December 27, 2011
Pants, Stuffers & Mugs
Had a small, intimate gathering at the Wenchie homestead on Christmas Eve. Mommie Dearest wore a lovely, black, velvet blazer with a sterling silver pin. Billi wore her knee-high, black, leather boots. The Boy Child and The Spare wore matching striped sweaters.
And then Dad showed up. In a light blue polo shirt, rust-colored fleece vest, black socks, and sandals.
Being the brat that I am, I said, "Dad! You dressed up!"
"I am the only one here wearing slacks!" he said, meaning that every other guy there was wearing jeans.
"Well, that's only because all of your jeans have holes in the crotch."
Awkward silence.
"Wow," said Billi. "Thanks for not wearing those."
Bonus Cut: Actual text from Heather on Christmas Eve -- My dad is wearing khakis that are too big for him, belted super high and the belt is totally outside the loops. Sweater tucked in.
When I first got married to Husband, I always made sure that he had stocking stuffers from "Santa" to open on Christmas morning (since we do our big presents* on Christmas Eve). He, however, took a while to catch on. And when he did, I got mostly office supplies.
*sigh* I know. Like, has he met me?! If I need any office supplies, I will steal them from work like a normal person!
And since the scene over at Billi's house was pretty much the same thing, she and I decided that we would do each other's stocking stuffers every year.
It was kind of funny, digging things out of my red, velvet stocking with my name embroidered on it. I'd be like, Pens from Husband. Mango body lotion from Billi. Magnets from Husband. Hello Kitty nail polish from Billi.
But you guys -- the weirdest thing happened. Husband WATCHED! And LEARNED! And it may have taken a decade, but this year, my stocking sutffers were so awesome, I had a hard time figuring out who gave me what! Dude gave me FOUR nail polishes!
I have to give him props. He paid attention and followed through. I wonder how Billi's stocking fared this year... (Care to guest-blog, Billi? I know you have good stories!)
I got Billi a nice cashmere, wine-colored, V-neck sweater from Eddie Bauer, and a dove grey, ruffled tank to go underneath. I was quite pleased with myself, until, the Sunday before Christmas, I saw her wearing almost the exact same thing. And while it was gratifying to know that I had picked out something that obviously appealed to her, I was disappointed to have my awesome purchases diluted by an exact replica.
Anyhoo, I also got Billi a gravy boat, as I discovered on Thanksgiving that the woman doesn't own a gravy boat. Who doesn't have a gravy boat?!
I also bought her (back in August) two very tasteful coffee mugs from a restaurant that we frequent on our trips to Door County. (Julie's Cafe has the best breakfasts!) She is trying to replace her novelty coffee mugs with normal ones that don't have Dilbert or Garfield or Maxine on them, so every time I buy her a nice mug, she gets to throw out an old one.
So she opened the mugs I'd wrapped up for her, and... they were painted black and white like cow skin. They also had four little udders on the bottom that the mugs stand on.
I remember thinking, In what drunken stupor did I buy Billi COW MUGS? Why the hell did I think those would be a good idea?
Bless her heart, she did her best to look pleased.
I finally started laughing and broke the tension, "Where in God's name did those mugs come from? Those aren't for you!"
I don't remember what her response was, but she was visibly relieved. Brad was laughing hysterically and calling me by my mother's first name. I will admit -- it was a classic Mommie Dearest move. And I'm only forty-two!
Then Husband said, "I think I may have bought those for my mom when I was in Nebraska..."
"They say Missouri," Billi said.
"What?"
"On the inside of the rim. They say Missouri."
Puzzled pause.
"When the hell was I in Missouri?"
Proving that senility IS contagious.
"More importantly, where are the mugs I bought for Billi?"
Brad was beside himself and could hardly breathe from laughing. I did eventually find one of the Julie's Cafe mugs, but I have no idea where the other one went. Maybe it got shipped to his mother? Or to Nebraska?
Rest assured, I would NEVER -- and WILL never -- buy udder mugs for Billi.
* The Big Present: Although I always provide a very clear list of suitable gifts in my sidebar, Husband sometimes insists upon shopping "off the grid." So I was terrified to see that the package under our tree with my name on it wasn't even remotely shaped like anything from my list. But Husband was just being his usual -- air quotes -- hilarious -- end air quotes -- self, and there was a blue box from Tiffany inside the bigger box. Lucky for him! Silver key pendant means he gets to spend another year in my presence!
Posted at 02:04 PM | Comments (1)December 24, 2011
Wenchie Unplugged
Happy/Merry/Blessed Christhannuza, my minions!
On this eve of most joyous days, I'm takin' it down a few notches and -- instead of my usual brittle babblings -- bringing you a heartwarming tale of a boy, a betrayal, and two boxes.
The Boy Child worked for over a month on his letter to Santa. I saw a rough draft on Thanksgiving, and I suggested that, instead of just going right into his list of demands, he should open with a sentence or two about how good he's been this year.
I got a blank stare in return. Possibly because the art of letter-writing is dead, despite my modest attempts to keep it alive. Or because he knows damn well and good just how many times he has punched a sibling in the head. But I think to think -- because of what happened soon after -- that my gentle nudge sat percolating in his brain.
A couple nights ago, Boy Child finished his letter to Santa, gave it to my sister Billi to mail, and told her, "Don't read it, Mom! You have to promise that you won't read it!"
Billi's immediate thought was, of course, Oh crap, what the hell does he want from Santa? But she promised, and then waited for him to go to bed before busting out the letter. HUGE betrayal of trust, but seriously, we all know that she had to do it, right? Right.
Moving on. After the list of XBox 360 Kinect games, he then asked Santa for...
[And I'm seriously welling up with tears and I write this.]
"A pretty necklace for Mommy and some comfortable shoes for Daddy."
*dab tear* Is that not the sweetest thing you've ever heard?! *sniff* He wants his Mommy to have pretty things and his Daddy's feet not to hurt after a long day at work! And he's EIGHT! *swoon* Sweetest little boy ever!
*heart-wrenching sigh*
Well. How could Santa not grant such a wish? So Billi had to go out and buy some Crocs slippers for Brad, plus a nice Brighton necklace for herself (because THAT is how dedicated Billi is to making huge sacrifices in order to be a good parent!). And now they have to practice their surprised! faces for Christmas morning.
[I can't believe I just engaged in a punctuation illustration. Mostly, I just wanted to see if I could do it. It's my first. A Dear Diary moment, indeed.]
Anyhoo, I heard this little story from Billi when she called to ask if I have a shoe box and/or a small jewelry box she could have, to wrap her gifts from Santa.
Pfft. Do I have a shoe box and a jewelry box?! Does the Pope have a funny hat and shiny, red shoes?
Ooooh, now I wanna go look at shiny, red shoes on Zappos...
Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. So, The Boy Child restored my faith in humanity and blah blah blah. At least until I have to drive the 294 expressway again, where I'm sure some dipshit will try to ruin my entire life by doing 65 in the far, left lane. But for tonight, I'm going to snuggle the boy to death and let him have dessert even if he doesn't eat his broccoli.
P.S. I got him a bike for Christmas. Because that's what sweet, precious, little angels get!
Posted at 07:45 AM | Comments (0)December 21, 2011
Which Childhood Am I On Now?
First it's the Barbies, and then with the ridiculous amounts of Christmas decorations, and then with the tiny chairs, and then with the antique toys, and then with the Hello Kitty hoodies (which, oddly, I have never blogged about). I know people often talk about their "second childhood" (often as justification to buy or do something completely retarded), but how many are we allowed? Do we get nine, like cats' lives?
Here's why I ask. I recently moved forty Barbies, a bookcase, and a small dresser out of my home office to make room for a bed. No, I'm not sleeping in there (yet...); I just want The Girl Child or my Norwegian cousin to have a nice place to sleep when they visit, rather than an air mattress on the floor under my desk (literally), where, by morning, Stella has moved in and taken over half the mattress.
Yeah, it's amazing how much room you have when you relocate forty Barbies. Those bitches take up a LOT of real estate. They may be small, but they have HUGE personal-space issues. So now they are housed in the basement.
The most important decision in buying a bed is What Bedspread Should I Get? Of course, there was an ADORABLE quilt at Pottery Barn, but I figured that the bedspread probably shouldn't cost more than the mattress, box spring, frame, mattress cover, pillow and sheets combined. I do ocassionally have my practical moments.
Wanting something cozy and not contemporary-looking, I got on Etsy and found a pink chenille bedspread for thirty bucks! It's in perfect shape, and one cycle through the wash got rid of the grandma's-attic smell quite nicely.
I can't believe I managed to match the wall paint so well!
As for sheets, well before I even started thinking about getting a bed for my office, I had been eyeing a set at Target. But I thought Husband might not appreciate them in our bedroom.
Lookit all the adorable woodland creatures! With their vibrant colors and creepy, staring eyes! Hee -- hedgehog! Want a better look?
Sadly, the sheets are only visible when someone is actually sleeping in the bed, so I had to do something else to really give the bed the Wenchie touch.
Cast of characters:
Mommie Dearest's Raggedy Ann from when she was little;
a fuzzy, pink sheep Billi gave me;
the 22" dime-store doll that I played with at my Grandma's as a kid;
a furry, pink, handmade teddy bear that PJ bought me in Door County;
a stuffed cow that was my mother-in-law's when she was little;
a teddy bear from Husband;
and an old Holly Hobbie from the seventies.
Oh, and the striped pillow is a gift from The Girl Child, who made it with her own hot, sweaty, little hands and chose the material herself to match my office!
Now, it has occured to me -- and not without an unsettling feeling of creepiness -- that I have managed to recreate my childhood bedroom. I don't know what that says about me, but I'm sure that my therapist and I will figure it out together.
December 16, 2011
Did You Know That I Write for "Cosmo" Now?
1. Don't worry about getting through the holidays without gaining any weight. Your husband will still have sex with you if you gain ten, even twenty pounds. Trust me -- I know of what I speak!
2. Tell those assholes who stand around the food table talking about the fat content of egg nog and the sugar content of caramel corn to get the fuck away from the food table because dieting at Christmas makes baby Jeebus colicky.
3. Don't feel obligated to wear a teensy-tiny dress to your/your husband's/your life partner's company Christmas party. It will be 20 degrees outside. For God's sake, wear a black pantsuit and some bling. Done. And you will thank me later.
4. No one is going to be impressed by your ability to stand in four-inch heels until you loose all feeling below your knees. Look at the men -- you don't see them competing for Winner of the Highest Heel Height! You're going to be on your feet mingling with people you see once a year and don't give a shit about; the least you can do is be comfortable.
5. If you are asked to bring food, bring it already prepared, in it's serving dish, with a serving utensil. Bringing a Jello mold still in its pan and expecting the hostess to clear all the dirty dishes out of her sink so that you can fill it with hot water to loosen your Jello mold is just begging her to hock a loogie into your dish of rice pudding.
6. Hostess gifts: Flowers are lovely, but unless they are already in a vase, they just create more work for the hostess. Bring her wine or chocolate or oxycotin -- something she can enjoy after you've left her in peace.
7. You don't win any prizes for having the most festive decorations, the cleanest house, the most elaborately wrapped presents, or the most gourmet food table. Please don't drive yourself into such a tizzy that you're crabby, exhausted, and fighting with your significant other by the time your guests arrive.
8. You do win prizes for inviting people into your less-than-perfect home, letting them pull their chairs right up to the food table, using cream cheese in all of your cooking and baking, and being genuinely tickled that they are there. So go spill some spinach dip on your shirt, put on your fuzzy slippers, leave the front door unlocked, and make sure that everything on your table can be eaten with your fingers.
9. Just as important as being good to others -- be good to yourself.
Posted at 06:34 AM | Comments (0)December 12, 2011
I'm Taking My Ball and Going Home
People, I tried. I really did. I tried to go to Thanksgiving dinner with Billi's in-laws with a cheerful, gracious attitude. But when a couple of selfish loudmouths want to make everyone else as miserable as they are, there is little I can do to dissuade them.
As promised, we will take a look at the incidents leading up to my refusal to ever be at the same event with them again, and YOU be the judge as to whether I failed Jeebus horribly, or if I actually channeled Jeebus when he lost his shit at the temple and knocked over all those tables and stuff.
The Incident of the Uninvited Guests
First of all, none of us should have even been there. My immediate family and I should have been at my house for Thanksgiving, as that is the way the rotation had been going. Billi takes turns between our family and her in-laws, and this year was my turn to host a small, quiet Thanksgiving, where we stifle our personal miseries like normal people.
But Brad's sister apparently got an invitation from friends and couldn't be bothered to keep her parents company, as per a phone conversation between Billi and Brad's sister, so Billi had to host at her house again. Okay, she didn't HAVE to. There was no gun to her head. But Billi and Brad are good people and didn't want to leave his parents alone on Thanksgiving.
On the other hand, due to past experiences with them...
"Who unplugged the Nesco?! The ham is still in there!"
"I didn't do it! Stop accusing me!"
"I'm not accusing you! I'm just asking!"
"I WON'T BE ACCUSED OF SOMETHING I DIDN'T DO!"
...Husband and I were reluctant to go. But I like to provide Billi with some buffer, so I ignored my gut feeling.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Brad's sister called Billi and asked, "What should I bring to dinner on Thursday?"
AhjekamungaHUH?!
Since when was she invited to dinner?! And if she was free, why wasn't SHE hosting her miserable parents?!
Billi got off the phone without giving her an answer (I said S.I.L. should bring the mashed potatoes because those are such a pain-in-the-ass to make) and reported the brief conversation to Brad. Who couldn't dial his sister fast enough.
When he asked her about the invitation from friends, she said, "I don't remember having that conversation with Billi."
That's it, honey -- endear yourself to your brother by calling his wife a liar. Good plan!
The Incident on the Stairs
There was an accident Thanksgiving morning. Brad's Dad ("Papa" from a prior post) fell down the stairs... or something... and hurt his back... again. I don't know exactly what happened. No one could get any details from him besides, "I almost died!"
Which may be a legitimate claim, I will grant him that. Falling down the stairs is scary shit, even if it's just a little slip and you catch yourself -- I sprained my shoulder that way once. But when a person falls and almost dies, it kind of begs the question -- Shouldn't you go to the E.R.? Or at the very least, lay down for a couple days?
Sadly, no. Papa is a great cook, and he was in charge of bringing the turkey and the stuffing. And by God, no life-threatening fall was going to stop him! Papa is a trooper. BUT. Papa wouldn't stop moaning. Apparently, he was in so much pain, he couldn't help but continuously verbalize it.
Now, I've had a ruptured appendix, and I didn't even moan then. I can't imagine the kind of pain that is the prerequisite for moaning, but I'm pretty sure it should include an immediate trip to the hospital. No one would have been mad. Everyone would have understood.
It was like Haunted Thanksgiving (and if that movie hasn't been made, yet, I totally call dibs). I was like, Wrong holiday, dude. The Ghost of Christmas Past doesn't come for another month.
The Stuffing Incident
I don't know if this happened before or after The Incident on the Stairs, but it doesn't really matter. At 10:00 a.m., Billi got a very loud phone call from Papa.
"I have neither the time nor the room to make the stuffing!"
Well, you can pretty much just cancel Thanksgiving at that point because everything else is just garnish to the stuffing. Billi said nothing and, again, reported the call to Brad, who, again, rapidly dialed the phone.
His mom answered and, when he told her about the call from his dad, she said, "What? I don't know what he's talking about. There's no reason we can't make the stuffing."
Okay then. Tradegy diverted, right? NooooOOOOoooo! What followed was probably the worst stuffing ever served since the very first Thanksgiving. Papa went on and on about how he'd used his mother's recipe from 1940. Now, I know what was going on in the world at that time, but I don't think that World War II is an excuse to create sub-par stuffing.
It was... I'm trying to think of something to compare the stuffing to. Grey and grainy and runny, it was the color and consistancy of newly poured concrete, with no discernable chunks that could be identified as a piece of bread. Which, by the way, is stuffing's principal ingredient.
I don't know what you have to do to food to make it grey, and it makes me sad to ponder it. Moving on.
The Incident of the Passing of the Food
I don't know if there's anyone in Brad's family -- besides Brad -- who doesn't suffer from chronic back pain from an old injury gone horribly wrong. Even before The Incident on the Stairs, Papa had a bad back from an old sledding accident.
Apparently, the grey WWII stuffing was also the same density as concrete, making it difficult for people with chronic back pain to lift and pass. So we all had to hear about it, ad nauseum, from the far end of the table, where Billi had cleverly stashed Brad's father and sister.
The two of them had quite a time, father and daughter, screaming at each other about how they couldn't hold the stuffing -- or the turkey, or the mashed potatoes... the rolls were light enough -- and ordering the other to take it from them because they dropped it. Because they couldn't hold it. Because of their back.
Brad sat next to me with his head in his hands, eyes closed, shaking his head, while Billi whispered to him, "If you want to send them home, I will totally back you up."
Sadly, that didn't happen because Brad is THE KINDEST, MOST GRACIOUS HUMAN BEING EVER. But I did receive a couple of covert "WTF???" looks from The Boy Child and The Girl Child, which totally cracked me up.
The Incidents of General Ass-hattery
So there I was, desparately trying to save Thanksgiving, like some B List starlet in a Lifetime Channel Christmas movie. "Let's go around the table, and everyone say one day that they are thankful for in the past year!"
Dad said, "Every day that I wake up in the morning." Ha!
The Boy Child said, "Halloween!" Probably because he got to go trick-or-treating without The Girl Child, who was home with a leg injury.
Papa said, "Uh... come back to me." Yeah, guess what. We didn't go back to him. Because the whole time we were going around the table, he was trying to engage someone in a conversation about some politician who did something and is going to ruin the entire world.
Now, I like a good politician-hating conversation as much as the next person. But not at Thanksgiving! And not with such a doomsday attitude. It was just really inappropriate and offensive. I don't know how else to put it. The man has a son who is incredibly compassionate and forgiving, three beautiful grandchildren, a nice house, and a wife who hasn't left him. Dude should be BRIMMING with gratitude! I just want to smack him upside the head.
The Medical Advice Incident
My parents are old and have their fair share of odd-n-ends medical challenges, one of which is my father's hip and femur, which are partially robotic. And in the rebuilding, he is now half an inch shorter in one leg and has a very wobbly gait because of it.
He should probably get an orthotic insert or something, but his doctor is incompetent, and Dad won't go to a different one, so he wobbles. It's stupid, but he's an adult and is still legally allowed to make his own decisions (for now), so we just leave it alone.
But if you've learned anything by now, it's that Papa can leave nothing alone. Not if there's some quality crabbing to be done!
Know what's awesome? Lectures that begin with, "Look. Let me tell you something." You just rolled your eyes didn't you? You couldn't help it! No one can! Because everyone hates to be talked to like that, and everyone knows that an opener like that is going to be followed by a huge, steaming pile of shit!
Dad just kept shaking his head and saying, "I can't hear you. You're talking into my bad ear." Mommie Dearest was staring so hard at her plate, I thought she was going to bore laser-holes through it. Seriously, I thought she was going to lunge over the table at Papa. We left soon after that.
The Pie Incident
But not without having dessert. And this is where I awesomely bring the story full-circle, and that NEVER happens with me, so please pay close attention and be very impressed.
Remember when the sister-in-law asked what she could bring to dinner? When Brad told her, Nothing, she asked if she should bring a pie. No, do not bring a pie. Wenchie and Mommie Dearest have taken care of dessert. Don't bring anything.
You know how this ends. She brought a pie. A lemon meringue pie.
First of all, lemon is a summer dessert. Fall is about apples, pumpkins and pecans. NOT lemon meringue. And although it was certainly not a conspiratorial effort, no one ate the lemon meringue pie. There wasn't so much as a knife indentation in the crust.
And she had the nerve to get all indignant and angry about, "How come nobody ate my pie?"
Because no one told you to bring a fucking pie.
* * * * * * *
And THAT, my friends, is why I will not be setting foot into Billi's lovely home at Christmas while Brad's family is there. I really did try to be hospitable and charitable. I know that they are people just like me, and they have hardships in their lives, and I am sorry for all of it. I do not wish them ill. I only wish them temporary laryngitis.
Now tell me -- am I wrong?
Posted at 06:25 AM | Comments (6)December 08, 2011
Two More Sisters-at-Heart
To make up for last Thursday's barfiness -- because my life is nothing if not a perfectly balanced Jenga game of zen -- last Friday, I found much in common with two new women in my life. The stories go thusly.
So you know that I work for a religious organization that shall remain nameless. And you know -- or should -- that my cubicle is actually a stone's throw from the office of the Grand Poobah. Like, the Pope's equivalent in our religion (except that our Grand Poobah doesn't wear a pointy hat or red slippers).
On Friday, we had our Department Christmas Luncheon. I would say about 27 of the 33 employees in our department actually attended. Which is less than I expected when I searched on people's calendars, but some people don't keep up their calendars. So they missed out on BBQ Beef Brisket and Twice Baked Mashed Potatoes. Nyah.
Also in attendence was the Grand Poobah's wife, which isn't unusual. She has to put up with a husband who works about a 70 hour work week and travels 66% of the time, so we try to include her when we can.
It had been a whole years since all of us had been together in the same room (yeah, cohesive teamwork is not our forte), and there have been probably five or so new hires in the past several months. So we did that dumb thing -- at the Grand Poobah's request -- where you go around the room and introduce yourself and say what you do.
"Hi, I'm Bob from Accounting."
"Hi, I'm Wenchie, and I work for Lady Boss."
"Hi, I'm HR Troll #1, and I'm personally responsible for hiring each and every one of you. No pressure."
And then it was Mrs. Poobah's turn, and she didn't skip a beat, "Hi, I'm Wendy, and I sleep with the Grand Poobah."
Yeah, I actually did the gay man's gasp with my hand to my mouth. And then I died, and when my life flashed before my eyes, there were no regrets because I had been an eye-witness to the funniest thing ever said on earth. But then Jeebus told me it wasn't really "my time," yet, so I had to go back.
When I got back to this plane of existance, the Grand Poopbah was blushing and fanning himself with a napkin. It was another five minutes or so before any semblance of order was brought back to the room. Meanwhile, Mrs. Poobah just sat there, looking around nonchalantly, smiling a little bit to herself, pleased as punch at all the chaos she'd caused.
And it was then that the Holy Spirit washed over me, and I was absolved of all wrong-doings and every stupid thing I'd ever said because THE GRAND POOBAH'S WIFE HAS AN EVEN LESS EFFECTIVE BRAIN-TO-MOUTH FILTER THAN I DO!!!
God be praised!
The Grand Poobah's only comment? "Well, that'll get around the building in a hurry."
Yes, it will! And you're welcome.
And that night, I had a date with one of the Big Player Rockstars on the Christian scene. No, not a member of a Christian rock band. I'm talking about someone who is face-meltingly important on the world's religious stage. Seriously, she is so amazing, she shouldn't even be talking to mere mortal Wenchie.
But she's friendly and down-to-earth. She is kind of neurotic and confesses it openly. She's eight years younger than me and the mother of a toddler. When she calls a meeting, the men at the table are wearing black dresses and long beards and big crosses. And...?
She was looking for someone who would go see "Breaking Dawn Part I" with her. You guys, I almost wept with joy. This chick is sooooooo awesome, and I really want to hang with her, but I figured she'd automatically be hanging with the likes of Lady Boss and Grand Poobah and such. So here was my IN! What other total dumbshit moron would go see a Twilight movie with her! NO ONE! Hee hee! I'm the only person on my entire floor with standards so low that I read tween novels and watch tween movies simply because everyone else is doing it!
And now, Heather is like, "What the fuck? You already saw Breaking Dawn! With me! Are you cheating on me?!"
I understand that it may look like cheating, but here's why it's not:
1. I saw the movie with Heather first.
2. I didn't do my nails beforehand.
3. I wore all mis-matched clothes -- purple sweater over a black t-shirt, jeans, navy socks, and brown shoes. A fashion disaster, which I would never wear for Heather.
4. I had no cleavage showing, and my hair wasn't down.
5. Technically, Christian Rockstar got sloppy seconds, dear. You have nothing to fear.
But yes, okay, while I'm not a movie adultress, I do have to cop to being stupid enough to pay TWICE to see a horrible movie TWICE. And I still couldn't figure out what emotions Kristen Stewart was trying to convey through her dead eyes and seemingly Botoxed facial features.
But it was worth it. Rockstar thinks I'm cool because we both laughed in all the same places (and while the rest of the audience was silent), AND? She secretly loves Hello Kitty! I'm going to have to have her pick me up next time, so she can come in and see my collection of Hello Kitty Barbies.
Which would be a great opening line to some lesbian porn -- "Hey, you wanna come to my room and see my collection of Hello Kitty Barbies?" -- except the lesbians that I know would break out in hives at the very thought.
So, in summary, we have two new recruits for my crew -- one has no brain-to-mouth filter and routinely embarasses her big, important husband, and the other loves crappy tween movies and Hello Kitty. I'm sure all of those qualities will be very useful on a pirate ship.
Posted at 05:11 PM | Comments (0)December 04, 2011
Should Have Stayed in Bed
On Thursday, as you may know from my Facebook status, I woke to the heart-chilling sound of a dog retching outside my bedroom door. Like right outside. Like, if I hadn't heard it, I would've stepped right in it. I can only assume it's some kind of commentary from that bitch Stella.
Now, I'm pretty superstitious, so dog puke at 5:00 a.m. is a pretty sure omen that the rest of the day is going to be puke on toast. I should have listened to my gut and slid right back under my lovely Amish Christmas quilt -- or at least knocked on wood and thrown salt over my shoulder. But no, I went to work, against my better judgement. Lady Boss is cool and everything, but there is no box to check on our time and attendance system to request time off for "pre-dawn dog vomit." I had to go in.
[By the way, I heard that "Pre-Dawn Dog Vomit" was the working title for "The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part I." But more on that next time.]
On the way to work, I stopped by Dominick's (a local grocery chain) for some cans of pop for our department Christmas luncheon the next day. (Since we work for a church, we are allowed to say "Christmas" instead of "Holiday" or "Seasonal.") Six hours later, I had worked through lunch and was feeling faint and crabby.
Let me point out here that I have been at this job since February, and this is only the third time I have worked through lunch. Going out for lunch -- actually leaving a building with a friend -- is almost my trademark. I'm the only one in my department who does it on a daily basis. I'm a firm believer in getting the hell out of the workplace midday. I am also no martyr. I don't believe that working through lunch impresses anyone. So for me to do it, it means I was batshit crazy and did it only for my own peace of mind.
Leave your desk at lunch, people. I'm serious. Mental health tip from Wenchie to you.
I set my heart on some Pop-Tarts from the vending machine and reached for the wristlet in my purse. For you men, a wristlet is a tiny purse on a strap that goes around your wrist, leaving your hands free to put on lip gloss or text or jerk-off your boyfriend or whatever. But my wristlet was gone. No doubt, I had left it in the cart at the Dominick's.
Um, Wenchie, you're thinking. Haven't you done this before?
Why, yes. Yes, I have. And thanks ever so much for bringing that up, minion. You are supposed to be my friend! Minions aren't supposed to be assholes that rub your nose in shit! You are supposed to be on my side!
Someone at worked asked me, "Why the hell wasn't your wristlet on your wrist? You should just take your whole purse in with you!"
Yeah, well, I tried that before. It didn't work. Because when I have my heart set on being retarded, I will have my way, dammit!
And you know what else? Husband has been out of town all week, and the last time this happened, he was also out of town. Which makes me all conflicted inside because I LURVE it when he's out of town! The bed to myself, popcorn for dinner, clean the house and it stays clean -- LURVE! But if I'm going to go all 'tard-like whenever he goes out of town, I can't have that!!!
A Summary of What I Actually Lost
1. Face.
2. A brown, leather Coach wristlet, $50.
3. My debit card, which takes two weeks to replace. Meanwhile, I'm writing checks to get cash like an ANIMAL.
4. A Sephora gift card for $60.
5. Seven dollars cash.
Bringing the total sum of my stupidity to $117. (This is one of those rare times that I'm glad Husband doesn't read my blog.)
I'll tell ya, I went home from work and spent more time preparing my cocktail than I did my dinner. Mudslide and Ramen noodles. The dinner of the emotionally defeated.
I knew I should have obeyed the dog puke and stayed home.
Oh, and I was forced to add this to my wish list for Santa:
Wish me luck.
Posted at 05:35 PM | Comments (2)