm only half kidding.
Back in bed, trying to lower my blood pressure through zen-like concentration, I hear Husband mutter, "Did we close the garage door?"
*sigh* "I'll check while I get my keys from the fence."
Thank God he remembered about the garage, or I never would have remembered about my keys. And I never would have had the chance to walk around the front of my house in my panties.
I told Husband, after one of the two dogs dies, we're never having two dogs at once again. What a stupid idea. I can't take twice as much trouble, those stinking, tag-teaming bitches.
And I'm not at all kidding.
Posted at 03:10 AM | Comments (4)August 09, 2007
I'm Selling Out!
That's right, The Man has gotten to Wenchie and turned me into an even cheaper whore. I was approached and am being paid -- PAID -- to run some ads on my blog. I am capitalist scum and couldn't be more pleased!
Don't be mad at me, darlings. Don't shake your head in woe. Don't loose any more respect for me that you already have. There will always be plenty of Wenchie goodness -- barf stories, poop stories, vaginas, mockery. I'm not going to compromise my writing style because someone doesn't like me saying Fuck.
(Yes, because Fuck is a style. I'm such an ignoramous.)
Ever since I was a little girl and wrote my first poem about a mermaid, I've dreamed of being a real life writer. This blog has allowed me to reach an audience of questionable taste without the hassle of having to actually publish a book. Or write one, for that matter.
And NOW, not only am I doing what I love, but I'm doing it half-assed and getting PAID for it! God, I love this country!
Believe me, you don't have to be envious of my wealth. It's a paltry sum that's not going to change my lifestyle or anything. I asked for it all in quarters, so it seems like more. It's really just the idea of being paid that I'm jazzed about.
Oh, who am I kidding. I'm buying a suede Dooney purse, and you're not!
Here are the links to the posts with the ads, in case you're curious: shoe ad, costume ad, home builder ad, gift basket ad and Native American culture ad.
I know, that last one is pretty random, right? It's like ice cream, pizza, corn, umbrella!
I am a bit scared that my flying monkeys will abandon me. After all, I quit reading Dooce after she went commercial. But in truth, I quit reading Dooce after she got married, had a baby and became boring. So I think I'm okay.
(Oh my God! She dissed Dooce! Can she do that? Won't Moveable Type shut her down?!)
So, yeah, I'm a sell-out. But if someone offered you money to sit around reading blogs, you couldn't get them your PayPal info fast enough, so shut up.
And if anyone would like to place an ad for purses, I got three more purse blogs coming up, so now would be an ideal time.
And then some boobies or something for the men. So... bra ads?
Love,
A Big, Money-Grubbing Whore
August 08, 2007
My 1,500th Commenter!
I can't believe that my snarky babbling has actually inspired fifteen hundred pithy remarks. How cool are we?!
So. My fifteen-hundreth comment, appearing Thursday, August 2nd, 2007, at 1:49 p.m., was made by...
KELLY GARRETT!!!!!!
Proving that good things always happen to beautiful, braless people!
Ms. Garrett provided the following comment to my blog about Wenchie's Hellbent Advocacy for Manners:
"I am so with you! Would you believe that the waitress at Chile's (yes, I know I was inviting confrontation by eating at Chile's) brought out an actual knife with my hamburger and wanted to stand over me as I cut the burger in half to make sure it was cooked to my liking? I was stunned! Did she have so little faith in her chef that she expected to serve me a culinary abomination? I flat out refused and told her that if Chile's can't produce an acceptable hamburger that they should consider closing. I've never been so offended in my life!"
I actually have no freakin' clue what burgers have to do with high school girls, but I'm sure it's just way over my head because Kelly is way funnier than me and even more darkly bizarre.
Okay, Kelly, you know how this works... or perhaps you don't. You're new, so I'll explain.
Just like Garrance got for the 1,000th comment, you get:
1. A photo spread of the infamous Wisconsin Christmas trees, to appear in this blog as soon as we get the damn thing outta my car and find a place for it in the house. (Yes, it's still in my car! So what?)
2. To ask me any question in the universe, and I will answer it, completely and truthfully, right here in my blog, for all the world to see.
3. Because you are the 1,500th commenter, you may make any request of me that you wish. Providing it doesn't get me beaten up by K, cuz she's scary as hell. Any request, any belonging, any favor, any thing -- it's yours for the asking.
Actually, I'm sure you don't give an emu's ass about Wisconsin Christmas trees, so let's change it to... I'll do a photo spread of your choice, as long as it's not pornographic.
Ladies and gentlemen, there's something you should know about Kelly Garrett. I babysat for Kelly. ONCE. She asked me if I'd ever been boofed. I was a freshman in high school and had to ask a friend what the hell it means. (I'll tell you later, Mom.)
I just wanted to tell you this so you have a full appreciation of what I'm opening myself up to here: requests from a deviant. I await my fate in horror.
The things I do for you people.
Posted at 12:57 PM | Comments (4)August 07, 2007
Purses: Wooley Not-So-Mammoths
Had to reach way back into the closet for these purses. They're all wool, so they only come out during the winter months.
This one is Apt. 9, which is probably some Kohl's brand, but I don't care because I think it's so cute. Pinstripes! They're slimming!
You know those pug dogs that are so ugly that they're cute? This purse is the pug of handbags. It's a handpug. Seriously. Blue plaid? But it's Fossil, and they know much better than I do what's hip and cool, so I'm going with it.
This nubbly, little Coach number is one of the purses that sparked this whole self-indulgent debacle. I won my sky-blue Dooney for $75, and then, for no apparent reason, clicked the little link below the seller's name that says View Seller's Other Items. This purse was ending in 8 min., so I waited. And watched. And sniped. Got it for $20! YEA, BABY!
All the purses in today's post are brought to you by eBay and the letter W.
Posted at 03:10 PM | Comments (2)August 06, 2007
Too Much To Deal With
Oh. My. God. Isn't it lovely when some succulent piece of gossip simply falls into your lap?
At work this week, some guy meant to forward an email -- a very, very personal email -- to his wife, but he ended up sending it to the entire office by mistake. I don't know how the hell something like that happens, but I'm glad it did.
Now, the email needs some backstory, which I got from my boss and will now share with you.
Keith is the son of the woman who wrote the original email. He and his family live in the Chicago area but have a place in Wisconsin (in a town I will not name). He has three teenaged children, who are all staying with his mom for a bit at their place in WI. There are two boys and a girl, 16, 17 and 19.
Now, these kids are, by reputation, all drunks. One has dropped out of school, and one is failing out of school. They all have criminal records in their home town.
Keith's wife is currently also in the same Wisconsin town but staying at a different house and never around.
Reading this, I feel really bad for Keith's mom... but not so bad that I'm not going to print the email. What? I'm eliminating the names! There's also some people mentioned whom I don't know, but they're not really pivitol to the story.
Keith,
I have hesitated to bother you when you have serious issues to deal with in Chicago, but something has to be done about all these kids up from Chicago and their lying and drinking.
Their are putting your reputation in jeopardy. It is just one thing after another and they don't seem to learn. Why are [2 teenaged friends of the kids] up here without a parent?
Marie came to me yesterday and said [17 yr. old Son] lied about his age and she rented him a moped. As long as he had a driver's license, but not 18, he could have gotten parental permission and it would have been ok, but he didn't. Marie would have been liable if [17 yr. old Son] had been in an accident and lost her business.
[16 yr. old Son] and [2 teenaged friends of the kids] tried renting mopeds too, but Marie was on to them. Later, [2 teenaged friends] tried to get one of Marie's underage employees to get beer and join them at a bonfire at Cathy's house. [Keith's bro-in-law] went out to the Lake House to have [Keith's wife] take of this.
[19 yr. old Daughter] has been at the Local Bar twice and not noticed right away. She is putting Local Bar Owner's business in jeopardy. Owner is still waiting for an apology from [19 yr. old Daughter].
[19 yr. old Daughter] has brought beer up in her car and with [16 yr. old Son]'s help took it to the bunkhouse, where 3 more underage kids were, including a 15 yr. old girl. Some of these kids had to drive home. If I knowing allowed them to drink at my house I could go to jail. After I told the kids they couldn't drink at my house, I called [Keith's wife] to handle it.
[Keith's wife]'s solution is to lecture me on being too hard on the kids and not talking to them. I will talk to them, but they do not want to hear what I have to say. [Keith's wife] is the parent up here. Her punishment is not allowing them to stay by me or work at the ice cream shop. I am fine with that right now. All this is getting too much to deal with.
The MySpace web page that [some whorey friend] created including members [16 yr. old Son], [etc.] created is call:
Drunk in [Town Name] (Chicago Chapter)
Common Interest
For anyone who have ventured up to [Town Name], WI in search of wild drunken debauchery, and those who have made [Town Name] police report history.
Recent News: At 63 years old, Robert is the oldest (and drunkest) honary member
Officers: [some whorey friend] (Official dancer with Keith)
I am asking for help before something else happens.
Mom
See, this is why Wisconsin-ites call us F.I.B.s (Fucking Illinois Bastards). Can you blame them?
What kind of hippie shit is this don't-be-too-hard-on-them crap? Talking is fine for when Sally repeatedly forgets her homework, or Tommy goes out without cutting the grass first. But police reports call for something more serious than a tsk-tsk.
When I'm Queen, if some parent(s) let all of their kids become criminals, it will be my sentence that they join their kids in prison. Because really -- what has Keith contributed to the world except three reasons to stay off the streets after dark?
Oh, and to add to the hilarity, Keith has some business ventures up in that very town in WI. He has even gotten the mayor to invest in his business plan. I wonder how the mayor will feel when news of Keith's kids reaches his ears?
I'm assuming the whole shit-for-brains family will eventually be run outta town by an angry mob with torches and pitchforks. I just hope they don't come back to Illinois.
Posted at 03:21 PM | Comments (0)August 03, 2007
Buttleman vs. Burn Notice
You may have noticed the glaring lack of review/recap of the almighty Bruce Campbell's new series "Burn Notice." Indeed, I'm sure you've been searching my site frantically every hour, hitting Refresh over and over.
I just haven't been able to bring myself to review it. Mainly because I haven't been able to bring myself to watch an entire episode.
The dialogue is so stilted and predictable, it's painful. I don't know -- maybe they just haven't hit their stride, yet. But for God's sake, we're talking about a man who can speak volumes with the single word, "Groovy." We're talking about a man who played aged Elvis the mummy vanquisher! You can't just give him juxtaposition! It's demeaning!
So my review is this: The best thing about "Burn Notice" is Bruce's hair. He has a lovely salt 'n' pepper thing going on, and it's blessedly lush and inviting. *sigh* Goddamn, that man just keeps getting more and more handsome.
To fill the void left by "Burn Notice," and/or to get the taste of boring out of your mouth, I highly recommend you watch "Harold Buttleman: Daredevil Stuntman" on YouTube.
It's a full-length film done by a guy I went to school with, Frank Stokes (who now goes by "Francis," apparently). I've seen it, and it's really clever and original and sweet. Not the recycled crap Hollywood keeps churning out. This is definately worth the nine bucks they're ripping us off for now at the theatres, and you get to watch it for FREE!
It stars the doe-eyed John Hawkes, whom you may know as Sol Star from HBO's "Deadwood." He also starred in another stunning and adorable independent film called "Me and You and Everyone We Know." ))<>((
I have particularly fond memories of seeing the "Buttleman" movie because that's where Heather and I reunited and smooshed our post-high-school boobies together for the first time.
Who's your hero?
Posted at 11:12 AM | Comments (1)August 02, 2007
WHAM!
*sigh* I did it again, people. I was forced to open a can of whup-ass at the movie theatre. I almost got the can taken away, too, because the Flashlight Monkey thought I had brought my own food in.
Billi and I went to see "The Simpsons." To the left of us, teenaged boys. Behind us, toddlers. In front of us, teenaged girls. It was the original Axis of Evil.
During the opening pre-credits bit, the girls started taking photos of themselves with their camera-phones. "This is us at the movies! Don't my bangs look awesome? Tiffany, your lip gloss looks soooooooooooo shiney from the flash!"
Dear God, save us all from teenaged girls who can't get enough of themselves.
What are they gonna do? Look back on those pictures when they're 80 and be like, "Remember that day? That was right after I bought those jeans that make my butt look so good, and right before Amber and Jason broke up. Ahhhhhh, those were special days."
After the third photo, when it was clear that, ONCE AGAIN, I was going to have to be The Bitch, I leaned over and said loudly, "I hope you're not going to do that through the whole movie because it's really fucking rude."
So they all clicked their tongues at me and rolled their eyes. And stopped.
The people around me were, of course, grateful. But it really irritates me that I'm the only one who ever says anything. That's the whole point of Society, people! To shame everyone into line with our judgements!
Throughout the movie, there was, of course, the usual texting and tittering and leaving the theatre a million times, probably to go take photos of themselves with the life-sized Simpsons statues in the lobby. Fine, whatever. I'm not gonna freak-out at every little infraction.
(YET. But the day is coming...)
But their talking eventually got really loud. They were totally using their Outside Voices.
Let me point out here, by way of comparison, that the toddler had only spoken once, and the teenaged boys had done nothing but laugh quietly at the appropriate times.
Ladies, when I prefer the company of toddlers and a teenaged boys to yours, you have ceased to be human. You are now Supernatural Creatures of Fathomless Doom, spreading darkness and obliterating hope wherever Daddy's on-board G.P.S. takes you.
Tired of their high-pitched, skull-withering voices, I leaned over to the girls and said, very loudly, "Oh my God, will you. SHUT. UP."
And they were all, "What? God! I'm so sure." And then they shut the fuck up. Which is good because I still had a half a bag of popcorn left, and it might have slipped out of my buttered fingers.
Again, the people around me nodded their solidarity, including the teenaged boys. I'm pretty sure one of them was Jason who, at that moment, realized just how annoying Amber really is.
As soon as the movie was over, the girls wisely sprinted out of there. Although I was kind of disappointed. I always have a speech prepared in case one of the little miscreants stays to confront me.
I end with this plea, my darlings: As society gets ruder and ruder, we have to take a stand. We have to stop standing idly by in the face of rudeness, just because we're too embarassed to say anything. Why should we be embarassed? We're better than them!
I know it's hard to retain your dignity when everyone else around you is chewing the furniture and peeing on the carpets. It's easy to think, "Well, everyone else is being an asshole. If I'm not an asshole, I'm going to get trampled."
Don't become an asshole, people. Speak up!
Join W.H.A.M.: Wenchie's Hellbent Advocacy for Manners. Stand with me, and together, we can turn these cretins around!
Posted at 01:04 PM | Comments (11)August 01, 2007
Purses: The Fabric of My Life
Have you ever wondered where I get my amazing, gripping and socially relevent ideas for blogs? It goes a little something like this, via I.M...
Heather: so, what else is up, these days?
PW: I got a dooney purse and a coach purse off eBay for about $100 total!
H: ooh! sweet!
PW: I should really do a purse blog, like a bad catalogue
H: have barbies in each of them. in matching outfits.
PW: I love you.
H: and I ruv you!
PW: seriously, I have a lot of purses. I have to get started!
H: I have a bunch, most are boring. althoug I just found out that my favorite, a sort of bowlling ball looking bag, is just big enough to hold a bottle of champagne.
PW: you're a drunken whore
H: but I'm YOUR drunken whore.
And then Heather put down the crack pipe and went back to work, leaving me to scamper around my house, cackling maniacally, rounding up accessories and checking the light in each room.
I just... I'm such a huge gayrod, I don't even know how to verbalize it.
But aren't these little ladies the cutest? They're like twins whose mother had the good sense not to dress identically.
They're faux, of course. But I'm contemplating replacing them with the real things. I'll get 'round to it on eBay, but right now, I'm working on an eBay list that includes the following must-haves: a mousepad with a wrist rest, The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory, and a really cheap 2007 wall calendar to hang in my new work cubicle.
Is this not the quintessential summer purse? I ask you! Is it not?! This was the purse I used during July. (Yes, I rotate my purses monthly. Shut up. And I keep a list so I don't repeat too often. Shut up.)
It's vibrant! It's warm! It's... in the crook of a tree! You can't get more summery than green foliage!
I want to sleep with this Dooney & Bourke Quilted Sac.
Not only does it allow me to say "sac" in polite company, but it's blue, which is my favorite color.
I will use my sac in September. But for now, I'm toting this kicky little Fake Spade number I borrowed from Billi.
Swapped her for a faux-Prada. I totally got the better end of the deal.
Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (3)