August 29, 2008
Dad's Pole
I haven't blogged about my Dad much, except in passing. Mainly because he rarely says anything funny. Well, it's funny to him, but... you know. He's Norwegian, plus he's been gradually going deaf for the past twenty years, so he doesn't say much at all, giving me very little material to work with.
I'm having a garage sale next weekend, and I have TONS of clothes to sell. Actually, they're Jerry's mom's clothes, but I have to find some way to display them. I figured -- two ladders, a pole. Simple.
Now where to find a pole? A standard broom just won't be long enough. I need, like, a ten foot pole. My Dad has every other unlikely item in the world stored in that house, much to my Mom's chagrin, so I emailed him.
(I'm sure it seems impersonal to email one's father, but really, why call a person who can't hear? It's like a Helen Keller joke. Like the talking Grandpa Simpson card that Billi got Dad for his birthday. There's Dad, holding it up to his ear, straining to make out what Grandpa is saying. So ironic. So hilarious on so many levels. That Billi is one sick puppy.)
Dad, Do you have a long pole, such as one might put between two ladders to hang clothes on? Wenchie
I got an email back.
Wenchie, Yes. It's a sixteen foot pole. Daddy
WHAT?! A sixteen foot pole? Who the hell has a pole that long just lying around?! And more than that -- where the hell is he storing the thing?! He's never had a garage sale, so what does he use it for???
So many questions. That will forever go unanswered. Because he can't hear them.
COOL! I'll come get it Saturday a.m.
Wait a minute. How am I going to transport a sixteen foot pole? My entire car isn't sixteen feet long. Thank God they only live six blocks away. I'll be driving with my flashers on, I'm sure.
And this pole is, by far, the most normal weird item my Dad has. When they moved, we had to do several carloads under cover of darkness because we moved:
1. an entire suit of armor
2. a rifle rack and rifles
3. a collection of various spears
4. same, of swords
5. a giant ax, such as one would use at a beheadding.
6. two cannons
Why two cannons, you ask? BECAUSE CLEARLY ONE ISN'T ENOUGH!!! DUH!!!
He didn't want the new neighbors thinking they were weird. Newflash, Dad. No one thinks that Mom is weird...
Posted at 08:13 AM | Comments (4)August 27, 2008
Parts 'n' Hooters
Ah, my minions. Much has happened in the 843 days since my last post. We're almost done building the mission church, and BoBo's cubs are all healthy and growing fast.
Enh, who cares about that shit. America's Next Top Model Season 11 starts next week Wednesday! Here's a fun game to play:
Remember that old Sesame Street song? "One of these things is not like the others; One of these things just doesn't belong!" Look through the photos of the new meat and guess which one of them used to have meat!
That's right, models! Now Tyra isn't the only she-male on the show! There's a transsexual in the bunch!
Not sure of the difference between a transvestite and a transsexual? Well, a transvestite is a person who dresses up as the opposite sex, but keeps all their parts and may or may not be gay. A transsexual is someone who gets their original parts surgically replaced with the opposite parts. And I'm not talking about McNuggets here, folks!
(Or wait. Am I...?)
Who said my blog is for entertainment purposes only? We learned something today, boys and girls!
Anyhoo, this means I'm going to have to renew my commitment to blogging recaps of the ANTM episodes. That's gonna be hard, what with me working an excruciating 24 hours a week now!
And speaking of work, there's been more fall-out from The Hooters Incident, as it has come to be known. I brought baked goods to work today, of which Official Title partook.
And then. After eating the fruit of my labor. He dared to ask Rose, "Did Wenchie really work at Hooters?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the bitch was laughing so hard, she didn't even correct him!
OH!!! MY!!! GOD!!!
I can see that this is going to take more than cookies to correct. I may have to bake a big cake. And then jump out of it.
Posted at 07:23 PM | Comments (4)August 22, 2008
The Pretty, Pretty Timesuck of Despair
There were only three others besides me at work today. And two of them left at lunch. Yup, pretty quiet. Which can lead to the dreaded Not Much To Do Syndrome. You know how it is.
I thought to myself, Wenchie, you look kickass today. Unfortunately, there aren't many people here to revel in it, so what are you going to do with your time? Your nails are perfect. Your birthday wish list is updated. What to do...? I know! Join Facebook!
Sue and Heather are already on it, so seriously, what the hell was keeping me??? Welcome to the 2000s, Wenchie!
I started as soon as I got my coffee. Two hours and 45 minutes later, I had eleven friends. And not the lame, friend-of-a-friend type friends. REAL friends! That I actually know!
Or knew in high school and haven't seen in nearly twenty years, but who's counting?
I'm up to sixteen friends now, as Younger Step Daughter was kind enough to Friend me. I know how to chat. I've SuperPoked someone. And I added a birthday calendar! Go me!
Yes, it's true, I am Facebook's bitch. I am a Tool of the Book that is Face. I'm a whoring whore who whores, and Facebook is my pimp.
Which would probably bother me, if I weren't so used to it. Starbucks, Coach, Sephora -- I am butt monkey to them all. I don't even complain anymore when they tell me to grab my ankles. I just keep downloading photos on my precious, shiny Facebook.
Those of you who know me by name -- look me up and Friend me!
Those of you who don't know me by name -- you're better off. Trust me, you don't need me around complicating your life and wasting your time.
Just ask Husband.
Posted at 09:37 PM | Comments (3)August 18, 2008
Office Space, Wenchie Style
Some days, my life resembles a sitcom. One of those sitcoms where I'd the dufus next door neighbor. I'm not the star, but I do provide the ocassional comic relief.
Friday was such a day.
I work on the top floor of my organization's building. It's the floor where all the bigwigs have their posh offices with the fabulous views. I am, indeed, awash with bigwigs.
This week has been very different in that The Biggest Wig Of Them All has been here all week. Usually, he's off touring hospitals in Africa or meeting with Bush's cabinet or speaking to an assembly of other bigwigs. Seriously, he's like Jeebus. I've been scared all week that some asshole was going to fly a plane into the building. That's how important he is.
Although everyone on this floor calls him by his first name, my peon brain has elevated him to TOTAL ROCKSTAR STATUS, and I call him by his official title. He's a very kind, personable man, but since I'm a temp, and prior to this week, he's only been here a total of 7 days in the past 3 months, we've never spoken.
Until Friday. THREE TIMES Friday, we spoke.
The last three days of last week, my department hosted a big event for 70 important people. All their meetings were on our floor, and we provided them with breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. This means that the other admins (administrative assistants) and I got to run around like bus boys. I hated it, but I got to eat what the important people ate, so it's a decent trade-off.
Friday morning, the caterer didn't bring enough little individual cereals. You know, the ones that come in the little bowls? Mind you, this was Chris' fault, not the caterer's. He panicked when he saw 45 bowls of cereal for 70 people and sent me to the Dominick's for more.
So at 7:15 in the morning, having been at work a full 15 minutes, I grabbed his money, my keys and my sunglasses, and headed back out to the parking garage.
Outside the front entrance of the building, Official Title was being dropped off by his wife. Stupidly, I decided to initiate contact, so I said, "Good morning, Official Title!"
To which he replied, "You put in a full day's work already?"
Deer in the headlights.
"Uh... I have to get cereal."
Really? "I have to get cereal"? That's the best I could come up with? Real clever, Wenchie. What a sharpie.
Later that morning, it was plastic cutlery that were were running low on. Chris sent me to get forks and knives from the filing cabinet in our department. (We have to hide supplies from the other departments, otherwise, they disappear. I have six boxes of granola bars, two rolls of Saran Wrap and some big Ziploc bags in my cube.)
I grabbed the box of 500 knives and put it on my little handcart. Then I grabbed the box of 500 forks.
Only it was a box of 499 forks because some yabbo had already opened it.
You guessed it. All 499 forks spilled onto my feet and the surrounding rug. Official Title CAME OUT OF HIS OFFICE to see what the racket was, only to see the idiot temp standing in a sea of plastic forks.
He goes, "What happened?"
Deer in the headlights.
"Uh... nothing."
Seriously? I'm like a genius with the snappy answers. I should go on tour.
As I picked up the forks, I thought to myself, I'm going to have to bake cookies for Monday so he'll think of me as Baker Girl and not Fork-Dropping Cereal Girl. I must redeem myself!
Later that afternoon, Mark had a birthday. Well, Mark had a birthday earlier that week. We had a birthday celebration for him Friday afternoon. There were about half a dozen of us standing around the file cabinets, eating cake. All of them are waaaaaaaaaaaaay more important than me.
One of them was Official Title's Executive Secretary. She's this 60-year old black woman named Rose. She has dreadlocks. And last week, she, too, talked to me about her hair!
Anyhoo, have I mentioned that Official Title is also a man of the cloth? Because he is. See? Just like Jeebus.
So we were standing around, eating cake, shooting the breeze, talking about what we used to hate to eat that our parents tried to make us eat and we tried to devise original and sneaky way to dispose of. Things were going well, I was engaging and witty without dominating the conversation. I felt that Official Title was starting to warm to me and see me as a person instead of just That Idiot Temp.
And then? Rose threw me under the bus.
Appropos of NOTHING -- we were talking about lutefisk -- Rose was like "Wenchie said the funniest thing at lunch today!"
Oh. Shit.
I covered my face with my hands and laid my head on the counter, trying not to pass out.
I instantly knew what was coming. I'd been lunching with three very highly-ranked, older women in the organization, whom I worship and adore and want to be like when I grow up, and I'd gotten a little too giddy and comfortable with my company.
Rose continued her story, "TJ asked me where I worked before I came here. And before I could even open my mouth, Wenchie said, Hooters!"
Well, the reaction at the birthday celebration was the same as the reaction at lunch. People laughed so hard they couldn't stand up, let alone speak.
I looked up to tell Rose that I hate her, and The Rev. Official Title pointed and me and said, "Lookit how red she is!" Before continuing to laugh his ass off.
I knew that, one day, my lack of a brain-to-mouth filter would get me into trouble. But I never thought that I'd actually have to leave the country.
Heather, you might want to start a rough draft of my eulogy blog.
Posted at 08:54 AM | Comments (1)August 14, 2008
The Cow and the Crown
I have a friend named Hercules who lives in Greenville, IL. I believe it was originally named Hicksville, IL, but they changed it last week.
He emailed me a few days ago and included this observation, which I love (any typos are his own):
I don't get the whole Americas Top Model thing, so I always enjoy your work between seasons. Along those lines, last week was the county fair. The 17-year old that won the beauty pagent sold her prize winning 4-H steer 45 minutes before the queen contest. It was over 90 degrees in high humidity, I was pretty impressed that she could show an 1,100 pound bovine and then go off and win a queen contest. Only in rural America do we judge our livestock and women for entertainment.
Oh. My. God. Miss 4-H is my new hero.
Okay, first, her cow won a prize. Now, I have no idea what criteria they use to judge cows. I only have one: tastiness. So not only did she do all sorts of farming-type things involved in raising a barnyard animal, but she refrained from eating it. And that, in itself, is amazing.
So then, she sold her prize-winning cow. And I'm assuming it was an auction because what the hell else do you do for fun in Greenville, IL? Do you think she showed the cow like the chicks at the Auto Show show cars? I'm picturing some broad in a backless evening gown lying over the back of the cow in a provocative manner.
Damn, now I'm hungry and horny.
And then?
Bitch got off the cow to go put on a tiara and a sash! Day-um! She's like Wonder Woman! I'll bet the girls she beat didn't even smell like cow! Whoooo-wee, she's a humdinger! I mean, how hott do you have to be to win a beauty contest with manure on your shoes?
God, I love her. It'd almost be worth going to Greenville to meet her.
Ooh, I wonder if she got her likeness carved in butter?
Post-Posting Addition
Okay, after Hercules read my blog, he sent me this:
You actually pretty much hit the nail on the head. I have heard about 4-H auctions for years, but only attended the one last week, because I was filling in for the farm reporter on the local radio station.
"FILLING IN FOR THE FARM REPORTER!"
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Posted at 03:27 PM | Comments (3)August 11, 2008
Toe vs. Ass: The Age-Old Debate
To be a diva, one must know how to make a fabulous entrance. I, however, am a diva of a different sort. I enjoy a show-stopping exit. In short, I know how to clear a room, and I don't even need to use flatulance.
Some of my family were here Saturday night, saying their final farewells to my Norwegian cousins, who had been staying in the Chicago area for three weeks. They returned to Oslo yesterday evening. And you know, I'm quite disappointed that they didn't inspire any good blogs, but they're so cool, I just can't find anything to mock them about.
Anyhoo, we were sitting in the kitchen -- me, Husband, Mom, Dad, Spikette, Nephew, Ivar, Per and Mai. Stella and Daisy were underfoot, also, because Stella is madly in love with Per, and Daisy was hoping there'd be food.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Stella was licking my Dad's toes. He was wearing sandals. He was also wearing a short-sleeved, button-up shirt over his wife-beater. This proves that my cousins rate WAAAAAAAAAY higher than the rest of us because Dad's usual uniform is as follows: wife-beater, armpit hair, Levi's that somehow stay up desite his complete lack of buttocks, 25-year old loafers that are largely held together with duct tape.
When my Dad dresses up for holidays, he wears a polo shirt without a stain on it. When he dies, we're going to have to go shopping because nothing he currently owns is fit to wear in a coffin. My mother often complains because Dad doesn't like to go out and do things, but I can understand his reluctance. It hurts getting pelted with all that change.
So where were we? Ah, yes -- Stella was licking my Dad's toes. Have you ever seen 74-year old toenails? They're not pretty. Yellow, thick, ridged, UCK. And my sweet, adorable, angel-puppy was licking them!!! With enthusiasm!!!
You now know the meaning of the word: ABOMINATION.
I started freaking out, "Oh my God, Stella, what are you doing?! Don't lick Grandpa's toes! Lookit them! They can't possibly taste good! They're old-man-toes, for God's sake! What are you thinking?!"
Ever the annoyingly-calm foil to my great diva dramatics, Husband tried to give me some perspective, "Honey, she licks her butt."
I pointed to the black dog and loudly said, "I would rather lick Stella's butt," I pointed to Dad's feet, "Than that man's toes!"
The party broke-up immediately upon my announcement.
Can't think why.
Posted at 08:16 AM | Comments (1)August 08, 2008
Car Trouble
Last night, Husband and I had Sue, Heather, Spikette and Mr. Spikette over for dinner. (I really need a name for Mr. Spikette. He deserves better.) Sue cooked, and Heather brought salad and dressing. Homemade dressing and bagged salad, that is.
As you may recall, Heather lives in the city and doesn't have a car. The woman has three TiVos and seventy-four pairs of black shoes, but no car. Not that I'm judging! Oh, who am I kidding -- I'm totally judging! She's a FREAK!
So Heather took the train and walked across the street to get bagged salad at Dominick's, where I was to pick her up. It's literally five minutes from my house, so it's no big deal.
UNLESS, of course, you are having dinner with Husband, Mr. and Mrs. Spikette and Sue. Then it's a Big Fucking Cirque Du Soliel Grand Finale! Don't try to pick up Heather from the Dominick's without a net, people! I'm a trained professional!
Let me explain. And mind you, the following conversations took about 30 seconds. However, I will be obsessing about them for DAYS.
Heather texted me from the Dominick's that it was time for me to come get her because she had knocked down an elderly woman during the course of her Salad Emergency, and management wasn't buying her story. So I grabbed my keys, entered the garage and hit the garage door opener.
Behind my car were parked not one but TWO cars.
PW: You guys both drove here?
Mr. S: I have to go to rehersal right after dinner.
PW: You live two minutes away! You couldn't drive them home?!
Mr. S: Shut up.
PW: You are so on Al Gore's shit list. [to Husband] Honey, gimme your keys.
H: Why?
Was he asleep during the preceeding events? Funny, he looked conscious...
PW: BecauseIneedtopickupHeatherandSpikettesareparkedbehindme!
H: Both of them?
Oh. My. GOD.
PW: Yes. Where are your keys?
H: [HUGE eye roll and sigh] I have to clean off the seat first.
PW: I can do it.
H: Noooooooo, I'll do iiiiiiiiiiiiit. [slumps toward the door, dragging his feet, having suddenly turned into a thirteen-year old girl]
PW: Oh, for God's sake!
What could that man possibly have in his front seat that I couldn't clean it off myself? I mean, I know most people have, like, a couple CDs and maybe some directions scribbled on a Post-It. Did he think me incapable of tossing that crap into the back seat? Or did he have something...
Was there poo? Did he have something disgusting to clean? Was it going to be a long, involved process that he was hoping to put off for a few months?
Or perhaps there was something there that I was physically unable to lift, like a sofa bed? Or a china cabinet? Or a corpse?
PW: Heather's salad is going to wilt before I get to Dominick's! She can sit in the back seat!
H: I'd have to clean that out, too.
PW: Oh, for fuck's sake! Forget it! [to Spikette] Gimme your keys.
Sp: Um... whyyyyyyyyyy...?
At this point, I literally exploded into a thousand little, tiny shards of frustration and rage, causing a rift in the time-space continuum, which then allowed Captain Picard to reunite the particles of my body and make me whole again.
Sue: Just take my car! I think I have enough gas...
No sarcastic comment for Sue, as I often keep driving for days after my gas light goes on.
PW: Spikette, just gimme your keys.
Sp: I'll drive.
PW: No! We won't eat until midnight if you drive!
Sp: ... [clearly uneasy]
PW: I'm not going to crash your car. I'm a better driver than you!
For the love of all that is holy, it's not like she drives a Beemer or a vintage Mustang or something! It's a fucking Saturn station wagon!
PW: GIVE ME THE KEYS!!!!!!!!!
Sp: Fine.
And I was finally, blissfully out the door and off to get Heather. I didn't even move Spikette's seat or adjust any mirrors, lest she burst a blood vessel in her eye or something.
Heather hadn't even gotten her seatbelt buckled before I started in on The Impossible Odds I Had To Circumvent In Order To Obtain A Drivable Vehicle Jeebus H. Pole-Vaulting Christ! At the end of the story, I stopped to catch my breath.
H: Are you done?
PW: NO!
H: There's more to the story?
PW: No, I'm just going to repeat everything over and over until we get there! And then you can't mention it to anyone.
H: Because you're going to blog it.
PW: Of course.
By the time we pulled in my driveway, we were laughing that ugly-laugh where you're practically crying. I opened my front door, and Heather goes, "Aaaaaaaaand, scene."
Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (1)August 06, 2008
The Black Hair Taboo
So there I was, standing in TJ's office at the end of a Friday afternoon, not expecting to have a completely surreal experience. We were discussing our plans for the weekend, when TJ led me down a path of interracial taboo.
TJ is black. And yes, I'm going to say black instead of "African-American" because TJ is not from Africa. She's from Tennessee. I, in case you're new, am white. My family is from northern Europe, but I am from Illinois.
Having been born and raised in my particular suburb, I didn't know a lot of black people growing up. There were two mixed-race kids one block over, but they were adopted by a white couple, and they weren't in my grade. The first black person I ever interacted with was my junior high music teacher, Miss Street. And I worshipped her.
After junior high, it wasn't until my first job at Pizza Hut that I met more black people. In fact, I worked with TWO of them. From the city. Oh, they thought I was a trip. I was their little mascot, and they began my training in the "food service industry," a career that led to an interesting education, indeed.
Years later, when I was a secretary, I worked with another black woman. And her hair fascinated me. One month, she'd have a full-on Beyonce weave. The next, a complicated pattern of braids that turned her scalp into a work of art. I wanted so very badly to have a girly conversation with her about her hair, but I was warned -- "Black people hate it when white people ask about their hair."
Damn. Foiled.
Since then, black people -- and indeed, people of many hues -- have become a regular part of my world. And I like it. I don't feel like a naive, over-priviledged, suburban brat anymore. And I've had some really great conversations about the Big, Bad Topic of RACE.
But I've never broken The Hair Rule. I will go so far as to compliment a particularly fabulous hairstyle, but even then, I imagine I can feel the wearer bristle, so I quickly change the subject.
Never in my wildest dreams did I dare think that a black woman -- freely and of her own volition -- would TELL ME all about her HAIR!!! Holy shit! Was she trying to get me into trouble?! What if the other black people found out?! They'd take away her Black Card!
There she was, talking about her plans to take all her braids out, and she'd probably pay someone to do it this time, even 'though she's cheap, because she always ends up crying.
And there I was, staring like a deer in headlights. Shit, shit, shit! What do I do? Does she... did she forget that I'm white? Well, I am a pretty good dancer...
She's going to get it rebraided one more time, to let it grow out another inch. Some of it is her real hair, and some of it is synthetic. And then she's just going to ditch the braids and have her natural hair, which is the texture of cotton.
I SWEAR TO GOD! SHE SAID ALL THIS TO ME! ALL THIS AND MORE!!!
I'm pretty sure this makes me an honorary black person. What do you think? You think they'll give me a Black Card?
Posted at 09:42 AM | Comments (3)August 04, 2008
Death and Doom
PW: I can't believe you dogs aren't bald by now. Lookit all this damn hair! [gets out the vacuum cleaner]
Stella: Wait a minute. I know that noise... [pokes her head into the living room] Oh no! It's the Scary Monster of Death and Doom!
Daisy: Death and Doom? Is it really necessary to list both? Wouldn't one suffice?
Stella: There aren't enough words to describe the horror! [runs around the house] Where to hide... where to hide...
Daisy: Come get me if the Scary Monster of Death and Doom goes near the treat jar. Maybe he'll get one down for me.
Stella: How can you be so calm?!
PW: [turns on the vacuum]
Stella: Sweet Jesus, it's coming for me! [runs into the dining room]
Daisy: Nice hiding place. The Scary Monster of Death and Doom will never think to look in there.
Stella: You're not helping!
PW: I'll say. Daisy, move your fat ass.
Daisy: Why?
PW: Because I need to vacuum under it. [bumps her repeatedly with the vacuum]
Stella: Oh no! It's eating Daisy! Oh, the caninity!
Daisy: [gets up] Fine.
PW: I swear, I should just shave the two of you.
Daisy: Can I lay back down now?
PW: Yes, your highness.
Stella: Uh oh. I think I peed a little.
Daisy: Mom is gonna kill you.
Stella: It's not my fault! [resumes running around the house] The Scary Monster of Death and Doom was about to anihilate you!
Daisy: Yeah, thanks for your help with that. I can see I'll be on my own should a burgler ever break in.
PW: [turns off vacuum] What the hell is that?
Stella: Oh, thank God she's done!
Daisy: You're so in trouble.
Stella: I stand by my original plea of innocence. Now let's never speak of this again.
Posted at 08:34 PM | Comments (4)August 03, 2008
Wenchie Is Blogging On a Sunday?
Weird, I know. I'm so disappointed in myself for neglecting my blogging duties. I'm going without nail polish for a week as punishment.
I had many great blogs in my brain but no time to get them into MoveableType, so let's just recap the week, shall we?
Monday after work, I drove from O'Hare to Elburn, Illinois, to go to a friend's brother's memorial visitation. I didn't even know Elburn existed until I read the obit and Googled the place. But they have their own website! Who knew!
After getting off the expressway, Google said that I had seventeen miles before reaching the funeral home. Since I had left right from work, I was like, Oh, good, I'll stop somewhere and grab something to eat.
People. There is seventeen miles of NOTHING between the expressway and Elburn. I saw a sign for "Coon Creek Country Days," but that's not until mid-August. No food on a stick for me. Luckily, there was a huge platter of brownies and cookies in the funeral home basement, and my friend let me partake.
On Tuesday, I went to Gurnee Mills with Billi and our Norwegian cousins, who are in the country for a few weeks. They are the perfect house guests, and here's why:
1. They bring me European candies, chocolate and marzipan.
2. They clean up after themselves.
3. They rent their own car and are self-sufficient.
4. They make coffee as soon as they get up every morning.
5. They love to shop!
As much as we crab about the high price of everything here, apparently, it's still way cheaper than Norway. So when they're here, they buy a new suitcase and hit all the outlet malls. It's so awesome! They also like sight-seeing and going to see live music and stuff, but it's mainly about the shopping. Wheeeeeeee!
I had another medical facial on Wednesday evening, my third. And my skin must be getting better because it was much less painful this time around. The only bad thing was the high-school-esque zit by my left eyebrow.
But the redness is definitely fading from my face! I'm wearing much less make-up now! Oh, don't get me wrong -- I'm still a total whore for eye make-up. I just don't have to wear as much foundation and concealer anymore. Tra la! Tra la!
Thursday, I was a hippie for a day. After putting out a box of clothes for Am Vets, I met Garrance and Sue at Starbucks. She had just been to see Dr. Hottie, I had an appointment in 45 minutes. Oh, how we loooooooooove to tag-team that poor man.
I used my Starbucks card to purchase an iced mocha. Yup, I'm Starbucks' bitch now. I'm a total fucking tool. I'm not proud, but I'm earning rewards points. Totally worth selling my soul for rewards points.
Sue and I had plans to go to a Concert In The Park on Friday night. The title of the concert was "Big Band," so we were thinking Brian Setzer Orchestra or some such frivolity. But apparently, Big Band means something different to the good people of Concert In The Park.
It was jazz, people. There were improvizational trumpet solos. ACK! In short, it was a nightmare. I was surrounded by Sue, Cyndi and half a dozen gay men, and it still wasn't fun. So we left. So much for our attempt to do something grown-up and cultural! We'll know better next time.
Yesterday, Barbie Joe and I went to Gigi's and looked at vintage Barbie crap for three hours, which really makes a person work up an appetite. So we went to Gale St. Inn and each indulged in a variation of BBQ pork. Joe had a full slab of the ribs, I had a pulled pork sandwich. We barely had to chew, it was so tender. Which was good because, after sifting through an entire bin of Barbie shoes and hats, I was too exhausted to chew.
I'm going to the folks' house this afternoon for Dad's birthday party. I got him two CDs -- Charro and bagpipe music. What? It's his fault for being so damn impossible to shop for! One year, I got him a bag made out of a bull scrotum.
Well, at least I'm bringing booze and two cakes -- Buttery White Cake with Fluffy Chocolate Frosting and a Chocolate Mint Angel Food Cake. He'll be drunk and hopped up on sugar when he opens his gift, which should lessen the blow.
I have so many blogs in my head! I'm making it a goal to get at least two of them typed up this week. Don't desert me! My flagrant neglect doesn't mean I don't love you!
Posted at 12:47 PM | Comments (0)