July 25, 2008

Things My Dogs Can Hear

1. A banana being peeled anywhere in the house.

2. The other dog being petted.

3. The neighbor's Miniature Pinscher, Layla, inside the neighbor's house, standing near the neighbor's front door, thinking about barking.

4. The click of the neighbor's front door opening to let Layla outside.

5. The click of my La-Z-Boy before I get up, which signals that I might be coming upstairs, and might be passing the treat jar, and just maaaaaaaaaaybe I'll give them a treat.

6. Socks being put on, which signals that I'm sitting down and might be available to pet them.

7. My ass making contact with the toilet seat, which signals that I'm sitting down and might be available to pet them.

Posted at 12:02 PM | Comments (2)

July 22, 2008

Wallpaper of the Damned

We were going through old family photos the other day, when we came across these gems, and I knew I had to share them with you guys.

We're going way back in ancient history here, folks. The house I grew up in was a big, old, woodframe house built around the turn of the century. (The 1900 one, not the 2000 one.) High ceilings, hardwood floors, big windows, big closets, french doors, separate stairs for the maid -- fabulous.

The one drawback was that the walls were a little... well..., they were plaster walls, and there was settling, so painting them would only enhance the imperfections. The only option was to wallpaper each and every room in our two-story, four-bedroom, nine-foot-ceilinged house. I can't believe my parents' marriage withstood it.

I present to you now -- The Bedroom Wallpapers of My Childhood.

Let's start will Billi.

(How cute is she in those pigtails?!)

I don't know if you can tell, but that's green and yellow Holly Hobby wallpaper. Or as Billi said it, "Geen and lellow."

I don't know why she got a chairrail in her room. I didn't get a chairrail. Damn, spoiled youngest child. I also don't know what the hell that huge bookcase was doing in her room. I mean, she couldn't read. What was she going to put on it? Oh, that's right -- the thousands and thousands of stuffed animals that were showered upon the youngest child.

I am so sick of her. Let's move on.

Purple shag rug!

This is clearly the most tan that Spikette has ever been in her life. I love the knee socks -- hott! But mostly I'm glad that, by this age, Mom had stopped cutting Spikette's bangs herself. That poor girl has the most unfortunate collection of school pictures. "Oh, just let me trim your bangs so we can see your eyes in your picture!" Ruuuuuuuun, Forest! Ruuuuuuuuun!

That wallpaper is so truly disco. And yes, her bedspread is purple velvet. What -- you didn't know Spikette was a porn star in the late 70s?

Awwwwwwww, lookit that adorable, little imp. It's baby Wenchie! I remember that outfit. And that hair -- gah! I am rocking those Mickey Mouse sneakers. God, they're filthy. Must've been one of those articles of clothing that I developed an unhealthy attachment to and wore until they fell off me. Like the olive green, paisley pants.

Anyhoo, yes, those are pastel, gingham flowers on my bubble gum pink wallpaper. (Matching pink, gingham curtains not shown.) What I wouldn't give to still have that pink, chenille bedspread!

You will notice the railing attached to the side of the bed. That's so I wouldn't fall out of bed. Now, if you're thinking that I look a little old to still be falling out of bed, bear in mind that, to this day, I can trip on a bare floor and fall over while standing completely still. Grace, thy name is Wenchie.

Know where my incredibly-ornate-for-a-child's-room headboard came from? The dump on Washington Island, Wisconsin. It's brass and wrought iron, and it was painted some horrible color when my Dad found it. So he fixed it up and put it in the bedroom of a five-year old girl. Weird, huh? Well, I gotta cut him some slack -- Target and IKEA didn't exist back then.

What I really hated in that room was the radiator. See it dominating the background like a cast iron monster waiting to pounce? That damn thing was the bane of my childhood existance. For whatever reason, all the air that got into the system collected in that radiator, which means that the hot water was not in the radiator. We had to drain the air out of it several times a day, and it still got freezing cold! Thirty years later, I'm still not warm.

Not pictured is the sprawling Barbie commune that took up one half of my very big bedroom from age four to age fourteen. Ocassionally, the Barbies would load up the camper and drive over to Billi's room, but Holly Hobby hated those bitches, so the camping trips were often cut short.

Posted at 09:19 AM | Comments (3)

July 16, 2008

It's All About the Yankovic

I have a confession today, my darlings. Hold my hand, won't you? This is pretty difficult for me. I mean, as if you guys don't already think I'm the most disgusting, pathetic, whorey wench who ever sailed the seven seas, right?

I'm not proud.

I think Weird Al Yankovic is extremely jumpable.

What? I dare you to watch It's All About the Pentiums and tell me that he isn't just a leeeeeeettle bit hott in that silver Armani suit.

People, I saw Weird Al and his band in concert. Last weekend. In Merrillville, Indiana. I know -- that right there means I should probably kill myself for the good of all humanity. But seriously, forget what you think you know about Weird Al.

Forget Like a Surgeon. Forget Fat. Forget I Lost On Jeopardy. Forget his DeBarge hair-do and porn star moustache. Just forget the 80s completely, for all our sakes.

I'm telling you, that show was smokin'!!!

As hott as Al is, John "Bermuda" Schwartz (the drummer) is definitely the best looking one in the group. (Which is kinda like being the sexiest Traveling Wilbury, or the hottest chick at the Angela Landsbury Look-Alike Contest, but whatever. It is what it is.)

And I'm not just saying that because Mr. Bermuda got us backstage passes so I could get Al's autograph. Although, admittedly, that does pretty much make me his bitch. For life.

Actually, Jim West is pretty cute, too, with that curly, curly hair.

Oh, for fuck's sake, I'll just come out with it -- I would totally hook up with anyone and everyone in Al Yankovic's band. There. I said it. Are you happy? I'm a dirty, nasty whore who gets wet for a kinky-haired polka player and his band of merry, middle-aged men.

Fine.

Just leave me alone.

I hold steadfast to my conviction that these guys TOTALLY ROCK FUCKING HARD!!! I believe that there is NOTHING that these guys can't play.

It bears repeating.

NOTHING!!!

Smells Like Nirvana. Bedrock Anthem a la Red Hot Chili Peppers. Amish Paradise a la Coolio. And my current obsession, White & Nerdy a la Chamillionaire.

But the best thing about going to a Weird Al concert?

I was the slimmest, prettiest, classiest broad there.

I'm definitely going back. And you're coming with me.

Posted at 12:36 PM | Comments (4)

July 14, 2008

Farewell, Faithful Friend

A moment of silence, please, for the end of an era. An era marked by two decades of organization, simplicity and perfection. The era of... The Chandler's Assignment Notebook.

Since high school, I have been using this compact, highly functional planner, not only to schedule my activities, but to make to-do lists and shopping lists. It is my Bible. My trusted friend. My secret lover.

"Thank you for your patronage over the last several decades. Unfortunately, Chandler's Inc. has officially been closed for business. We will not be selling the Assignment Notebook or DateBooks in 2008 or beyond. Best of luck and well wishes to all of our past customers."

My GOD, how could they do this to us???

My current Chandler's is dark green and has pirate stickers on it. Last year's was grey with Hello Kitty stickers. There will be no 2008-2009 Chandler's.

At first, I was paralyzed with devastation. How am I going to LIVE?!?!

But then I remembered Anne, who lives and dies by FranklinCovey, so I surfed on over. Because why take time out of my day to drive over to Office Max and see what they have to offer, when I can spend two hours of work time designing my dream organizer online?

Now, I'm not going to go all seven-habits-of-highly-effective-people on you. Mainly because I don't really know what I'd want to be highly effective at. I'm pretty good at the stuff I want to do, and if I can't perform a task effectively, I either make Husband do it or learn to live without it.

But I did buy a binder, some flowery planning pages, and a page-holder. I'm starting small. Like imitation-leather-on-sale small. After using a $12 Chandler's every year since I was a freshman in high school, I can't really justify spending $100 on a leather cover. But I like the one I got. It's faux-patent-leather and shiny! And I will refrain from putting any stickers on it... for as long as I can.

Crap. I'm going to have to change purses when it arrives. I can't very well carry my $70 organizer in my $7 Target purse.

It's reversible!

Posted at 06:23 PM | Comments (2)

July 09, 2008

The Spare's New Kink

People say that I most closely resemble my father. The list of traits that I have inherited from him include:

1. My hair, both in color and texture.
2. My height.
3. My shoulders.
4. My uncanny ability to sweat through any set of clothes in under 3 minutes.

However, there are also many things about me that were passed down through my mother:

1. My ample bosom (God bless ya, Mom!).
2. My excellent hostessing capabilities.
3. My tendancy to laugh hysterically when most inappropriate.
4. My weird elf-toes.

That's right. Weird elf-toes.

My Mom and I (and I think, one or both of my sisters) have big toes that kind of... curl up. The toenail points up at about a 45 degree angle. It's bizarre.

In high school, in the 80s, when canvas Keds were all the rage, I would burn through mine with unnerving ease. No matter how short I kept my big toenail clipped, I always rubbed a hole through the top of my shoes.

And socks. That's always the first part of my socks to go, way before the heels.

I'm sure that my ugly-ass toes contributed to my hatred of toes in general. (But they look good on you, Mom!) Feet are grotesque and alien, and I don't like to acknowledge that they are actually part of my body. They're like the help. I know they're there, doing their job, but I'm certainly not going to have a relationship with them.

"But, Wenchie," you ponder. "What about all the luxurious slendor that you lavish upon your feet? Certainly you wouldn't do that for appendages that you don't like!"

Interesting train of logic, but you would be wrong. Pedicures are the only thing that make my feet even remotely tolerable. I consider going out in public in sandals and unpolished toenails to be THE HEIGHT OF SAVAGERY!

Needless to say, I don't understand foot fetishes, shoe fetishes, or what the hell is so erotic about having your big toe sucked. That's just gross.

Now, I've told you all that so I can tell you this.

I was at Billi's house last week, and we were watching "WIPEOUT" after dinner -- a show that I am ashamed to laugh hysterically at, but the Suckerpunch Wall really has to be seen to be fully appreciated.

The Boy Child was on my lap, so all I could see was the back of his head and most of the t.v. Suddenly, there was a strange and unpleasant sensation on my foot. I looked down to see The Spare with his chompers set into my big toe!

The Spare was biting my big toe! BITING! The same toe that was inside of my shoes all day!

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

He kisses my sister with that mouth!

I couldn't very well snatch my foot away without taking some of his teeth with me, so I just screamed until he released my toe from his treacherous maw of his own accord.

"That's weird," mused Billi, callously unphased by my torment. "He's never bitten anyone before."

WHAT?! So the boy who had never before set tooth to flesh, saw MY TOE as so succulent as to be irresistable???

In the inargueable words of Hank Hill -- That Boy Ain't Right.

Posted at 07:00 AM | Comments (0)

July 07, 2008

Fourth of the What Now?

Despite fireworks being illegal in Illinois, there were fireworks going off everywhere Thursday and Friday night. Which is fine, I don't care. I don't have kids, I sleep with earplugs in anyway, and I was blessed with two dogs who don't freak out at loud noises.

I don't know how we got so lucky. I mean, they are completely retarded in every other way. One day in March, Daisy decided to stop going down stairs ever again. And Stella is a Labrador Retriever who won't go in the water.

See? Morons.

Sue said it's because they are "gun dogs" and bred to be unafraid of hunting rifles or any other loud noises. But Labs are also bred to be smart,... so you see why I'm dubious about the whole breeding theory.

Yup, 4th of July, and my idiot dogs were sound asleep. People could break into my house, guns blazing, and the dogs would sleep right through it. All the neighborhood dogs were freaking out, but my dogs were sawing logs.

Now you can bet your ass, if I slowly peeled a banana in the other room, they'd be magically transported to the floor at my feet, instantly alert. I'm serious, I've seen it.

Also? They can hear the other one being petted in another room. The second my hand hits fur, whoever isn't being stroked has to come barrelling over and take out my knees.

And I swear, any other day, the sound of all the other dogs in the neighborhood barking their fool heads off would have the fur up on both Daisy and Stella's backs. But when barking is accompanied by fire and explosions? Nuthin'.

I'm not complaining, mind you. These two are annoying enough without the added fireworks-induced panic. I just think it's completely incongruent.

And therefore, retarded. Sooo... not incongruent. I guess.

Did I have a point?

Posted at 06:16 PM | Comments (0)

July 04, 2008

God Bless Wisconsin

"Keep pressure on it! Stop looking at it! Keep the napkin on it!"

It was like driving a five-year old to the clinic.

Except... wait.

"Where's the clinic?" I asked Husband.

PJ was driving because it was her car. I was in the front because I get car-sick. Husband was in the back because he had a gun-related injury.

"You don't know where the clinic is???" PJ asked incredulously.

"Well, in the 38 and a half years that I have been coming up here, I've never had to GO to the clinic... until I met Husband."

"Really?" said Husband. "I think it's in the same building as the library. You know, by the Community Center."

"Oh, that's right! PJ, take a left here."

So PJ dropped Husband and I off at the Clinic/Library, and then went to pick up our steaks for dinner. Husband had ordered six, inch-thick ribeyes from the local rancher/slaughterer/butcher. (I know -- could Husband get any more manly? It's almost like we had never planned a vacation around an Amish Quilt Show!)

We went inside and immediately started bickering.

"Hi, my husband needs stitches."

"No, I don't. It stopped bleeding. See?"

"Don't drip on the carpet. It looks new."

"I'm fine."

"Why don't you let the doctor be the judge of that?"

"I don't even know why we're here."

"Would you keep the napkin on it!"

Tactfully, the doctor stepped in with, "Why don't you let me take a look at it. I'll be able to tell right away if you'll need stitches or not." She lifted the napkin. "You can check in with Donna and then come right to room number one."

I tried to look as smug as humanly possible while I filled out the forms for him. Meanwhile, Donna had a question of her own.

"So how did you injure your thumb?"

Husband and I looked at each other.

Being from Illinois -- and, more specifically, the Chicago area, i.e. The Kingdom of Daley -- Husband and I have been trained to believe that guns posess a life of their own, often jumping out of closets and from behind bushes randomly killing people, and therefore should only be owned by crazy people and criminals. We knew we were going to jail for touching one.

"Well," I began. "We were at the shooting range..."

The nurse smiled and nodded knowingly, "Ah. I see. You can go on back, Mr. Husband. The doctor is waiting for you."

And that was it.

No sirens. No police reports. No interrogation. No body cavity searches.

In Wisconsin, as long as you don't "accidentally" shoot your no-good brother-in-law, gun-related injuries don't even warrant a raised eyebrow or sideways glance.

I love those darn cheddarheads.

So here's Husband's badge of brazen machismo.

The silver lining to this whole ordeal is that, if Husband hadn't needed emergency care, I might have gotten an even worse sunburn that afternoon.

My badge of brazen idiocy.

Posted at 10:58 AM | Comments (1)