August 31, 2009
Sacred Spoon Is Holy Grail
My boss -- PhD Boss -- has been gone for about a week and a half. In that time, I've been going through his mail and email and phone messages. One would think that I'd get to slack off a bit in his extended absence, but no. I get to do my job and his. It blows.
This morning, I saw a note on his chair. It was written on notebook paper in big, round letters, folded in half with "Dr. Boss" on the outside. Naturally, I didn't think twice about reading this bit of obviously personal correspondence. I mean, I read the man's email and open his mail. A note on his chair is hardly off-limits. What if it's a vital emergency I need to take care of?!
Inside: "Where is my White House spoon? Elizabeth"
Yay! A mystery! Just the thing to make this dreary, intolerably-boring day go a little faster!
First of all, no one who knows him calls him Dr. Boss, for God's sake. It's not like he's the Pope or Sir Sean Connery. Everyone calls him by his first name. Except me -- I mostly call him Dude or Homie. Fo shizzle.
So this person is either, a) totally kissing his ass because they don't know him well enough to know that it's not worth kissing; OR b) being silly and flirty in a way that will TOTALLY work on him because, seriously, if you called me Dr. Wenchie with any degree of earnestness, I couldn't get on my back fast enough. And I know he's no less of a whore than I am.
Secondly -- "White House spoon"??? What the hell???
Okay, he has been to the White House for a couple meetings in the past month or so. Once, with President Obama.
Yes, in the game of Six Degrees of Separation, Wenchie just one person away from Barack Obama. The thought doesn't exactly bewitch me, considering I didn't vote for him; however, it pleases me that Heather is giddy with the knowledge that she just two people away from our President.
Anyhoo, my first thought is that PhD Boss was being a big show-off and told the little hottie in I.T. that he'd bring her something from the White House. But what the fuck -- a spoon??? I.T. hottie was in the Army, for God's sake! And she's not 97 years old, so I can't imagine she'd be craving a White House spoon to complete her collection of Spoons of the 50 states in her breakfast nook.
Besides, she calls herself Liz, not Elizabeth. Also? She's dating some hottie I.T. guy, who, although he may not have a PhD, is waaaaaaay hotter than PhD Boss. And I'm not sure a spoon is going to make up for that, regardless of where it's from.
I'm completely obsessed now, wondering who Elizabeth might be, so I IMed Heather for help. Help solving the puzzle, or help getting over my obsession. At this point, either would be quite useful.
But of course, Heather was of little help: "even tho I love our pres, I would rather DIE than flirt for a spoon from a visitor. what the hell?" And then she went back to her liquid lunch.
Remembering my workplace's awesome intranet, I did a search for all the Elizabeths in the building. No contenders. I mean, lots of very nice ladies, but none that Mr. Ridiculously High Expectations would deign to flirt with.
I can't believe he didn't bring me something from the White House. I mean, I booked his flight for the exact times and airline that he wanted. I found him a nice hotel. All at the last minute and within our departmental budget! I am a goddess!
But apparently, as I am neither hott nor 97 years old, I do not warrant a White House souvenier. I guess being the funniest person in the building, the best administrative assistant he's ever had, AND willing to put up with him every day, doesn't entitle me to shit.
I'm suddenly bitter about a utensil from a White House I'm not even a big fan of. What an idiot I am.
When he gets back, I'm demanding to know where my White House spatula is.
Posted at 12:34 PM | Comments (0)August 28, 2009
The Call
Last week, I agreed to do the reading of the lesson in chapel here at work. And then, because no one else in my department was around all week, I forgot about chapel and dressed like a total slob.
Normally, if all you have to do is get up and read a lesson during the service, you don't have to wear a robe. Only the presiding and assisting ministers wears robes. Lots of robing rules in the church.
But I didn't want Jeebus to see me dressed like a slob, so I robed. And you know who was the presiding minister? (That's the pastor who does most of the talking during the service.) The pastor of my home church. Guest pastor-ing. Which was cool, I mean, at least I knew the sermon would be good!
The next day, I got this email from my Mom:
Spoke with Pastor Homechurch this morning and he told me he had seen you at chapel today at the Wed. Morning service - and ----------------- you had a robe on and were reading things and behaving in a heavenly way. My prayers have been answered!! One of my daughters is being coming a nun - or a deaconess - or a rabbiette, or whatever. I am SO proud. Let me know if I can be of any spiritual help to you.Love, Mother Superior Dearest
Hmm. The only explanation I can find for this is that, when God called me to be a pastor, I wasn't home, so Mom took the message. This would explain why I have no knowledge of my calling to join the pastorhood.
People, if ever there was a time to start praying, it's now.
P.S. Let me know if you need any spiritual guidance. I'm happy to pass your questions on to my Mother.
August 26, 2009
How Do I Still Have a Job?
So PhDBoss needs to go to some event, for which I needed to make hotel reservations on his behalf. But he's not just staying for the event; he's staying two extra days to do some other stuff I don't even know what.
Which means that he'll be getting the event group rate for the first four days of his stay but have to pay the regular room rate for the last two days. Which is waaaaaaaay too difficult for their namby-pamby website to handle, so I had to call the hotel's 800 number.
I had to. Call. A stranger. On the phone. And talk.
I would literally rather go to the dentist.
So I called Bambi Frontdesk and explained what I needed rate-wise, and she put me on hold for three and a half days.
While on hold, I had the following conversation with PhDBoss.
PW: I'm having to talk to a stranger on the phone. This is all your fault.
PhD: Is there something wrong with that?
PW: I hate it.
PhD: But you talk to people on the phone all the time.
PW: And I hate it. Each and every time.
PhD: Well, you don't sound like you hate it.
PW: I'm a Scorpio. We're good liars.
PhD: I'll remember that. So what exactly do you hate about it?
PW: I hate people.
PhD: So you hate the phone, or you hate people?
PW: Both, separately. And together, with the white-hot hatred of a thousand supernova suns.
PhD: You know, that might hinder your ability to remain employed here.
PW: That's fine.
PhD: ... You didn't even have to think about that.
PW: Nope.
PhD: You're quick. I like that.
PW: I hate you so much. Don't talk to me until at least tomorrow afternoon.
And not ten minutes later, he was telling me how awesome I am at my job, and thanking me for all I do for him, and begging me to stay forever. And I'm not even sleeping with him.
I've never before pussy-whipped a guy while still wearing all my clothes. Apparently, my powers have grown even beyond my own comprehension.
I believe this is the sign I've been waiting for -- it's time to begin my play for world domination.
Posted at 08:35 PM | Comments (3)August 24, 2009
The Celebration Continues
Tomorrow is the One Week Anniversary of My Five Year Blogging Anniversary! Yeah, I'm almost as tired of it as you are. But I still thought it would be fun to look back on the PW.org subheadings from previous years.
(You'll note that the lists starts in 2005, although I actually started blogging in 2004. That's because I was originally found on LiveJournal. I didn't start the subheadings until Heather created this site for me in 2005. Little bit o' Wenchie trivia there for ya. I'll take Crappy, Pointless Blogs for $500, Alex.)
2005
I can't make this stuff up, folks.
Soccer Moms Tied & Gagged
On my cPanel, I saw that this is what someone Googled, which brought them to my site. I don't know why.
Home of the Hashbrown Sammich
From a sign outside a restaurant in Wisconsin.
The Salty Pirate Verb
No idea.
Now on the Pirate Party Menu - Lean Cuisines!
God went on vacation and left me in charge!
"Turtle Head" is the new VAGINA!
What the -- ?
Hooliganism, Debauchery & Shenanigans
On the top of Santa's Shit List
2006
Practically a Lady
This is what my cousin Ramone calls me.
on the top of the Worst Dressed List
Not Your Average Smelly Pirate Hooker
When she was good, she was very good; and when she was bad, she was horrid!
From a poem my Grandma used to recite to me. I have no idea why.
Nobody puts Wenchie in a corner!
a.k.a. Alice in WonderBra
2007
W is for Wayward, Winsome & Wry
Only tested on animals that aren't cute.
Searching for the purple banana 'til they put me in the truck.
You should know this one.
Always in The Bottom Two
Ask not for whom the Wench blogs. She blogs for thee.
You'll never see a more wretched hive of scum and villiany.
This one, too.
In her satin tights! Fighting for our rights!
Name that theme song!
When the Wench is out a-wooing, who can woo so well?
Lifted from "Sighing Softly to the River" from "Pirates of Penzance." It's actually quite a beautiful and underrated ballad.
The jig is up, the news is out -- they finally found me.
We sing a love song, as we stroll along, walkin' 'round in ruffled underwear!
2008
But you can call me Wenchie.
Don't hate me because I'm beautiful; there are so many better reasons.
The morals of a Shark, the ethics of a Swine, and the Blackest soul this side of Hell
I forget where this is from...
Putting the Fool in Tomfoolery
Providing 100% of the U.S. RDA of Vagina
Does she walk? Does she talk? Does she come complete?
Your Own Personal Jeebus (reach out & touch blog)
Rock on, Depeche Mode!
I don't need permission, make my own decisions -- that's my per-blog-ative!
I mis-quote a lot of songs, apparently.
Bloggin' around the Christmas tree, it's a happy va-jay-jay!
2009
Your Favorite Social Disease
Ev'ry time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and blog.
Is this also Depeche Mode?
Payin' anything to roll the dice just one more time.
Now loitering on a Facebook page near you.
The Unexamined Life
I'm a snogger. I'm a flogger. I'm a midnight blogger.
I am NOT a Role Model
Come for the breasts, stay for the brains!
A quote from "The Big Bang Theory," my new favorite show.
Well, that brings us up to date. Nothing more to see here. Move along, folks.
August 21, 2009
Blogging Anniversary Gifts
It's been three days since I announced my Five Year Blogging Anniversary, and I have yet to arrive home to find my mailbox stuffed with congratulatory gifts. So I know what you're thinking -- "What do I get someone for such a landmark blogging anniversary?" Your prayers are answered, my friends. I'm here to help.
Wenchie's Hallmark-Approved* Guide to Blogging Anniversary Gifts
One Year
Traditional: Paper
Modern: Plastic/Clock
Blogging: Mousepad with nerdy blogging joke on it.
Two Years
Traditional: Cotton
Modern: China
Blogging: Chinese Food (I like Kung Pao Chicken!).
Three Years
Traditional: Leather
Modern: Flowers
Blogging: Pink, flowered wrist-braces.
Four Years
Traditional: Flowers
Modern: Linen/Silk
Blogging: O*P*I nail polish in "I Told You Not To Blog About Me" red.
Five Years
Traditional: Wood
Modern: Silverware
Blogging: Tiny, wooden hand (you have to scroll down to the photo to begin understanding the significance of the tiny, wooden hand).
And just so you're prepared for next August 18...
Six Years
Traditional: Candy
Modern: Iron
Blogging: 3 lb. tub of Naylor Buttermints. (Why do they even bother with 9 oz. packages? More sugar = better blogs!)
* Hallmark may or may not have actually approved this list.
August 18, 2009
My Half-Decade Anniversary
HAPPY FIVE YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO ME!
Five years ago today, I launched my blogging career with this, my maiden post. Since then, I have found great friends, stretched my writing capabilities, and even signed some autographs. Okay, one. But, hey, at least it wasn't for my Mom!
Five years... *sigh* Why the hell aren't I famous, yet?!
As some of you know very, very well, there have been some rough times in the past five years, and I have become even more embittered. I like to think it's part of my charm. So it's no surprise that I have some thoughts about the sunshiney attitude with which I inaugurated a blog which has since celebrated all things vagina-y, fucked-up, and hate-filled.
1. You don't have to be hungry to eat ice cream.
But you do have to be alive in order to eat it. So don't eat it every day. Have a salad once in a while. It'll suck, but you'll thank me later.
2. If something needs to be done, just shut up and do it.
Seriously, people, martyrdom creates so much more drama than necessary. If someone asks you something, and you say Yes but then spend the next several days ragging about it, do us all a favor and shoot yourself in the head. You know who was a martyr? Peter. So unless your hanging upsidedown with nails in your extremities, don't come bitching to me.
3. Always say “please” and “thank you.”
Even if it's someone you know really, really well and with whom you have a really, really casual relationship, like your parents or your spouse. Manners tell people that you are educated and worth not shooting in the head.
4. Tip generously.
If you can't afford to be generous, stay home and make yourself a PB&J.
5. If it's cold and rainy out, nap.
I really can't stress this enough.
6. It's okay to be geeky, nerdy and/or uncool.
I'm pretty sure that nerd is the new cool. In fact, it might have been the new cool for so long now that it's already passe. But I don't think it's retro, yet, so yeah, put those comic books back in the basement and hang your head in shame like a good, little nerd. I'll let you know when it's okay to come back out.
7. You don't have to answer the phone.
Your cell phone is for YOUR convenience, not everyone else's. That's why it has an Off button.
8. Smile at people.
Especially if you're insulting them or giving them total shit. It makes them think you're flirting, and you can get away with being an absolute jackass.
9. Use your turn signal.
I don't care where you are or how much traffic there is or what any of your external or internal influences are -- USE YOUR FUCKING TURN SIGNAL. ALWAYS.
10. Be the only one laughing.
I often am. Usually at completely inappropriate times in a movie. That's why I go on Tuesdays. Yup, that was me.
Thank you all for reading. It means more to me than you know. Thank you all for commenting -- we're nearing 2000 total! Thank you, internet, for making it possible to write for people despite not having a publisher... or talent.
Thank you SOOOOOOOO MUCH to Heather -- my Muse, my Designer, my Fan Club, and The Wind Beneath My Wings. Without her, you'd all still be reading Dooce.
You may now commence leaving me congratulatory comments and sending emails full of gushing love -- or hatred, whatever -- to piratewenchdotorg@yahoo.com.
Posted at 03:02 PM | Comments (6)August 16, 2009
Another Commercial I Hate
D'oh! Forgot one.
The One Where They Give Away a Puppy
I'm wondering if anyone else thinks this is as weird as I think it is.
There's this website design company that advertises on the radio, "Let us design your website, and we'll give a puppy to a family in need!"
Now, let's look beyond the obvious what-the-fuck-does-web-design-have-to-do-with-puppies-? and get to the crux of the matter -- why the hell would you give a puppy to a family in need?
When I think "family in need," think of the single mom who's working for minimum wage and can't afford Christmas presents for her kids. I think of the man who got laid off, and no one is hiring, and he has to move his wife and kids in with his parents. I think of the family who has to decide between paying the electric bill or buying groceries because their hometown industry has dried up.
Granted, the stress of falling on hard times can make one long for the unconditional love of a dog, who doesn't care if you didn't go to work today, or didn't look for work today, or didn't come home until 2:00 a.m. smelling like Mogan David and horses.
But perhaps -- and I know I'm going out on a limb here -- just perhaps, bringing yet another living, breathing, eating creature into the home of a family in need isn't quite the most well thought out decision. They'd quite literally have a better chance of improving their financial situation if they took their last twenty dollars to a casino than if they got a puppy.
And another thing -- where the hell are they getting these puppies?! No reputable breeder is going to give a living creature to a bunch of people who can't afford healthcare for themselves, let alone vaccinations and check-ups for a dog.
Wait a minute. Perhaps it is a Korean web design company, and they mean for the family in need to eat the puppy...?
[Please direct all hate-mail to piratewenchdotorg@yahoo.com. Thank you.]
August 13, 2009
Commercials I Hate
The One Where People Describe Colors of Paint with Music
I wouldn't want any of that music in my house. Jazz, classical -- UCK! Don't they have some paint that sounds like the Beatles' "Rubber Soul" album? I'd use that in my basement, which currently sounds like the theme song to "Sanford & Son."
The One with the Tagline "Building a Smarter Planet"
Well, it's about time we humans engineered a smarter planet because Earth is just a moron! Seriously, it's embarassing. I was at an intergallactic conference, and at the opening icebreaker, everyone was like, "I'm from Venus!" "I'm from the Dog Star!" And I was like, "Yeah, um, I'm from Earth." Nothing but awkward stares.
Posted at 10:53 AM | Comments (0)August 11, 2009
OMG LOL
At the Pride Parade -- and I promise that, after this, I will move on to a new topic -- I saw a sight that really warmed the cockles of my heart. It was a bunch of people, from various churches of differing denominations, all marching together in the parade.
A representative from each group help up a sign with the name of their church, the flavor of their particular deity, and a rainbow. Being that a church -- and the relationship of this church with other churches -- is how I'm currently earning the peanuts on which I subsist, this sight was of particular interest to me.
I don't know what it's called in other denominations, but in my church, it's called Reconsiling In Christ -- the conscious decision to welcome EVERYONE through the church doors, regardless of age, gender, race or orientation (and probably some other factors, but since I was a bit amused we even had to vote on something that I thought always went without saying, I didn't pay much attention to the details; I was like, "I vote Yes! Where's the coffee cake?").
And I thought, "Well, here is a news-worthy moment. People of different creeds, banding together to welcome their homosexual brethren. Bravo, little lambs. Bravo."
Suddenly, I was moved by the Holy Spirit... oh wait, that wasn't me.
Probably because I'd had two alcoholic beverages, and it wasn't even noon, I thought it would be a good idea to text my boss. On a non-work day. From the Pride Parade. While drinking.
In my defense, it doesn't take a whole lotta booze to impair my judgement, so it's not like I'd done eleven watermelon shots or anything. Plenty of people routinely consume two glasses of champagne for breakfast under the guise of "brunch." And at least I had the good sense not to send him a photo.
So I texted him, "there are churches here carrying signs! we should so have a float in next year's pride parade!"
As the day wore on -- and the giddiness of champagne and exposed male buttocks wore off -- I came to regret my T.U.I (texting under the influence). Not that I had said anything wrong, but it was probably over-familiar at best, and unprofessional at worst. Monday morning, I tried to make ammends.
PW: So, um, sorry about drunk-texting you from the Pride Parade.
PhDBoss: You were drunk?
PW: Well, I'd been drinking a little...
PhDB: I didn't know you were drunk. I just thought you were being funny.
PW: Oh. Well, I only had two...
PhDB: I probably didn't need to know that you were drunk.
PW: Yeah...
Paralyzing Awkwardness: Hey, Wenchie, Boss, how you guys doin'? Mind if I join you? I think I'll just have a seat right here. Looks like I'm going to be sticking around for a while. You guys wanna order some Chinese food?
Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (0)August 04, 2009
The Color of Jealously is Yellow
Oh my God, I can't believe I forgot to tell you about my Near Death Experience at the Pride Parade! Okay, really, I probably wasn't near to death, but had I been less sophisticated and merciful than I am, it definitely would have escalated into a fistfight.
I attended the (Gay) Pride Parade -- the Gay is in parentheses because, apparently, it has been dropped from the name of the parade, and I don't know why because if you are proud of being gay then why would you remove gayness from the title, thereby cloaking the whole parade in such vagueness??? -- with Heather, Joe and Larry. I was Joe's hag; Heather was mine.
We stationed ourselves on a less-busy street of the route, outside a bar owned and operated by some good friends of Joe's. We had a good view and weren't at all crowded. It was a lovely day -- not too hot -- and we were on the shady side of the street. All in all, it was quite perfectly splendid, and we couldn't have asked for a nicer time.
Until Miss Terry Cloth came along. First, I will describe the dress. It was a banana-yellow, terrycloth halter-dress. TERRYCLOTH. Uck. Horrible. Friends don't let friends wear terrycloth in public, people! Clearly, she was no one's hag because no self-respecting gay would have let her leave the house like that. Myself, I was decked out in assorted leather accessories from Joe's vast collection. Tres chic!
So Terry came barrelling down the sidewalk towards our peaceful perch just outside the bar. Her arms were flailing, her hair was whipping -- she was in quite a tizzy. She was followed closely by a man I can only describe as a greasy, hairy slimeball, and he was trying in vain to grab her arm and make her stop walking. He was finally successful. Right in front of us. Oh joy.
I can't really transcribe their conversation, since I don't think there were actual sentences, but it boiled down to this: Terry was sure that Hairy was cheating on her with one of their mutual friends. (Now, I'm not sure, but I think that this may have been due, at least in part, to her blood alcohol level being well over .08.) Hairy thought that the accusation was The Most Ridiculous and Hilarious Thing In the History of Ever.
Methinks the slimeball doth protest too much.
He was doing that thing that guilty skirt-chasers do when confronted with their actions -- laugh OUTRAGEOUSLY in an attempt to deflect attention from the fact that they're not actually denying that the cheating happened.
It was pretty obvious to everyone at, and in, the parade that Hairy was boffing Terry's friend. I've seen mimes do a better, more subtle job of physically expressing laughter. Dude actually held his stomach and slapped his knee. It was quite a show.
Less interesting, however, was Terry's repetitive, F-bomb-laden diatribe. Personally, I've never been one to shy from a well-placed F-bomb, but when that's all you can think of to say, it's time to stop talking. Terry and Hairy were, almost literally, raining on our parade.
Finally, I was obliged to say something.
"Excuse me. My friends and I are here to have a nice time, so can you please take your argument somewhere else?"
"FUCK YOU! WE'RE NOT ARGUING!"
Okay then. I weighed my options. I could fire back with some F-bombs, since that's the only language she speaks. However, I figured that was only asking for some hair-pulling and eye-scratching, which would then require Heather, Joe and Larry to back me up, and why ruin everyone's day? The Pride Parade is supposed to be about LOVE and ACCEPTANCE. And I respect that.
Terry and Hairy didn't leave, but they stopped speaking to each other, and Hairy had the good taste to at least look a little embarassed. Meanwhile, I ran through possible scenarios in my head, should the star-crossed lover start up again.
Would Heather have my back? Of course. Heather would cut a bitch for me with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.
Would Joe have my back? Most likely. Whatever reservation he might feel about cold-cocking a chick would be overturned by the knowledge that she'd never remember it anyway.
Would Larry have my back? No, Larry would probably stand there with an amused look on his face, happy to watch the drama from out of fists' reach. And I can't really blame him.
Public drama sucks, people. It is never, never, ever okay. I don't care how just your cause -- losing your shit in public is trashy. It tells everyone in a five-block radius that you are uneducated, immature and self-absorbed. This has been a Public Service Announcement.
Oddly enough, you know who saved the day? The mutual friend that Hairy was schtupping. She showed up completely oblivious like, "Hey, guys, whattup?" And Terry motored outta there. Awesome! Thank you, Slutty Mutual Friend! Many blessings upon your future adulterous escapades!
Posted at 10:50 AM | Comments (1)