June 26, 2008
I'm So Proud!
Forget the quilting. Forget the shopping. Forget the antiqueing, the singing, the impeccable fashion sense. Forget everything you thought you knew about Husband because...
Husband has a gun-related injury!!! How incredibly macho is that?!
Last weekend was our annual four-day vacation with my cousins, Egrau and Ramone, their spouses, J and PJ, and their dogs, Karma, Zoe and Ava. That's eleven creatures in one cabin, and we were still out-numbered by the guns in J and Ramone's arsenal!
Our "Hillbilly Weekends," as they have come to be known, consist of four primary parts:
1. Eating.
2. Sleeping/napping/"resting our eyes."
3. Drinking
4. Shooting.
(There are also secondary activities like shopping, reading and arguing, but they are mere incidentals.)
So we were at the shooting range, shooting targets. Targets that consisted of spinners, silohouttes, empty helium tanks, plastic milk cartons filled with water... and Barbies.
That's right, I said it -- Barbies. And Kens. Every time we go up, I thin the herd a little because there is nothing funnier than a naked Ken doll riddled with the holes left by 22s. Especially when Ramone lets me use his rifle, and I nail Ken dead-on, so that his torso splits apart, and his leg flies ten feet.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Sick, sick, sick.
And yet, while we are sick, we are not crazed, gun-toting maniacs. J is a police officer, and Ramone, too, has extensive weapons training. They always make sure we know how to use each gun safely and correctly.
DISCLAIMER: Husband's injury is in no way due to faulty training, safety or supervision.
He's just a little dim.
Anyhoo, there I was, reading my book, having tired of mayhem and destruction and wanting to finish my 341-pg. novel (which I did).
PJ and Egrau were sitting with them, when one of them said, "What? What happened?"
I looked up at Ramone and Husband (J had left on an emergency big-pottie run), and they were looking at the gun Husband was holding. I didn't understand why the shooting had stopped, until I saw a big splotch of blood on Husband's hand.
My first thought was, "Oh, dear God. Ramone shot Husband in the hand."
But then I thought, "Well, that's unlikely. Ramone is a stickler for gun safety. He'd never do that."
And then I thought that I had accidentally included Western Barbie in the target group, and he had outdrawn Husband.
Still perplexed at what was going on, I walked over to where the guys were standing. Husband took the gun out of his right hand, and blood began to drip from where the thumb meets the hand.
"All right," I sighed. "Get in the car."
[For some backstory on how many times -- and for what reasons -- I've had to drive Husband to the E.R., read parts One, Two and Three of "Husband's Bizarre Illness" and the Three-Stooges-esque comedy of Mr. Drillbit.]
"Really?" he whined. "It's not a big cut. It'll be fine."
"Well, you can bleed for an hour while I nag you, and then we can go. Or you can just come now."
Ramone said, "Yeah, you should probably go."
Well, that clinched it. Because when I say something, it's meaningless. But when anyone other than me says THE EXACT SAME THING, it is suddenly Husband's gospel.
Welcome to wedded bliss.
Posted at 06:29 PM | Comments (0)June 21, 2008
Dr. Late Bloomer
Sue has become simply impossible to live with since I did a whole blog about how kickass she is. She struggles under the delusion that a mention on my blog elevates one to ROCKSTAR status.
She was getting acupuncture by Dr. Hottie on Tuesday, and she's all, "Wenchie blogged about me! Didja read it? Didja? Didja? Huh? Huh? Didja? Didja? Huh? Didja? Huh? Huh?"
(She occassionally channels a Pomeranian named Fanny McTwiddles who died of a caffiene overdose in 1978.)
And Dr. Hottie is like, "What's a blog?"
And his indentured servants are like, "BLOG?! She has a BLOG?!"
And there's where I relinquished control of my entire world.
So Sue gave them the URL, thinking they would be treated to the heartwarming post about how fabtacular she and her fellow teachers are. Instead, the staff of Hottie Chiropractic came upon the ass-zit blog. Apparently, Sue was unaware that I had updated. And updated so... descriptively.
For three years -- THREE YEARS -- I've been telling Dr. Hottie about my blog. I mean, at the very least, you'd think he'd want to monitor it for mentions of him! But no. No, he pretends to be Mr. Studious Professional Intellectual I Only Read Time Magazine And Medical Journals What Means This Blog Thing?. And the day he finally jumps on the Pirate Wench bandwagon? It's the ass-zit blog.
On Wednesday, my friend KT emailed me: "I need to go see your hot chiropractor. My back is killing me!" So I gave her his info, and I really need to send him a bill for all this advertising I give him.
I told KT to tell him that she's a friend of mine, thinking he'd be remotely grateful that I'm sending him more business. And instead? He's all, "Did you read her blog today? It's hilarious!"
*sigh*
Three years of talking about my blog, and now I'm a fucking genius. Because of the ass-zit blog.
I hate him so much.
If you're just joining us, you can bring yourself up-to-date on Dr. Hottie by going here and here. (Somewhere along the way, he went from Dr. Angel to Dr. Hottie. I don't know why.)
Enjoy! I'm sure I'll soon be blogging about his restraining order against me! What fun!
Posted at 05:41 AM | Comments (1)June 19, 2008
Killing Any Respect You May Have Had for Me
I think most people have had this problem: No matter how cleanly you are, even those of us who shower daily are, on ocassion, mystified by a lone zit on some random part of our bodies.
Take me for example. My body is cleansed every day. When I have time, a couple mornings a week, I exfoliate and moisturize everything.
So I was pretty distraught to find an enormous zit on my ass. Now, my ass is included on the list of body parts that I regularly loofa. Seriously, you could eat off my ass! How the hell did I get a zit there?!
And not just any zit. It was huge. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. Felt like I had an M&M made of rock and lava under my delicate tushie skin.
And not being able to see it was a whooooooole other problem because I didn't know what class of zit it was. Was it a Class 1, a painful, red wellie (i.e. zit that wells up from underneath the skin, as opposed to a plugged pore)? Was it a Class 2, one with a small whitehead that's not really worth popping, yet? Or a dreaded -- yet strangely satisfying -- Class 3, one that is straining under the thin membrane of skin, ready to splatter volanic pus all over the mirror?
How to tell...?
That, my friend, is why God invented digital cameras. The camera could be my eye, and I could see the photo immediately.
I tell ya, there's nothing sadder than a pantsless wench, standing in front of a full-length mirror, trying to take a picture of her own ass. It sounds sexy, I know -- but it's not. TRUST ME. So very, very not.
On my third attempt, I got a very clear picture. No, I'm not including it here. I trust your imaginations. And I need to keep one teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy speck of self-respect.
Self-respeckt, if you will.
Sure enough, it was a Class 3, ready to erupt. But I was having a hard time getting both hands at the right angles for squeezing it.
I knew, if I asked Husband, he'd flat-out refuse. And probably move out. Billi lives too far away. And I don't think that I've reached that particular level of comfort with any of my friends.
Using my acrobatic training from my days with the circus (my parents sold me to the gypsies when I was little, but the gypsies brought me back, so they left me at the circus), I finally popped that zit. And I even managed to get some antibiotic cream on it and cover it with a band-aid! Talent like that is rare, my friends.
So I just want to say, to all my friends and family: I know the pain of the unreachable zit, and I will always be there to pop them for you. That's how much I love you all.
You ungrateful bastards, where were you when it hurt for me to sit down?!
Posted at 08:36 AM | Comments (3)June 16, 2008
The Important Book for the Bride To Be
By Room 220
Sue's friend Becky is getting married soon, so all Becky's teacher-friends had their classes do little projects for her. Amy's 1st grade class did structured paragraphs of what can only be described as brilliant prose. The ensuing levels of cuteness and sincerity had even this embittered wench blinking back the tears. (And admiring the fact that they have much better handwriting than Billi.)
For instance...
The important thing about a bride is she is beautiful. The bride has a white dress. She has gloves. She bride has a crown, too. The bride likes to dance. The bride dances a lot. But the important thing about a bride is she is beautiful.
The important thing about a wedding is sometimes they may kiss. They dance the conga line. The children play childrens' games. We eat cake. They throw money all over. But the important thing about a wedding is sometimes they may kiss.
Is that not the sweetest thing you've ever read?! I have to go brush my teeth because they feel so fuzzy!
Of course, you're always going to get the little diva with the ulterior motive...
The important thing about a flower girl. The flower girl throw the flowers. The flower girl is a very hard worker. The flower girl wears a dress that is red or blue. The flower girl gets a present to ride in a limo.
I think someone is gunning for a position in Becky's wedding party, eh, Katrina...?
Hmmm. I think Achmed's parents may be a little right-wing.
The important thing about a wedding is there's a man and woman getting married. There is a wedding cake. They throw flowers. There is food to eat. But the important thing about a wedding is there's a man and woman getting married.
Adam married Eve, not Steve, right, Achmed? I'm actually for gay marriage myself, but I do wonder who the hell is going to do all the housework in that situation.
I'm sure this one is Becky's favorite...
The important thing about a wife is she has a baby. She has to take care of the baby. She cooks the food. She takes of the family. She cleans the house. She has to clean everything. She works all lot. But the most important thing about a wife is she has a baby.
Well, Becky, you might as well just kick off those strappy espidrills and get in the kitchen right now. Your life is over, if little Juan has anything to say about it.
Of course, this one is MY favorite...
The important thing about a husband is he sees a girl that he loves. He marries the girl. He can ride her to her house. He may kiss her. He could dance with her. But the important thing about the husband is he sees the girl that he loves.
He can ride her to her house?! Give that child an A+! In twenty years, he is totally going to be my fourth husband.
Posted at 06:11 AM | Comments (1)June 13, 2008
I Am a Coolness Parasite
Unlike Fonzie, who eminates him own coolness, I am like the moon -- I merely reflect the coolness of others. Which is why you'll find that I surround myself with fabulously cool people.
Take Heather for example. I can't tell you what her job actually is because I think she works for the French Foreign Legion or something. But I can say two words -- boobies and design. And if you are wondering what that has to do with the French Foreign Legion, then clearly you underestimate the power of boobies.
And then there's Snippy Bitch. She's a total crafting goddess and makes the best greeting cards. No Hallmark crap here! She's a cross between Martha Stewart and Terry Gilliam (in technique, not looks). I would gladly burn my Hallmark Gold Crown card, if Snippy started selling her handmade cards.
Billi, who has three kids, has always been a major influence on my life. ...okay, fertility is not really something I hope will rub off on me, but she's constantly trying to find new ways to boost my coolness factor. Like encouraging me to wear something other than a hoodie, and buying me Eminem CDs.
But last Tuesday, I saw one of the coolest things ever. I got to see Sue teach.
Sue taught in an affluent suburb for about a minute and a half before realizing, "These kids don't need me. I wanna go somewhere that I can really make a difference." So now... she's a Chicago Public School Teacher.
For those of you outside the midwest who don't know the horror of the words Chicago Public School Teacher, let me sum up what I saw:
Sue paid for many of the kids' school lunches herself because the kids had no money and probably hadn't had breakfast, either.
For most of the kids, English is their second languange, and it's not spoken at home, so they don't get much practice.
Many of them had outgrown their clothes six months ago, or were borrowing the wardrobe of a much older sibling, not necessarily of the same gender.
One of the Room Mothers on the field trip with us -- Sue calls her "Heroin Mom" -- had part of her ear cut off in a gang fight. Is it any wonder Johnny acts out at school? Is it any wonder Sue is thrilled when he can successfully put together a sentence on paper? I'm sure it sucks to be eight years old and have to make your own dinner and have your 8th grade sister sign your homework notebook because Mommy is "napping."
But you know what? The kids are adorable. And pretty darn well-behaved, for a bunch of hungry, neglected third graders. I'm convinced that it's because Sue is such a calm and assertive pack leader.
Sue is also lucky to have a lot of back-up -- Amy, Becky and Steph. Now don't let their youth, pluckiness and dimples fool you. These ladies have the power to take away your recess priviledges! And they aren't afraid to use it!
They can read a book to half the class, while keeping an eye on the half finishing their math, keeping track of who is in the bathroom and for how long, keeping order in the room of the teacher who had to go to the bathroom herself, and answering 47 questions per minute. All while keeping her cool (or at least keeping up the facade of keeping her cool).
Seriously, people. I didn't do anything but herd some kids through the Nature Center and grade a few papers, and I crawled into bed the second I got home that night, while Sue, Amy, Becky and Steph all went home and did stuff. So the next time Teacher's Day rolls around, don't get them another damn mug or Christmas ornament with World's Greatest Teacher on it. Give them CASH. Or a gift certificate. To a really nice restaurant. Or a spa. Or to Italy.
At the end of my day at school, the most darling little girl in perfect, shiny, black braids -- like a Middle Eastern Anne of Green Gables -- handed me a piece of paper. On it was written:
Thank you for coming to the field trip with us, Mrs. Pirate. Love, Nooha Greengables.
Like I know any other Nooha.
It was all I could do to keep from bursting out in tears right in front of her and scarring her for life. It was totally worth having to sit on that tiny chair all day! How does Sue say good-bye to these little darlings every year?! It has to be heartbreaking!
I can't stress it enough, you parents and legal guardians:
C * A * S * H
And if you're still not convinced, read The Tard Blog. She's much funnier than I am anyway. Sue's kids have curled up inside my heart and rendered me completely incapable of vitrol today. I'll have to go drive in some rush hour traffic to get my seething, sarcastic loathing for all of humanity back up to normal levels.
Posted at 08:31 AM | Comments (4)June 12, 2008
Spam Haiku
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June 05, 2008
Breakfast Conversation with the Spare
TS: Auntie? Auntie? Auntie? AuntieauntieauntieauntieAUNTIE!!!!
PW: Whaaaaaaaaaat!
TS: I want to come up into your lap.
PW: Dude, I just poured myself a bowl of cereal.
TS: I know. I want to stick my hand in it, and then in my hair, and then wipe it on your face. NOW!
PW: Good God, child. [puts him in his high chair and sprinkles Cheerios before him] Here. Have your own cereal.
TS: Hey, Auntie.
PW: What.
TS: Aren't I cute when I smile at you?
PW: Yes, you're adorable.
TS: Aren't I even cuter when I giggle and wrinkle my nose?
PW: You know, I didn't think it possible, but you really are.
TS: Bitch, please. Check out my peek-a-boo. It's so sweet, you'll need a glass of milk to wash it down.
PW: Don't tell your brother and sister I said this, but you're definitely the cutest.
TS: Yeah? How 'bout when I do... THIS!!! [sweeps arms violently back and forth, sending Cheerios everywhere]
PW: Dude! That is SO not cool!
Lucy the Dog: Sweet! I have been waiting all morning for this!
TS: But look! I'm wrinkling my nose!
PW: Mommy just Swiffered! She's gonna kick my ass!
TS: I don't know why you're getting so upset. [drops his sippy cup on the floor]
PW: You're not getting any more cereal.
TS: But... mine is gone!
PW: What am I -- an idiot? You're just going to throw it all on the floor again!
TS: I can't believe you would think that of me! I want more cereal!
PW: No.
TS: Oh, that is IT. SHRIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!
PW: Will you just give me a small break? My cereal is getting soggy!
TS: You used to be cool.
Billi: [enters the kitchen] What's all the screaming?
PW: I won't give him more Cheerios to throw all over the house.
B: Are you still eating? We have to go in ten minutes!
PW: I can't believe that YOU -- of ALL PEOPLE -- just said that to me.
B: [smiles] I know. It felt awesome.
Posted at 06:22 AM | Comments (2)