February 27, 2009
Dr. Hottie Should Go On Tour
Wenchie's List of Non-Sports-Related Injuries for Which She Has Seen Dr. Hottie
1. Pain in shin acquired while crossing the street, walking at approximately have-to-pick-up-the-phone-before-it-goes-to-voicemail speed for three seconds.
2. Tennis elbow from using the computer mouse too vigorously while trying to keep current on all the new eyeshadow shades on Sephora.com.
3. Sprained ankle from falling on the ice while taking out the garbage. Barely even made it off the back porch.
4. Injured shoulder from falling partway down some stairs, even though one's shoulder is generally the body part almost farthest from the stairs, when one is walking normally.
And the latest and greatest...
5. Pinched nerve in shoulder from hunching over my computer keyboard sixteen hours a day and then sleeping in a fetal position for the remaining eight.
If there's a way to hurt myself while remaining absolutely motionless, I've done it, or will do it in the very near future. I'm the most injured bookworm I know. Gerald Ford is like, "Damn, that girl is clumsy!"
So I walk into Dr. Hottie's office, and he always has to wait a minute before noticing me. He likes to pretend that he hasn't been looking forward to my visit all day. It's cute.
So the assitants say Hi, and he looks up from a folder like, "Oh, hi!"
And then he asks, "Did everyone compliment you on your hooter today?"
No, that's not a typo. One hooter. As in, I was wearing an owl pendant on my necklace. Which it took me about half a second to remember before I started laughing hysterically.
The older assistant blushed and was all, "What? What did you say to her? That's not appropriate!" And the younger one just kept looking sideways at us like she had no idea how to react.
I said, "You just say stuff like that because you know I'll put you in my blog."
And he was right. So as long as I'm talking about him, I accidentally left my card i.d. badge in his office. Upon further reflection, it was probably pretty Freudian of me. I went yesterday morning before work to pick it up.
He goes, "I was doing to drop it by your house, but I ran out of time."
Dr. Hottie knows where I live?!?! Almost dropping my i.d. at my house is the grown-up-and-married equivalent of almost riding his bike past my house, doncha think? Pretty soon, he'll be almost calling me and hanging up when I answer!
Posted at 07:46 AM | Comments (2)February 25, 2009
I Am a Racist Bastard Who Should Be Dragged from My Cubicle and Beaten Publicly
On the way home in the car the other day, I realized, during a commercial on the radio...
"Holy fucking shit. I just said, to an African American woman, Is that a black thing?"
Immediately upon reaching home, I got on I.M. and told Heather the sin I had committed.
Once she stopped laughing at me, I explained the circumstances so I could get her ruling -- Total Asshole or just Ignorant Dipshit?
I was admiring the headband that Rose, an African American co-worker, was wearing. She has dreadlocks and was keeping them off her face with a very wide, almost net-like headband. I thought it was cool and was wondering if it might work on my hair because I love headbands, but they always snap off my giant melon and/or give me a headache.
So I asked Rose about it. She told me where she got it and how much she paid, and that's when I said...
Is that a black thing, or can a white person wear it?
Now, my concern is this: I really hate white college kids who dread their hair and wear rasta colors and listen to Bob Marley and think they know something about the plight of the Haitians. They don't. They are total poser douchebags.
See, Rose wears lots of African fashions, and I didn't know if the headband was an extension of that. If so, I don't want to wear something similar and look like a total poser douchebag.
Get it? I wasn't trying to be an insensitive dicksmack! I just... completely came off that way.
And I didn't even apologize or explain my reasoning or anything because I didn't even realize what I'd done until I was driving home!
AAAAAAAAAACK!
So Heather asked how Rose responded. And I told her that she just kept laughing and talking because I was explaining my fear of asking African American people about their hair, which she thought was hilarious. And considering how much time I've spent on this blog positively obsessing about African American hair... or just African hair, because I'm sure people in Africa have the same hair, but they're not American...
Good God, being politically correct is exhausting and confusing.
Anyhoo, my point is -- I have clearly missed my calling to be a world-famous Norwegian hairdresser of African hair.
And my other point, the point I was getting to when I started this blog fourteen unrelated ramblings ago, is -- can I still be considered a racist if my racism is completely accidental? And the subject of my racism didn't even seem to notice?
I just opened up a whole can or worms right there, didn't I? Discuss it in your small groups, and then we'll talk about our findings with the whole group. You have ten minutes.
(P.S. Tomorrow I will try to work into conversation, "Several of my closest friends are black!")
Posted at 11:38 AM | Comments (2)February 23, 2009
Wenchie's Stimulus Plan
Once upon a time, I was married to an alcoholic. He was my best friend and understood me in ways that most other people never do.
He understood that "Xena" was not about hot women in studded, leather mini-skirts -- it was about a code of honor. He understood why I have a deep, instinctive mistrust of cats. He understood my need to always rock the boat because it's a necessary evil, and if I'm going to have to be the black sheep, so be it.
But that fucker stole several hundred dollars from us each week to buy booze for himself and his toadies, and by the time I left him, I was thousands of dollars in debt. And I will never forgive him for the choices I was forced to make.
Electric bill or groceries? Gas for the car or that money we owe my cousin for dinner? Phone bill or dog food? Well, that last one wasn't too hard. ALWAYS pay the phone bill so that no one knows you're broke. The dogs could eat crackers and dog treats for a couple days.
Ah, there's nothing like the shame of being married to an idiot who is ruining your life. I hated to cop to My Biggest Fuck-Up Ever In A Long Line Of Fuck-Ups, but I had to cop to it in order to explain to people why I was divorcing the man that my friends and family liked so much.
He was fooling you, people! And, well, so was I. Of course, now I'm happy to tell anyone who will listen, like the entire internet, what a piece of dead-weight feces he was.
And we're nearing my point, which is Wenchie's Stimulus Plan, devised because I know what it's like to be flat broke. But before you assume that I'm going to regurgitate what I've heard or read somewhere else, here me out -- my idea is pretty new and radical.
When I was going through my divorce and living in Billi's basement and mooching rides off her because my car was reposessed, a person close to my family sent me a check for $500. Just out of the blue. And with it was a note that said they know how expensive divorce is, and they were giving me a gift -- not a loan -- because they could. And because I needed it.
That check became the deposit on an apartment for me. And I kinda feel bad mentioning it without mentioning all the other amazing things that people did for me during that time (you know who you are!). But I guess it struck me because of a.) the size, and b.) it came from such an unexpected source.
That single act has really shaped my thoughts about money. Like, Person A has money, Person B doesn't. Why can't Person A just give Person B some money?
Now, I'm not talking about propping up deadbeats or enabling addicts. But we all know some person or family whose life has taken a sudden and undeserved crash. We all know someone worse off than us, through no fault of their own. And if you have a job and they don't, a hundred bucks is going to mean a helluva lot more to them than it does to you.
So here's my Stimulus Plan. Decide what you can afford to part with, and go buy someone some diapers for their kid, or a $20 Target gift card, or fifty bucks cash stuck inside a St. Patrick's Day card. It's only money, people.
And yeah, the person receiving it will feel weird about it. So tuck it inside their wallet when they're not looking. But make sure they know that it's a gift, and that you don't care what they do with it.
(And a word of advice if you're the recipient: Know that what your friend is purchasing is their own peace of mind. They hate seeing you worry and suffer, so do your friend a favor and just accept it.)
And if you're still not convinced, remember that what goes around, comes around. The person you help out today will help you out in some completely unexpected way five years from now. Consider it an investment in your own well-being.
We're all in this life together. Let's be Pure Awesome to each other.
Posted at 07:50 AM | Comments (3)February 19, 2009
I May Even Love My Phone More Than My Coach Purse
Hold on to your pants, ladies and gentlemen! I'm about to haul you into the twenty-first century at warp speed!
All the photos that you will see here today...
WERE TAKEN WITH MY PHONE!!!
I know, right? It's incredible!!!
Wait. What? Okay, yes, fine, shit on my animal crackers. It's been done before. I know. But it hasn't been done by me, and therefore, it hasn't been done to this level of atristry. So just shut up and humor me.
This is my meal at Smoque. Notice the way the sunlight glints off the tender chunks of meat.
The cole slaw is a little washed out, but in my defense, the sun was really bright. Yes, I felt like a person who had only recently left the sanctuary of her cave, taking a photo of my food. But such is my dedication to photo journalism!
This is my new work cubicle!
Yes, it looks like every other damn cubicle on the planet, but it's the first cubicle that I've been able to do with as I please in over two years, so it's exciting to me. You know how I do so love my decor! Can't wait until Christmas!!!
Okay, these are the weiners that Heather wrapped for my most recent Movie Night. Yes, when Heather arrives early and makes me leave the warmth of my home to pick up her happy ass at the L station, I put her to work.
Now, I know that there's nothing particularly interesting about Heather's weiners, but I took that photo so that I could show it to you in contrast to this one...
These are Heather's idea of crescent rolls. Apparently, I need to get Heather one of those Fischer Price balls with the differently shaped holes and the corresponding blocks because she has forgotten what a crescent looks like.
So, so very sad. But I hear she makes a mean salad dressing!
And in the time-honored tradition of the best being saved for last, I offer you Pig and Elk.
These are our latest purchases from The Frykman Gallery in Door County, lit by the cold, winter sun of Fish Creek.
When I saw the tiny pig, I squealed like... well, a pig. And Husband was like, "We're buying the pig, aren't we." There was no way I was leaving without it. You can't be sad while looking at that pig!
We got the elk because we already have a bear and couldn't afford the moose. We are currently saving up for a Santa in a Plane.
And that concludes our tour of Crap I Have Stored In My Phone. Tune in next time for Crap I Have Stored In My Camera!
Posted at 09:40 AM | Comments (1)February 13, 2009
Three Valentine Haikus
sending you my love
won't be online tomorrow
for Valentine's Day
we are leaving town
to have sex in Door County
lots and lots of sex
okay, I'll say it
black fishnet bodystocking
oh no she di-in't!
February 11, 2009
Wenchie's Resume 1984-1987
Well, the ax has fallen. On my life of leisure. Since the crappy economy took a huge bite out of our retirement fund, Wenchie has to go back to work fulltime to replenish it. *sigh*
(I'd like to know what percentage of my posts begin with the word "well." I'll bet it's pretty high.)
I started a new fulltime temp job on Monday, a different position in a department where I've already temped in two other positions. Guess they like me. Oh, why be modest? They LOVE me! Today is my first day flying solo, without the position's previous occupant training me.
When they post the job in March (I have no idea why they're waiting so long), I'm going to apply for it. I know I seem like a shoe-in, but one can never tell, and this is not the time to get cocky. In preparation for the competition, I'm brushing off and glossing up my resume.
*shudder*
Looking at the list of all the places I've worked is a trip down memory lane that is as bizarre as it is surreal. I got my work permit the day I turned 15, October 30, 1984. And from 1984 to 1987 alone, I had four jobs, often overlapping.
My very, very first job ever was at What's For Dinner? It was a small take-out place owned and operated by an old friend of the family. I did food prep and ran the cash register. The basic jist of the place was that it sold casseroles and salads and stuff that busy moms could take home and heat up, instead of KFC or burgers. Stuff like chicken tetrazzini and tuna noodle casserole that you couldn't get other places. I liked it.
But it was because of What's For Dinner? that I met the boy who would later become my first husband. I worked with a couple of senior girls from my Art class, and they kind of took me under their wing and invited me to a party. It was my first non-adult-supervised party, where I had my first (and last!) gin and tonic. My future ex-husband thought I was adorable and waited on the curb with me for my Dad, who picked me up at midnight.
He wanted to ask me to prom, but he had already asked the woman who would become his first ex-wife. It's a total soap opera, I know. Wish I'd never gone to that party! But, future suffering aside, What's For Dinner? was a nice introduction to my world of employment, and my first big purchase was a brown leather bomber jacket. It was the 80s, after all.
My other pre-sixteen job was working a couple days a week during the summer for a different friend of the family. He was a CPA, and I answered phones and did data entry, having to make sure all the columns added up. Kind of a yawner, but he couldn't have been a more laxidaisical boss, so it wasn't a bad job.
"Uncle" Ken would pick me up in the morning, and I'd be forced to endure opera music for the entire commute. In the afternoon, he'd put me on a train home. He was a nice man, and I miss him. I called him Uncle because, not only were our families close, but he and my Dad looked like they could be brothers.
He and his partner would often take three-hour, multiple-martini lunches, during which me and the partner's son were left alone in the office. Man, what's-his-name was cute. We never hooked up, but I always finished my work really quickly, so we had fun goofing around.
The second office I worked with was the exact polar opposite of Uncle Ken's. It was a secretarial agency run by a woman who thought I was so incompetant, I don't even know why she hired me. I think she was a friend of a friend of my Mom's or something.
This agency was about half a dozen women who did secretarial work for people/businesses who couldn't afford a fulltime secretary. I spent the first week or so of my parttime employment with an instruction manual for the electronic typewriters they used there. Apparently, they were extra-fancy because they had a little L.E.D. screen on the front, so you could type something into the typewriter and proofread it without ever using a single piece of paper.
First, I had to read the manual, front to back. Only then was I allowed to start practicing on the actual typewriter. But only on envelopes! I'd already aced my high school typing class with 120+ words per minute, but God forbid they let me type even a fucking memo!
I don't know what I did to convince the boss that I was an idiot, but I was soon demoted to mailings, i.e. I stuffed and labeled envelopes, being sure to keep them in zip code order. And even then she hovered over me and often checked my work. I wasn't used to not being trusted by an employer. God, how I hated her.
Then came the day that there was to be a huge protest at a local hospital. A pro-life protest. Oh, did I mention that everyone else in the office was a devout Catholic who attended the same church? Yeah, I'm sure my being Lutheran did nothing to foster any good will.
So boss lady told all the employees that, if they wanted to attend the protest with her, she'd pay them the same as if they were in the office all day. Now, hoping to be sexually active someday, I was pro-choice, all the way. Plus, I hate crowds, so there was no way in hell I was to go with them.
I gallantly offered to stay behind and answer the phone while everyone else was gone, but boss lady saw right through that. The next day, she called and said that there was no work for me that day, but she'd call me whenever another mailing came up.
She never called. Big shocker. I wasn't heartbroken. In fact, I was quite relieved. And I dated her youngest son a few times after that. He was a year younger than me, and I made sure she knew about us. A little revenge-dating, just for fun.
Luckily, a Pizza Hut had just opened up within walking distance of my house, and I was, apparently, the only person in my town stupid enough to apply. Seriously. Everyone else there lived in The City, including the second and third African American people I'd ever met. It was quite the education, lemme tell ya!
And you know what it taught me? That people who live in the ghetto are really sweet and supportive and fun, and the people who live in my town are rude, condescending, demanding, impatient, non-tipping assholes.
It also taught me to hate the songs "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Don't Worry, Be Happy" because those were the only songs on the juke box that the customers played.
It was soon after that when I went to college, moved outta my parents house and had to start working to support myself. But that's a story for another day.
Posted at 06:31 AM | Comments (1)February 09, 2009
Smoque: The Fellowship of the Meat
On Thursday, I finally completed the first leg of my Quest for Chicago's Best Meats. (I can't wait to finish so I can make all kinds of cheap third leg jokes!) I figure, since John was so drunk when he gave me the deadline, I'm going to assume it was more of a guideline.
My quest's fellowship was comprised of only two people, and Marty is neither hott nor handy with a broadsword. But he did drive so that I wouldn't have to navigate The City. I guess that makes him more useful than a hobbit, so he's got that going for him.
Smoque is so tiny, we drove past it the first time. And then we drove past it seven more times looking for parking. There are about six spaces on the street -- all occupied -- and then every other possibly space in a five mile radius is marked "No Parking For Smoque." The hell?
I think Marty ended up parking on top of the building. I wouldn't know -- he dropped me off, and I walked half a block. And how hott am I that I actually got honked at in that brief half-block period?!
I was so startled I almost slipped and fell on the ice. (Visions of Dr. Hottie's son's college fund flashed before my eyes!) I looked around to see if there were any other cars or pedestrians that the service truck could have been honking at, but there weren't.
Awwwww, yeeeaaah, bay-bee! I still got it! Actually, since most of my ample bod was bundled in a winter coat, I think it was the hair that caught the pervert's attention. I was wearing it down -- an uncommon treat for the world -- and it was very sunny out. I'm sure it looked downright ethereal.
Anyhoo, inside Smoque, it's a bunch of little tables pushed together to form rows, like the cafeteria at work. So you could very well end up eating lunch with strangers invading your personal space.
The cashier was very friendly, and I made damn sure that I had my order down pat before approaching her. I didn't want to be an obvious newbie, as most of the other customers looked like regulars. Don't ask me what regulars look like because I don't know; I think they just gave off that regular aura. Mostly blue-collars eating alone or in pairs. Let's just say that my Hello Kitty track jacket kinda stood out, okay?
I got the chopped brisket sammich with cole slaw and mac 'n' cheese.
Holy Mother of God.
I'll start with the cole slaw. It was the kind I like -- vinegar based, not mayo. And it was actually crunchy, clearly not from a tub, and clearly made very recently. Now, why do I mention the cole slaw in a review about meat, you ask? Because attention to detail is the difference between a good restaurant and an exceptional retaurant. If a place takes the time to make a really good cole slaw, imagine how good everything else must be!
The mac 'n' cheeses are each baked in their own individual tins, with crunchy topping! So charming! Individual tins! I was completely won over by the sides, and I hadn't even taken a bite of my sammich, yet.
Now, I ordered the chopped brisket instead of the sliced brisket because I am inherently lazy, and chopped brisket meant that I had very little chewing to do. In fact, between the tenderness of the brisket and the smallness of the pieces, I barely has to masticate at all. I felt like a baby bird being fed by its mother!
... Okay, gross analogy. But you get my meaning -- TENDER. And YUMMY. I really can't stress those enough.
Oh! And? They just give you an extra side of sauce! You don't even have to ask for it! Can you imagine if the whole world was Smoque?! Free extra icing from Cinnabon! Bottles of ketchup at McDonald's instead of those chinzy, little packets! I'm telling you, Smoque is what makes America great.
In summary, Smoque is well worth driving on the expressway and having to park half a mile away. It's an extraordinary place to eat, and my only complaint is -- why no John Kovalic art on the walls?
Posted at 05:55 AM | Comments (2)February 07, 2009
The Headache
Everyone hates being sick. I mean, duh. Okay, there were a couple of times that I was kinda glad to be sick because it got me out of something that I really didn't want to do. But few things suck more than drowning in your own snot, so I'm going to stand by my opening sentence.
I've had a headache since yesterday. And since I'm a freak of nature, my headaches do not respond to medication. Not Exedrin, not Motrin, not Advil. Nothing, so don't ask.
I think I have some weird sort of deficiency in my body because painkillers never work on me. When I was in the hospital after my surgery several years ago, they gave me a morphine drip that I could control, as long as I waited at least 15 minutes in between doses.
That's supposed to be, like, nirvana, right? A morphine drip? Yeah, but no. The first day, I hit that baby every 15.5 minutes, and it didn't even take the edge off. Didn't make me groggy. Didn't make me hallucinate. Didn't do any of the cool things that really powerful painkillers are supposed to do.
The nurse came in the next day, looked at the machine and asked me why I had stopped using the morphine. So I told her it didn't work. They gave me vicadin, but that just made me dizzy without killing the pain.
Knowing this, I'm glad I never had kids because I would be all about the epidural, and if it didn't work, I would probably take it out on my children for the rest of my life.
Anyhoo, I have one of those headaches that hurts when you bend over. Or move. In any way. And it moves around my head, which is completely retarded and probably not even possible.
It's not a migraine. It's not terribly debilitating -- just enough to be a constant annoyance and remind me that I could be making doll clothes with Joe today but instead I'm remaining perfectly still. It's an I'm-getting-a-cold-and-I'll-be-horribly-sick-tomorrow-if-I-don't-sleep-all-day-today headache.
But I don't mind the pain nearly as much as I mind NOT DOING EVERYTHING I COULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW.
I could be dusting my house because I have two dogs and my house gets visibly dusty incredibly fast. I need to clear all surfaces of tchotchky, wipe them down, and then wipe down the tchotchky before returning them to their rightful places.
I could be vacuuming, including getting the hose and attachment so I can vacuum under the furniture because that's where everything hides that makes my eyes water so badly every morning.
I could be painting a shelf for my guestroom.
I could be lying down that blue rug in my guestroom, which would necessitate lots more vacuuming, and possibly some floor-washing.
I could be writing a real blog entry instead of bitching about my headache and filthy house.
I could be going to Paulina Meat Market or Hot Doug's.
I could be planning our March trip to Wooster, Ohio. Yes, really.
I could be updating my resume so that I can apply for the job I'll be temping in come Monday.
Whenever I don't feel well, I suddenly become Ambitious Girl, and I'm all like, "This could be the day that I start the novel that I'll become famous for, but I can't because I have a headache!"
I would be the suckiest pioneer woman EVER.
I'm so spoiled. If I feel like crap, we'll still eat. I don't need to make the bread and kill the chicken and shuck the peas. I just need to find the strength to throw a pizza in the oven.
The clothes and dishes will get washed, by machines. I don't need to mend Husband's pants because he has five other pairs in the same color. I don't need to weed the vegetable garden or water the livestock. I can just sit around and have a headache.
Which is exactly what I intend to do. And tomorrow, I will clean the entire house top to bottom, including all the cobwebs and inside the closets.
And I wonder why my friends hate coming over.
Posted at 11:25 AM | Comments (0)February 01, 2009
What Is Your Name? What Is Your Quest?
Man, I haven't been drunk-dialed in years! That was hilarious! Well, it was more like drunk-texting. I'm the one who had to do the actual dialing.
John Kovalic and I were having a deep and meaningful Twitter about Neil Diamond vs. The Monkees, when he suddenly lost the ability to type words and demanded that I call him. What followed was eighteen minutes of him gushing about how in love he is with his new baby daughter (and rightfully so), and five minutes of him demanding that I patronize the following Chicago establishments:
Hot Doug's calls itself The Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. Well. That kind of sums it up, doesn't it? There is also Hot Doug's theme song, in three different remixes, if you follow the link on their site. Weird. I think I will skip the sausage music and go right for the Marty Allen, an obvious choice because of the GARLIC.
And who the fuck is Marty Allen, you ask? Yeah, I was wondering the same thing, so I looked him up on Wikipedia. He is a Jewish-American (I'm assuming) stand-up comedian, born in 1922. No wonder I've never heard of him.
Smoque BBQ is next on John's list of must-eats. Their motto is Low and Slow, which kinda makes my hoo-ha all tingley, but I'm not even sure if I'm thinking about sex or food... My desires are all tangled up with one another!
Paulina Meat Market reminds me of a joke I heard years ago and still remember: Name three Chicago streets that rhyme with vagina -- Regina, Paulina and Lunt. Get it?! Joe lives just off Paulina, so I think of vaginas every time I go see Joe. Which is ironic because he's gay.
And gay men like meat, so let's get back on topic, shall we?
John is a known foodie, and he has demanded that I make it my quest to visit all of these meat-themed eateries. I'm not sure how we made the conversational transition from adorable baby to meat. Nor am I sure what this says about me and John's friendship.
Okay, let's not think about that. I have a QUEST, and I have to stay focused. In fact, I am already in deep trouble because I was supposed to have been to all these places by now! Yes, he gave me a deadline. He can be quite bossy, when food is involved. Y'all think he's all sweet and humble and adorable, but I know the truth.
Anyway, my point -- now that I've babbled for half a dozen paragraphs -- is that John lives in Madison, and I can't visit these places alone. If I'm going to indulge in phallic food, I must be accompanied by an adult.
So who's coming with me? I will drive! I will even pick you up! But it has to be soon! Let me know, and we'll make plans! I'm actually off work all week, so now would be perfect.
And then I'm morally obligated to blog about my encased-meat consuming experiences here.
Because John said so. And he's much taller than me.
Reviews:
Smoque
Hot Doug's - coming whenever I get over to Heather's.
Paulina Meat Market - coming... I don't know, I should run there during my lunch hour sometime and pick up dinner.