July 23, 2010

Flow It, Show It, Long as God Can Grow It

Despite all my mascaras and shopping and self-indulgent behavior, I have only one true vanity: my hair.

My hair has lured many men to their ultimate demise. Sometimes, it's even deliberate. One time, at a church youth group lock-in, there was a certain gentleman in whom I'd taken a particular interest. So while we were all watching a movie during the wee hours, I laid down next to him to sleep. And while feigning sleep, I flipped my hair so that it fanned across his denim-clad thigh. He was hopelessly smitten before sunrise.

A few years later, a different gentleman had the nerve to dump me. Me! He gave me the whole I-need-to-find-myself talk while at his apartment, then wanted to drive me home. I excused myself to the powder room first, to splash some cold water on my red, blotchy, tear-moistened face. On my way back from the bathroom, I ducked into his bedroom, raked my fingers through my hair, and laid the loose strands across his pillow.

A week later, he called me and begged me to take him back. Two months later, he admitted it was the hair he found on his pillow that sent him running back to me. I never told it I'd planted it there.

Mwah ha haaaaaaaaaaa. I know your weaknesses, gentlemen, and I will exploit them.

Flash forward to the current man. When we'd first started dating, I sat in front of him in the church choir. The cobalt blue choir robes were the perfect compliment to my long, blond locks. Someone was thinking naughty thoughts mere feet from the pulpit...

Takes a lot of time, this hair. Every damn day, I wash it, rinse it, condition it, let it sit, rinse it. Then I towel-dry it, comb it out, let it air dry as much as possible while I get dressed, put on my face, and eat breakfast.

A few weeks ago, in the elevator, a lovely woman with curly brown hair asked me how I get my hair so straight and perfect.

"Um, I blow dry it with a paddle brush."

Yup. That's all I do. I'm sure she was hoping for some trick she could use to get her hair the same way, but there's no trick. You gotta be born with it, baby! She hates me.

But it's a love-hate relationship that I have with my hair. I'll bet I could sleep a half an hour later every morning, if I wasn't so damn vain. But it's all worth it. Like when Di called my bangs "perfection." The ultimate! She couldn't have said anything nicer!

And whatever happened to that lesbian drummer who called me She of the Immaculate Hair...?

Jeebus, can you believe I just wrote for twenty minutes about my damn hair?! Well, it's on my mind lately. I need a trim. Yesterday, my hair was fine. But today? I need a haircut IMMEDIATELY because my ENDS are INSUFFERABLY DRY and FUZZY! My hair is dis-immaculate, and I won't stand for it.

When my hair gets like this, I usually flat-iron it a bit in the morning. (Yes, I just used flat-iron as a verb.) Just to tame the ends a bit. They get particularly wingy in this humid weather.

But yesterday, when I went to turn on my iron, there was a piece missing. See, there's a little comb attached to the side that combs my hair straight while heating it. Frankly, it don't know why they sell the damn irons without the little comb attachment, but they do. And in droves. It's quite a quest to find an iron that DOES come with a comb attachment. But I did, and I dropped a stupid amount of money at Target to obtain it.

But now the comb is gone. Like... vanished. I have no idea how it happened. The iron never leaves the three-foot-by-four-foot powder room. And I'm the only one who ever uses it. WHERE THE HELL COULD IT HAVE GONE?!

I'm certain the dogs didn't sneak into the bathroom and chew off the comb. That would require a level of planning and cleverness that they are just not capable of. Husband didn't touch it. No one stayed the night and borrowed it. It didn't just fall off because I would have easily found it!

And there are a very limited number of items in that bathroom to begin with. Toilet, pedestal sink, towels, wall clock, tiny medicine chest. Not a lot of places for it to hide! I am so irritated by this, I can't even describe it. There's no logical explanation for the disappearance of my iron attachment, and there's no point in me keeping an iron that doesn't have the little comb, so I'm gonna have to buy a whole new flat-iron because of a thirty-cent attachment!

RRRRRRRAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

There's only one explanation: The Spare, on his most recent visit, having wearied of my hair brushes, make-up brushes and mascara, discovered my flat-iron while hiding from The Boy Child, removed the little comb, and hid it somewhere in my house.

And how weird is it that that is literally the only explanation that makes any sense to me...?

Posted at 09:58 AM | Comments (0)

June 03, 2010

On the Seventh Day, God Created Barbie

Hey, look! It's me and Heather being sacreligious!

Some more.

PW: If I get this other position, I will be a permanant employee and have my own desk, so I can bring a Barbie to keep me company
PW: I'm going to see if I can devise a Pastor Barbie

H: I'm sure she has a cool Nehru jacket.

PW: in a black shirt with a white collar, knee-length skirt and sensible shoes

H: sensible shoes with a heel, I hope.

PW: yes
PW: or clogs because, well, we ARE Protestants

H: NO!

PW: and she'll have to have short hair

H: at least give her a bun?

PW: how 'bout a pony tail?
PW: low on the head, not like the original Barbies

H: pony tails are pretty chaste, yes.
H: unless they're handles.

PW: unless I do Naughty Pastor Barbie
PW: or I could put her in a pastor shirt, and then a mini skirt and stilletto boots
PW: ha! and a cute purse

H: with a pink sparkle bible.

PW: YES!!!!!!!!!!!
PW: omg, I'm peeing!
PW: check out the Archbishop of Canterbury

PW: I think he's kind of adorable, in a Santa-gone-horribly-awry kind of way
PW: if I could get a Barbie-sized robe like that, I'd sleep with whoever made it

H: DO IT.

PW: actually...
PW: looking at it...
PW: I'll bet Joe could throw it together pretty easily. minus the embroidery on the front, of course.
PW: Archbishop Barbie. i will fucking DIE

H: I will chip in for beading.

PW: hee!
PW: it's not the cost of the beading, it's the TIME
PW: but if I just do the gold and white robes, it will be more than obvious she's an archbishop
PW: OMFG
PW: I'm so excited!

H: squee!

PW: people know what the archbishop of canterbury looks like right? he's famous?

H: um...

PW: I wonder if I have a huge-ass cross

H: lookin the vibrator drawer...
H: I was trying somehting new for halloween, a sort of exorcist thing.

PW: no, I mean a Barbie-huge cross

H: I love you.

PW: and I love you
PW: Episcopal Priest Barbie

H: Awesome!
H: left behind couture

---

I miss the days of having a Barbie on my desk. I really do.

I remember how it started off as people thinking I was a victim of Fetal Alcohol Poisoning, but then they forgot their preconceptions of Barbie (and doll collectors) and actually started looking forward to seeing a new Barbie every week. She stopped being some weird toy and became a conversation piece. A rare change of scenery in a hive of beige cubicles. A breath of plastic-scented air, if you will.

Do I dare become that person again? Do I have to emotional strength to start all over, to bear the scorn and derision? If so, which Barbie should be the first?

Posted at 08:04 AM | Comments (3)

March 02, 2010

Easter Pastels & Lasagna Blues

Yes, I know it's Lent. How do I know? Because of all the annoying people at work who have given up

a. chocolate,
b. desserts,
c. carbination, and/or
d. caffiene

and won't shutthefuckup about it.

Hey, martyrs. I once read a thing called The Bible, and it says that, when you fast, you're not supposed to eat ash or rend your garments or complain all damn day about how much you want what you gave up. You didn't hear Jeebus bitching in the dessert, did you?!

[If a savior bitches in the middle of the dessert, does he make a sound?]

So, yeah, it's Lent, but I'm going to blog about Easter anyway because it's prettier than Lent and involves actual baskets full of chocolate.

I went to Target at lunch and then IMed Heather afterwards.

PW: god, there was so much pastel Eastery goodness at Target!
PW: I was bewitched!
PW: because I am gay

H: adorably so.
H: didn't see any high-waisted alexander mcqueen skirts, perchance/

PW: um, didn't look
PW: there were BUNNIES

H: ha.

PW: seriously
PW: cute bunnies
PW: like cute RUSTIC bunnies
PW: on tan canvas with muted pastel flowers and butterflies
PW: needless to say, I spent $50 on cute Easter shit

H: you're adorable, have I told you that often enough?

PW: awwwwwwww, am I rustic-pastel-bunny adorable?

H: yes, yes you are!

PW: so there's leftover food here AGAIN
PW: and I put some lasagna on my plate
PW: and then some salad because people were probably watching and judging
PW: and then I saw...
PW: PIZZA BREAD!
PW: like, pizza foccacia bread!
PW: and I was like "fuck this lasagna and salad! MORE PIZZA BREAD!"
PW: but I coudln't put back what I already took
PW: so now I'm gonna have to discreetly dump this and go get more pizza bread

H: ha.
H: I would totally dump it right there in front of people.

PW: there weren't even people in the room
PW: that's how lame I am
PW: I just felt like, it would be my luck for me to be putting it back, and someone would walk in

And then the conversation ended awkwardly when Heather disappeared from I.M.

Kinda like now.

Posted at 05:39 PM | Comments (2)

December 31, 2009

A Wench-trospective

So. Let's see how well I did with my 2009 resolutions, and then judge me harshly so the rest of you can all feel superior. What fun!

1. Call my Mom more often, just to make sure she isn't trapped under a pile of Dad's crap. Well, I sucked at this for most of the year, but I've gotten better lately... mainly because I HAVE to call her every other day to see if they're both lying with broken hips in the driveway.

2009 is officially known as The Year of Dad's Grabber, so he's not allowed to touch a snow shovel anymore. Nor is Mom, not that she listens.

Yes, Mommie Dearest, I'm lookin' at you! If you want me to keep calling come spring time, you'd better do as you're told! (I'm pretty sure that resolutions should not include threats and ultimatums, but you don't know this woman! I will handle this!)

2. Keep in touch with my friends better, and not just via Facebook SuperPoke. "Poking" someone or commenting on their status is not the same as calling or even emailing or texting them. So easy to fall back on FB to do all my work for me.

I did have breakfast with Egrau TWICE in the past two months, and I even drove out to North Aurora to see Lola... once. Yeah, I suck. FaceBook is an introvert's wet dream. I'm workin' on it, people!

3. Remember that Husband lets me work part-time so that I can better take care of our affairs while he's working 60 hours a week, so I'd better get off my ass more often and vacuum up all this dog hair. Ahhh, remember the good ol' days when I didn't work? Ha. Yeah. Well. THAT little arrangement has gone the way of the cassette tape.

Thanks to the recession, I went back to whoring fulltime. The dogs are gonna have to vacuum up their own damn hair, and Husband is gonna have to put away his own damn laundry. This resolution requires modification.

4. Get back down to my wedding weight (and bring Husband with me). BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 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 *huge intake of air* 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!

Actually, Husband is doing quite well, ever since he started taking the Metra downtown and walking a mile between the train and work. I'm going to have to start slipping more butter into his food...

5. Turn 40 gracefully and with a HUGE FREAKIN' PARTY. Done and done! I rocked The Paradise, The Casbash AND This Town! So now I need a new #5.

6. Blog every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, even if it's just a paragraph or photo. Pffft. It's more realistic to just lower my standards. And ask you to lower yours. Again, this resolution was created back in the dreamy Me No Work phase of my life.

7. Start writing my damn book already. What the hell am I waiting for?! I'm waiting for everyone in my family to die so that I can write about them without them getting mad at me. Hmmm, I'd better start taking better care of myself if I expect to outlive all these assholes...

8. Print all my photos and get them into albums, regardless of how many people mock me for my old-fashionedness. I have since discovered boxes of photographs that I'd forgotten I had. This goal needs to be altered. It's good to be versitile, right?

9. Start playing piano again, before arthitis starts to set in. Well, I haven't started playing again, but neither has arthritis started to set in. So let's call this one a wash.

10. Take my bucket o' change to the bank and open a savings account for our 2010 trip to Norway. Well, I started the year with $18.99 in our Norway account, which wouldn't even cover the Xanax I'm going to need in order to fly over the Atlantic.

Then the market crashed, and our Norway Account became our Big Screen T.V. Account. Had to set our sights a little lower. Just made another deposit from the change jar, and we're up to nearly a grand! Soon, we'll be watching a documentary on Norway on a 55" screen!

Posted at 11:17 AM | Comments (1)

October 15, 2009

Yes, I Am, and Here's Why

But, Wenchie, how can you be an evil, rotten, hateful Conservative?! You LOVE the gays!

I do. I do love the gays. And I would love to be the ring bearer at Joe's wedding some day. Which is why I actively support gay rights in my personal life.

But voting Republican is so much more than that. It's about guns.

You guys, I can't run to the corner. I can't throw a ball more than four feet. I can't catch a ball before it hits me in the face. I can't ski, jump, kick, hurdle, NOTHING. I can't even do a decent summersault.

But I can SHOOT. My Dad gave me a BB gun when I was ten, and I was Annie Friggin' Oakley coming outta the gate! The neighborhood boys and I would line up empty beer cans on a log. I'd start shooting from one end; one of the boys would start from the other. Invariably, I would knock off seven or eight cans before they got through TWO. For a ten year old tomboy, there is no better high than having bragging rights like that!

I grew up with guns. My Dad has one hidden in every room of the house -- just in case. I can't be anti-gun because, if someone broke into my house, I would shoot them in the face. Well, if they were attacking one of my step daughters, I'd shoot them in the face. If they were just taking my t.v., I'd be nice and shoot them in the knee.

And then there's the racism thing. We all know how often I am accidentally racist. And purposely racist, when it comes to the French. I don't think the Democrat party would have me! (Which reminds me -- have you seen the trailer for the new Chris Rock movie, "Good Hair"? OMG! That is at the TOP of the Wenchie Must See While Sober list!)

And then there's the other big issues -- like People and Children. I don't like either. I think that Al Gore, in particular, is a giant douchebag. You can have my SUV when you pry the steering wheel from my cold, dead hands. We routinely haul lots of big stuff! So there!

And while you've got your hate on, please remember to direct some towards Heather, the Liberal who hates nature and burns empty plastic water bottles to heat her bath every night.

Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (2)

June 24, 2009

Caer Ibomeith

I believe it means "love unrequited" in... faerie. Or something. I don't remember; it was over twenty years ago. It's the name of a poem I wrote on Valentine's Day of 1988, about a painting a saw in a book. The painting is La Belle Dam Sans Merci (The Beautiful Lady Without Pity) by Sir Frank Dicksee.

Please bear in mind that I was eighteen and terminally retarded when I wrote this drivel. Feel free to skim.

* * * * *

The trees gleem bare and black.
The earth is white and still.
'Tis the season of mists,
and a solitary knight
wanders the Kentish Hills.

He is still a very young man,
but his gait is shambling and slow.
The once-handsome face
is now strained and pale,
sunken eyes hold no more glow.

In the summer of that year,
the land was perfumed and hazy.
The air was laden
with the scent of primrose,
the dawn was as bright as a daisy.

One bright morning, he set out
the join the army of the king,
but the lanes were quiet,
so he slowed his horse
to listen to the blackbirds sing.

When into his dreams came a noise,
a fluttering near a tall oak.
He dismounted his horse
and strode to the tree,
yet no one replied when he spoke.

"Come out!" he called to the laughter.
And a woman, with eyes like a fawn,
stepped lightly before him
and stood in the lane.
She seemed to be clothed with the dawn.

Her robe was made of rose petals;
her head, crowned by fiery hair.
With a gaze as shy
as a wild forest creature's,
she met the knight's loving stare.

All thoughts of his duty then vanished.
His journey had lost its true course.
She willingly came
to his outstretched arms,
and he lifted her onto his horse.

In a language he'd never before heard,
she whispered, and the horse turned its head.
Towards sunny meadows
that lay beyond,
through the trees they started to thread.

They traveled that way for hours,
now in forest, now in field.
From time to time,
the lady spoke softly.
The knight plucked the meadow's fair yield.

From his flowers, she fashioned a garland,
a crown for her blazing red hair.
When the sun shone high,
she began to sing
to the knight who accompanied her there.

She leaned down and peered into his eyes,
with the afternoon sun at its peak,
and the look was of such
an absorbing love
that his longing forbade him to speak.

She continued to weave her net
of melodies 'round the knight,
who forgot all caution
and blessed the heavens,
forseeing none of his plight.

With the afternoon drawing to a close,
she spoke, and the horse stopped its pace.
In a small group of birches,
he lifted her down
and gazed once more into her face.

He saw there inexpressable saddness.
Tears glistened in her moss-green eyes.
He kissed her then,
but she drew away
and sang him her grieving good-byes.

Light as the mist, her voice coiled
around him; his eyes fought to close.
He swayed for a moment,
then sank to the ground,
but he just couldn't leave his fair rose.

He glimpsed, for a moment, her draperies
and the bright tendrils of her hair.
She bent to watch him,
the leaves spun above,
so he closed his eyes and slept there.

Dawn came, and the knight awoke
with a premonition of dreadful grief.
The lady was gone,
having taken his heart--
an aching her could not believe.

Each hour, he knew, would be empty.
It was as if he had watched her die.
A life of yearning
was all he would know,
of calling to hear no reply.

Sick with desire, he rose
and searched through field and pine,
retracing their path
again and again,
but still he could find no sign.

The first day passed, and the next.
The flowers faded in the fields.
The birds ceased singing,
and still the knight wandered,
while the farmers harvested their yields.

Through the long months, he hunted,
a silhouette, frail and gaunt.
The pale, winter moon
barely lights his way,
bereft of hope, but not want.

Now, he can walk no further,
drained of all youth and power.
He finally lies down,
the wind starts to moan,
and he dies, all alone, that same hour.

The farmers who find the body
say little, their faces set grim.
But safe in their homes,
they whisper of magic
and the love that had victimized him.

Mortal-Fairy love run deep.
Of its current, you'd best be wary
and speak with fear,
as all mortals do,
who speak of the powers of Fairy.

* * * * *

Oh my God, it just goes on and on and on, doesn't it?! Yes, Wenchie used to be a hopeless romantic. Try not to faint.

I imagine this is what it was like for Bruce Campbell when he and I first met...

Posted at 08:43 AM | Comments (1)

June 15, 2009

How the Other Half Lives

On my last trip to Door Co. with Billi and Terry, I saw some cocktails napkins that I almost bought for Heather. I think they were by Anne Taintor, and it was a picture of a woman lying in a very plush bed. The caption:

I love not camping!

But then I thought -- What the hell is Heather going to do with cocktail napkins? So I bought something for myself instead.

I know I've already blogged briefly about my last trip to The Door, but I don't think that post truly expressed my love of viewing nature from behind sturdy panes of glass.

Okay, I joke... a little. I like the outside... a little. But really, in my heart of hearts, I am a homebody. I love my house, I love being inside it's climate-controlled walls, and most of all, I love my home office and my huge-ass desk.

I love decorating my home. It's in a constant state of flux. I love rearranging the furniture. I even kind of like cleaning it because of how awesome it looks afterwards. Weird, I know.

Long story short -- I like being inside, and viewing nature from there. Which, in Terry's boss' summer home, was not hard.

All the beauty -- none of the weather. Or bugs. Or cruel, cruel sun that burns my skin and my retinas.

And if our government hadn't destroyed our economy, this is the sort of fireplace that Husband would be early-retiring in front of in three years.

Minus the red chair, of course. I have to admit, when inside someone else's house, I'm mostly picturing where I'd put my furniture. Some people snoop through bathroom cabinets; I mentally redecorate.

This place needs some color.

Oh, I'm just jealous. Bitterly, darkly, cravenly jealous.

Off to the Wisconsin Dells with Billi and her brood this week. Husband and Brad are coming along as well. It's not quite as picturesque as Door Co., and God knows, there will be no lack of running, screaming children that will need me to trip them while their parents aren't looking. But at least the waterpark is indoors.

Meanwhile, I leave you with this.

Jeebus' own waterpark.

See you on the flip side, my darlings!

Posted at 07:56 AM | Comments (0)

April 09, 2009

The Reverend Pirate Wench

Happy Maundy Thursday, everyone! And Blessed Good Friday and Happy Easter, as well, because I know those AT&T asshats aren't going to fix my internet before Monday. Opps! Probably shouldn't mention our Savior's resurrection and asshat in the same sentence!

How 'bout some church talk for this Christian high-holiday weekend?

After my Assisting Minister gig, no fewer than three people asked me if I'd ever considered going to seminary. As in, school where you learn to be a pastor. By the third inquiry, I'd gotten pretty good at keeping the look of Are-you-fucking-nuts??? from my face.

Would it shock you to know that there's more than one good reason I shouldn't be a pastor?

1. I don't do high collars or turtlenecks. I only do V-necks. I don't want a career that involves a wardrobe change. I'd have to, like, have a pastor collar tattooed onto my neck or something.

2. I like the message of the New Testament. "Love one another," the eleventh commandment, given by Jesus to his disciples, is just darn good advice. But I'm terrible at following it, especially when I'm in the car.

3. The whole born-of-a-virgin, bestowed-with-magical-powers, rose-from-the-dead thing? I think we're missing some pieces of the story. I also don't get the logic of someone dying to save my soul. Couldn't God just save me because He wanted to? He's God! And I'm kind of uncomfortable with some nice man enduring horrible torture for the salvation of my sorry ass.

I'm not knocking faith. Frankly, I wish I had it. I wish it all made sense to me and was something beautiful I could cling to in difficult times. But my brain isn't programmed that way. I question everything. I am constantly playing devil's advocate in my mind. I need more information before I make any kind of decision, which is pretty much the definition of non-faith.

And what the hell kind of pastor doesn't believe in The Greatest Story Ever Told? Well, no kind because they'd never make it past the examination panel. Can you imagine my sermons?

"Easter is the day we celebrate Jesus' triumph over the grave! Or at least, the best practical joke ever. I mean, he wasn't on the cross that long, and some people did survive crucifixion. Perhaps it was all an awesome prank that Jesus and his pals played on the Romans! You know, fake his own death to get outta town, or to avoid paying taxes or whatever. Brilliant! Now let's sing a hymn because that's really the best part about Easter anyway -- great music! Oh, and chocolate! May the force be with you!"

The congregation would stone me to death right up there in the pulpit.

My friend Beatrix was one of the well-intentioned crazy people who mentioned me becoming a pastor.

"What?!" I exclaimed. "I'd be a terrible pastor!"

"No, you wouldn't! You have a good heart! You just have to stop doing evil things."

This was very disconcerting to me. Not because she thinks I'm evil -- Lord knows I am! But I was like, Wait a minute? What evil things have I done that Beatrix knows about? Most of my evilness happens in my brain, or my car. So what tipped her off?

Oh, right, the horns. I try to keep them covered with my bangs, but it is often windy when Beatrix and I go to lunch.

Posted at 03:54 PM | Comments (3)

April 03, 2009

What Up, Birthday Girl!

Tomorrow is Heather's BBQ Birthday Bash (all parties titles must alliterate -- it's the law). Also the law: never show up to a birthday party empty-handed. I don't care what Mr. Heather's gracious invitation said -- gifts on birthdays are NOT optional!

Therefore, today after work, I will be driving, during rush hour, to a very specific store several towns away, to buy Heather's birthday present. Because my Mama raised me right!

I will be attending Heather's party; however, Husband will not. Why? Because he can't stand to be around Heather and I when we're together. He has come right out and said it, and I can't get mad at him. Not even a little bit. Because he is absolutely 100% justified. The word INTOLERABLE doesn't even begin to describe Heather and I as a set.

Don't get me wrong -- he likes Heather and genuinely enjoys her company... when I'm in the other room. He thinks Heather is a total crack-up, when I read her text messages to him. But when she comes over, he hides. And rightly so.

Separately, we are both fairly decent people. We are kind and tolerant with co-workers, even the ones who don't deserve it. We are fiercely loyal to our families and would cheerfully commit horrible crimes to protect them (or, let's be honest, to amuse them). We have many friends whom we don't even have to sleep with in order to keep them around.

We are witty, gracious, talented, well-groomed and beloved.

Except when we're together. The sum of our whole is faaaaar less than the sum of our parts. We are catty, immature, rude, crude, sacralicious, racist, kitten-hating, baby-eating spawn of Beelzebub.

No one wants to be around us. Hell, we don't even want to be around us. I will have to be on my very best behavior tomorrow so that Mr. Heather doesn't eviscerate me with grilling tongs. He was once trapped in a car with us while we sang along with the entire soundtrack of "Wicked." In harmony. With dialogue.

"Alfie... now that we're friends..."

And that little tidbit alone, delivered appropos of nothing, in the middle of Canton Tea Garden, is enough to send Heather into hysterics, simply because it was uttered by me.

You see? We are even more annoying because we make no sense. No one listening to our conversation would ever think we are funny, or even think we are speaking English. I cannot stress enough just how genuinely stupid and asshatty we are together.

Take, for instance, this photo...

...first posted here in June of 2006, when I was rambling on and on about eBay.

Heather took one look at that photo, named it "What up, bitches!" and proceeded to laugh herself to internal bleeding.

And of course, if Heather is laughing about something, then it automatically becomes funny to me, too, even if I have no idea what I'm laughing about. Html coding? Hilarious! Mutual funds? Farcical! Russian literature? Riotous!

What Up, Bitches! has become part of the Heather/Wenchie lexicon. Of course, it must always be accompanied by the Hiel-Hitler-esque wave of one arm. And it is always followed by crippling laughter.

Not a chuckle. Not a guffaw. Not even a har-dee-har-har. I'm talking snorting, crying, stumbling-around, wheezing, face-contorting, seizure-inducing, speaking-in-tongues laughter. The kind of laughter where you have to hide your face because you know just how ugly it looks, especially with your mascara all under your eyes.

A couple weeks ago, we went to see "Fired Up!" together. On purpose. Because mocking others makes us feel closer to each other.

Admittedly, we were pretty wound up -- like toddlers on chocolate after bedtime -- so it's no surprise that we were finding humor with everything on the planet. But when she let fly with a random "What up, bitches!" in the bathroom, it was like setting off the atomic bomb of supreme wit.

I was laughing so hard (see above paragraph "Not a chuckle."), I had to lean against the wall and grab onto the sink because I was feeling lightheaded. I was actually losing vision. I think one of my retinas might have detached momentarily. I have, quite literally, never laughed harder in my entire life. It was like an out-of-body experience. Actually, it was kinda scary.

And this is why I am going to Heather's party alone.

Please keep Mr. Heather in your prayers.

Posted at 11:47 AM | Comments (3)

March 12, 2009

Wenchie: Servant of God

Okay, because I work at a church organization, there's a chapel on the first floor of the building, where we have a church service every Wednesday morning. I find this awesome because I can get paid to attend church, while missing work, my boss heartily approves, AND I can sleep in on Sunday mornings. Accepting Jeebus Xt as my personal savior never felt so good!

What? A gal's gotta have a personal savior, right? Might as well be Jeebus. It's not like Depeche Mode has done anything good lately.

A couple months ago, because someone was apparently desparate, I was asked to be a "lector." Which is just a fancy word for "reader." Okay, I can lect, that's easy. I read a lesson from the Old Testament, correctly pronounced a couple weird names, and distributed the wine during communion.

That's right, the words "the blood of Christ, shed for you" have actually passed through these lips. Without irony. How's that for keeping you awake at night?

Don't worry, I haven't lost my trademark sacralicious edge. I just couldn't think of a viable reason to say No. Besides, channelling the holy spirit can't hurt me in my quest to become permanantly employed there.

Actually, the first time I was holding the chalice (i.e. huge cup of wine), I blanked on what was going on. I had an out-of-body experience, looking down on myself thinking, "I really hope these people don't die, receiving the sacrament from such a blatant evil-doer. Can they tell I'm an imposter? I wore my most holy sweater!"

And the dude just stood there, holding his bread, like "Well...?" So I blurted, "Oh! ThebloodofChristshedforyou! Sorry!"

Two weeks ago, I got another email from the administrative assitant in the worship department. Yes, we have an entire department devoted to worship. You're wondering how I've managed to avoid a lightning strike, aren't you?

This email asked me, at short notice, to be Assisting Minister. To do a job with the word "minister" right in the title. Again, lacking a good reason to say No, I agreed. She sent me the script for the service (I'm sure it's not called a script, but what the hell do I know?), and I had to read a prayer that was a page and a half long! Immediately, my mouth dried up, and butterflies with razor-sharp wings set up housekeeping in my large intestine.

But it got worse. The Prayer of the Day is where you pray for every possible person and thing that the congregation and ministers can think of, 95 percent of which is prescribed by the church year and such. However, there's a place in the prayers for the Assisting Minister to pray for a few things that are current and important and whatever.

Which means that I had to come up with timely and deserving people to pray for. Which also means that I had to ask someone what to pray about.

Now, I know a lot about Chicago politics because they are a constant source of entertainment. And I know a bit about U.S. politics because my dream of living in a cave has yet to be realized. But I sheepishly here admit my ignorance of world events. Unless they talk about it on WLS AM, or my Oslo cousins email me something, I am sadly unaware. And until O*P*I quits making up new nail polish names every damn season, there just won't be enough room in my brain to remember the current state of every country.

As in all times I trouble, I ran to Chris (which is just Christ without the T on the end), and he directed me to BBC.com. After much deliberation, I decided on:

We pray for the people of Sri Lanka affected by the civil war there. We pray for the people of Mexico struggling with the increased violence between the drug cartels and the federal government.

I'm not sure these people are any more deserving of prayer than anyone else around the world, I just wanted to sound current and edgey, like I knew what the hell I was talking about. And it worked! Or at least, I assume it did, as no one mocked me after the service.

In fact, several people even came up to me and said, "You should be a pastor!"

If Jeebus hadn't risen from the grave, he'd be rolling in it right now.

Posted at 03:10 PM | Comments (3)

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)

January 30, 2009

Hoo Loves You?

You guys? What the hell is this?

Why am I, like, completely unable to walk past a seasonally-themed aisle end-cap at Target?

And I would like to be able to make some "Hooters" joke here and tie-in some pretense about them making me think about boobies,... but I just can't. I can't! I can't lie to you, my darlings! Especially not this close to the day we celebrate our love for others!

I can't lie to my faithful readers!

What really drew me to these ridiculous trinkets is the fact that they are pink, large-eyed, retro owls. There I said it. It is their very ridiculousness that I can't resist. The fact that they serve no purpose whatsoever is what makes them so irresistable to me. They are the underdogs of an otherwise entire store-full of terribly necessary items!

Dog food! Vitamins! Coffe pots! Slippers! Batteries! All very necessary to purchase at least once in a while! But love-owl-themed novelties? Their uselessness makes them the underdogs of the Target world, and therefore, I was compelled to save them!

Underowls! Or something.

So I actually paid good money for these items, which serve no purpose but to amuse me and will probably end up gathering dust on my desk. I might put pens in the mug, to try to justify it's existance.

Thank God I wasn't with Heather or I would have ended up buying the matching placemats, oven mitts and candy dish.

Posted at 07:09 PM | Comments (2)

January 05, 2009

Bacon, Chocolate & Cheese

On one of our many trips up over the Wisconsin border, this particular time to attend the Log & Timber Home Show, we decided to stop for a special meal. So Husband and I, PJ and Ramone, and Egrau and J went to Lamb's Farm for breakfast at the Country Inn Restaurant.

I believe I had the Apple Cinnamon French Toast and split an order of Biscuits & Gravy with PJ. What? Apples are fruit!

Ramone, wanting a breakfast untainted by fruit, selected "The Heartland Skillet." Awwwww, doesn't that sound nice? Brings about images of amber waves of grain, smiling children and strapping farm hands. And it has the word heart right in it -- it has to be good for you. Right?

Right???

Let me read to you from the menu:

Ham, bacon, sausage, mushrooms,peppers and onions blended with country hash browns and served with two eggs any style.

Oh my fucking gawd. Ham, bacon AND sausage! I'm short of breath just typing this!

I can hardly bring myself to tell you the rest. Yes, the rest.

People...

He ordered a side of bacon to go with it.

It's the big one, 'Liz'beth! I'm comin' to join ya!

So it was no surprise that Ramone later had to excuse himself from admiring giant logs for an extended stay in the bathroom. Not that I don't admire the man for following his bacon dreams, but I was laughing my ass off. I mean, come ON! BACON with a side of BACON. Even I can do that math!

Now, I've told you this to illustrate that there is a culture of gluttonly that is pervasive in my social life. When I get together with friends and/or family, we don't go play touch football or walk the dogs or whatever it is that skinny people do for fun. We EAT. And then we sit. For a long time.

I'm going to turn 40 in less than 300 days, and I feel like, if I don't do something soon, I'm never going to be able to climb two flights of stairs without dry-heaving and praying for death's sweet release.

Yes, I've succumbed to the cliche -- I've made a New Year's Resolution to eat better and get in shape. I feel so plebian. BUT!

Before that, Husband and I spent New Year's Eve and Day gorging ourselves on all our favorite foods, as a little good-bye ceremony. In preparation, I went to the Jewel and bought:

Bob Evans Sausage Biscuits
Cheddar E-Z-Cheez
Stouffer's Macaroni & Cheese
Stouffer's Spinach Soufflee
Jewel Rice Pudding
Swedish Fish
Starbuck's Vanilla Frappuccinos
Reese's Puffs Cereal
Cocoa Krispies Cereal
Dean's Egg Nog
Hostess Ho Hos
Riesen Chewy Chocolate Caramels
Jewel Fat Free Skim Milk
Tums

I have neither exaggerated nor understated the contents of my shopping cart. Yes, the skim milk was to wash down the Ho-Hos. Yes, I really got Tums, at Husband's request.

I was so embarassed, I went to the self check-out line. I was really hurrying and looking around to see if anyone was staring at and judging me. So when the little attendant snuck up behind me and asked, "Did you remember to scan your Preferred Card?" I almost jumped outta my skin.

But then I saw a young woman in leggings and fuck-me boots accentuating her gravity-defying ass, at the lottery vending machine buying scratch-off tickets. And I thought, "Well, my butt may be cushiony, but at least I'm not stupid enough to waste my money on scratch-off tickets."

I left Jewel with my booty -- and my booty -- feeling quite superior. So I rewarded myself with a Ho-Ho on the way home.

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (1)

December 05, 2008

It Has Begun

Mark it on your calendars -- December 5: The Christmas Season has officially begun, as I sit at my desk and eat employer-provided snackies:

1. fresh pineapple
2. muenster cheese cubes
3. apricot walnut bar
4. chocolate chip cookie

I and have the nerve to wonder why the astronauts can see my ass from space.

There was a brief advent liturgy before the snacks were served, and there is cubicle-decorating and tree-trimming going on as I write, but screw all that -- I'm just in it for the free food. I decorated my own house; I don't need to come here and do more of the same!

You know what's funny? Everyone here is always complaining about needing "healthy alternatives" when we bring in lunch or snacks for a meeting. So we have big platters of fruit, and what's the first to go? The tray of brownies and cookies.

We all give lip service to our coagulated arteries and billious inner-thighs, but we are Lutherans and we LUUUUUUUUUUUV us some baked goods!

Long live Tollhouse! Tune in tomorrow to find out how many varieties of cookies I can combine with margaritas at Vicki's, before I puke up red and green sprinkles!

Posted at 02:36 PM | Comments (0)

September 18, 2008

Who's a Big Girl? Wenchie Is!

On October 30, I turn thirty-nine. And today, for the first time, I had this surreal moment where I really felt like a grown-up.

Most days, I look at my tastefully-decorated house, my cool car, my two furry dependants, my schedule, my senior partner husband... and I think, "Day-um. When did I get so respectable? How am I fooling so many people? Don't they know that I'm still twenty years old? How did they let me have all this stuff?"

But today, as I walked to my car, I felt... adult. And not in the usual porno way, either.

Currently, at work, I have an office. Yes, I'm a temp, but my old boss' empty office is literally the only free desk on the entire floor. So I have an office with a door. And if I balled up a piece of paper and threw it out my office door, I'll bet I could land it in Official Title's office. That's how close I sit to greatness.

Most days, I think, "Are all these people just as retarded as I am? Are we all just fooling each other? These people think I'm a hard-working, capable, committed employee. That's insane! Who's idea was it to give me all this responsibility?!"

But today, after my meeting with the hotel representative to work out logistics for the event I'm planning, I'm like, wow. This is what grown-ups do. They go to meetings and make decisions and have other people accept those decisions. AT FACE VALUE! Simply because I'm... me?

CRAZINESS! UTTER FOOLISHNESS!

Tomorrow, I'm going in on my usual day off -- after I deliver lunches to my shut-ins -- to attend a department meeting. One of my co-workers commended me for being so conscientious as to realize that was necessary and to volunteer to attend.

ME! CONSCIENTIOUS! I almost fell out of my tasteful-yet-trendy, leather loafers!

Jesus Christ, whose shoes are these?!?!

So I strode proudly to my car, carrying my nearly-briefcase-sized Hobo International purse, with my Franklin Covey sticking out, and I felt so... satisfied. It was weird. I've been waiting my whole life to feel grown-up, and it finally happened.

Thank God I was wearing my hot pink, leopard-print panties or I never would have recognized myself.

Posted at 06:09 PM | Comments (1)

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 (2)

July 16, 2008

It's All About the Yankovic

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

I'm not proud.

I think Weird Al Yankovic is extremely jumpable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

Just leave me alone.

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

It bears repeating.

NOTHING!!!

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

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

I was the slimmest, prettiest, classiest broad there.

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

Posted at 12:36 PM | Comments (3)

June 19, 2008

Killing Any Respect You May Have Had for Me

I think most people have had this problem: No matter how cleanly you are, even those of us who shower daily are, on ocassion, mystified by a lone zit on some random part of our bodies.

Take me for example. My body is cleansed every day. When I have time, a couple mornings a week, I exfoliate and moisturize everything.

So I was pretty distraught to find an enormous zit on my ass. Now, my ass is included on the list of body parts that I regularly loofa. Seriously, you could eat off my ass! How the hell did I get a zit there?!

And not just any zit. It was huge. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. Felt like I had an M&M made of rock and lava under my delicate tushie skin.

And not being able to see it was a whooooooole other problem because I didn't know what class of zit it was. Was it a Class 1, a painful, red wellie (i.e. zit that wells up from underneath the skin, as opposed to a plugged pore)? Was it a Class 2, one with a small whitehead that's not really worth popping, yet? Or a dreaded -- yet strangely satisfying -- Class 3, one that is straining under the thin membrane of skin, ready to splatter volanic pus all over the mirror?

How to tell...?

That, my friend, is why God invented digital cameras. The camera could be my eye, and I could see the photo immediately.

I tell ya, there's nothing sadder than a pantsless wench, standing in front of a full-length mirror, trying to take a picture of her own ass. It sounds sexy, I know -- but it's not. TRUST ME. So very, very not.

On my third attempt, I got a very clear picture. No, I'm not including it here. I trust your imaginations. And I need to keep one teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy speck of self-respect.

Self-respeckt, if you will.

Sure enough, it was a Class 3, ready to erupt. But I was having a hard time getting both hands at the right angles for squeezing it.

I knew, if I asked Husband, he'd flat-out refuse. And probably move out. Billi lives too far away. And I don't think that I've reached that particular level of comfort with any of my friends.

Using my acrobatic training from my days with the circus (my parents sold me to the gypsies when I was little, but the gypsies brought me back, so they left me at the circus), I finally popped that zit. And I even managed to get some antibiotic cream on it and cover it with a band-aid! Talent like that is rare, my friends.

So I just want to say, to all my friends and family: I know the pain of the unreachable zit, and I will always be there to pop them for you. That's how much I love you all.

You ungrateful bastards, where were you when it hurt for me to sit down?!

Posted at 08:36 AM | Comments (3)

June 13, 2008

I Am a Coolness Parasite

Unlike Fonzie, who eminates him own coolness, I am like the moon -- I merely reflect the coolness of others. Which is why you'll find that I surround myself with fabulously cool people.

Take Heather for example. I can't tell you what her job actually is because I think she works for the French Foreign Legion or something. But I can say two words -- boobies and design. And if you are wondering what that has to do with the French Foreign Legion, then clearly you underestimate the power of boobies.

And then there's Snippy Bitch. She's a total crafting goddess and makes the best greeting cards. No Hallmark crap here! She's a cross between Martha Stewart and Terry Gilliam (in technique, not looks). I would gladly burn my Hallmark Gold Crown card, if Snippy started selling her handmade cards.

Billi, who has three kids, has always been a major influence on my life. ...okay, fertility is not really something I hope will rub off on me, but she's constantly trying to find new ways to boost my coolness factor. Like encouraging me to wear something other than a hoodie, and buying me Eminem CDs.

But last Tuesday, I saw one of the coolest things ever. I got to see Sue teach.

Sue taught in an affluent suburb for about a minute and a half before realizing, "These kids don't need me. I wanna go somewhere that I can really make a difference." So now... she's a Chicago Public School Teacher.

For those of you outside the midwest who don't know the horror of the words Chicago Public School Teacher, let me sum up what I saw:

Sue paid for many of the kids' school lunches herself because the kids had no money and probably hadn't had breakfast, either.

For most of the kids, English is their second languange, and it's not spoken at home, so they don't get much practice.

Many of them had outgrown their clothes six months ago, or were borrowing the wardrobe of a much older sibling, not necessarily of the same gender.

One of the Room Mothers on the field trip with us -- Sue calls her "Heroin Mom" -- had part of her ear cut off in a gang fight. Is it any wonder Johnny acts out at school? Is it any wonder Sue is thrilled when he can successfully put together a sentence on paper? I'm sure it sucks to be eight years old and have to make your own dinner and have your 8th grade sister sign your homework notebook because Mommy is "napping."

But you know what? The kids are adorable. And pretty darn well-behaved, for a bunch of hungry, neglected third graders. I'm convinced that it's because Sue is such a calm and assertive pack leader.

Sue is also lucky to have a lot of back-up -- Amy, Becky and Steph. Now don't let their youth, pluckiness and dimples fool you. These ladies have the power to take away your recess priviledges! And they aren't afraid to use it!

They can read a book to half the class, while keeping an eye on the half finishing their math, keeping track of who is in the bathroom and for how long, keeping order in the room of the teacher who had to go to the bathroom herself, and answering 47 questions per minute. All while keeping her cool (or at least keeping up the facade of keeping her cool).

Seriously, people. I didn't do anything but herd some kids through the Nature Center and grade a few papers, and I crawled into bed the second I got home that night, while Sue, Amy, Becky and Steph all went home and did stuff. So the next time Teacher's Day rolls around, don't get them another damn mug or Christmas ornament with World's Greatest Teacher on it. Give them CASH. Or a gift certificate. To a really nice restaurant. Or a spa. Or to Italy.

At the end of my day at school, the most darling little girl in perfect, shiny, black braids -- like a Middle Eastern Anne of Green Gables -- handed me a piece of paper. On it was written:

Thank you for coming to the field trip with us, Mrs. Pirate. Love, Nooha Greengables.

Like I know any other Nooha.

It was all I could do to keep from bursting out in tears right in front of her and scarring her for life. It was totally worth having to sit on that tiny chair all day! How does Sue say good-bye to these little darlings every year?! It has to be heartbreaking!

I can't stress it enough, you parents and legal guardians:

C * A * S * H

And if you're still not convinced, read The Tard Blog. She's much funnier than I am anyway. Sue's kids have curled up inside my heart and rendered me completely incapable of vitrol today. I'll have to go drive in some rush hour traffic to get my seething, sarcastic loathing for all of humanity back up to normal levels.

Posted at 08:31 AM | Comments (4)

May 30, 2008

My Run-In With the Law

When one is delivering fourteen lunches all over town, one tends to... bend the laws of traffic. U-turns are a staple. As is turning without signaling. "Oh, shit, that's the street!"

Parking, too, brings out my creative side. Take yesterday, for example. I normally just park on whatever side of the street that the house I'm delivering to is on, regardless of whether or not I'm facing the proper direction.

But that option was unavailable at Millie Peterson's house in Oak Park. There was NO parking, and the street was very narrow, so I didn't want to double-park. Mind you, I wasn't concerned about my fellow drivers and the flow of traffic; I just didn't want to get side-swiped.

So I parked on the incorrect side of the street, in front of a driveway. And as I got out of the car and went to open the door to the back seat to retrieve a hot lunch, a cop car slowed and pulled partway into a driveway across the street.

Shit, I thought. He's gonna wanna give me a ticket for parking here. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing. Maybe if I look like I think what I'm doing is okay, I'll be able to fool HIM into thinking it is, too. Uh oh. He's coming over. Dammit! He can't ticket me! I'm delivering lunches to white-haired old ladies! I'm practically a saint! He's interferring with the work of God! Shit, shit, shit.

I turned around, lunch in hand, and the cop approached me. He had on the RayBans and bullet-proof vest. Add to that the Ron-Jeremy-porno-moustache, and he was the epitomy of a Chicago cop. I was dead.

He gave me the two-fingered flick that is the international sign for C'mere, pal. I prayed that my saintly mission -- and low-cut t-shirt -- would be enough to dissuade him from his evil mission.

"Millie Peterson?" he said, pointing to the metal dish I was carrying.

I nodded.

"That's my Mom! I'll take it in to her. Thanks!"

I handed over the meal, and Officer Peterson walked away, without a glance at my felonious parking job. I assume. I don't really know -- his sunglasses were really dark.

Needless to say, I jumped back into my car and skeedaddled outta there! Jumping Jack Jeebus, that two-fingered flick is scary! So seemingly innocuous, yet sooooooo ominous.

But don't be thinking that Wenchie has learned her lesson. No, the encounter has only served to make me more bold! I AM INVINCABLE!!! Mwah ha haaaaaaaaaa!

Posted at 07:08 AM | Comments (4)

May 21, 2008

Great Name for a Horror Movie

I have recently started seeing a dermatologist. No, not dating seeing. Seeing on a professional basis. And no, he's not hot.

Jesus, why do I have to qualify everything with you people?! It's like you don't trust me!

See, I have rosacea, as do many Scandihoovian types of my age. Those of you who know me may be wondering what the hell I'm talking about, as my skin looks damn fabulously perfect.

I'm going to tell you a little secret. It helps to have an Older Step Daughter who works at Sephora. I wear high-quality make-up. Lots of it, expertly applied. I won't leave the house without the full-on masque.

But as fun as it is being a Product Whore, I really wish I could go back to The Days of Yore, when I would just throw on some mascara and lip gloss and look radiant. My skin was like a frosting of marzipan.

I finally got tired enough of the extra 10 minutes in my morning routine to ask my G.P. for a recommendation. His own kids have found relief at this place, so I'd say that speaks well for Clear Complexions.

My first appointment went really well. The doctor talked to me for half an hour about symptoms and flare-ups and every little thing under -- and including -- the sun that could possibly have an effect on my skin. Who the hell gets that kind of attention from a doctor anymore?! I don't even get that much foreplay from my gyne! And the dermatologist let me keep my clothes on!

So he put me on a regemin of different anti-inflamatories, which, in theory, will all work together to make my skin regain its former amazingness. And he told me to make an appointment with his receptionist for a facial.

A FACIAL?!?!

"It's a medical facial, so your insurance will cover it."

A FACIAL COVERED BY MY INSURANCE?!?!

Holy cucumber slices! It's like some great spa-related insurance scam handed down by God Himself! Next He's going to make it rain twenties, and a burning bush will tell me to go buy myself something pretty!

My heart sang as I made the appointment. I counted the days until my face would be primped and pampered, massaged and moistened.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

My dear little muffins, I have but one word to describe my medical facial.

OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! I want my mommyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Oh, sure, they fool you with the steam machine, and the glycolic acid treatment. And then they sugar-coat the next step with the word "extraction."

People. Extraction is squeezing the blackheads and whiteheads from your skin! Nevermind how disgusting it is -- it fucking HURTS!!!

When Husband asked how the facial was, I said, "You know how I sneak up on you and squeeze a zit on your back, and you scream like a girl?"

"Y--no."

"It's like that."

"Ow."

"Times a hundred. All over your face."

"Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach!!!"

"That's the scream."

My skin is as smooth today as the day I emerged, flailing and sticky, from my mother's womb. But it's not. Worth. The pain. Of...

The Extractions

Posted at 09:05 PM | Comments (5)

April 18, 2008

Stalking & Counter-Stalking

Oh my God, you guys, I am so busted.

So you know how my chiropractor is hott. Well, we have this weird symbiotic relationship that has now expanded beyond chiropracty. Beyond accupuncture. Beyond sending my friends to him (more on that in a moment).

No, we're not having sex. But he is now, apparently, my nutritionist. AND. He has put me on a core-strengthening exercise routine. As a result, I am barely stalking him these days. He's lucky he's hott.

See, he does this bike marathon across Iowa every summer. And no, not cool Harley bikes. Like, bicycle bikes. Wait -- in my Happy Place, picturing him in bike shorts...

**shudder**

Okay, I'm back.

So he's currently "in training" for this Most Gay of Sports, including a strict no-sugar diet. It's psychotic. I tried it for a day and then poured a chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzard(tm) all over my body and licked it off myself. It wasn't pretty.

The other day at my appointment, walking behind him to Room 4, I noticed that he's lost so much weight that he's cinching his pants to the point that they are gathering in the back and look weird.

Naturally, I felt compelled to tell him, "Dude, you've lost too much weight. You need to buy new pants."

He just looked back over his shoulder at me and laughed. Which is when I realized... he totally busted me checking out his ass.

GoDDaMMiT!!! Like he needs anymore ego-stroking from his female patients. I'm so disgusted with myself.

His little co-ed assistant just looked at me contemptuously and said, "Nice." [Translation: You idiot. Now he's going to be absolutely intolerable for the rest of the day.]

As soon as he left the room, I texted my faux pas to Sue, who ridiculed me, as she should. We always text each other from Dr. Hottie's office. We are totally co-stalking him. She thinks that I recommended him because I'm concerned about her chronic wrist pain, but really, I just wanted to make sure that he's thinking about me when I'm not there.

Last week, I met Garrance and Snippy Bitch at Starbuck's for an hour before my appointment with Dr. Hottie because his office is right across the street. (Ain't unemployment a bitch?) I accidently ordered a Venti instead of a Grande because their stupid-ass names for sizes are so random and meaningless, which means that I ordered a large instead of a medium. By the time I saw Dr. Hottie, I was vibrating with caffiene, and he was very disappointed that I was "stressing my liver."

On Thursday, I met Garrance, Snippy Bitch and Sue at Starbuck's before seeing Dr. Hottie. Sue didn't start work until noon that day, so she had an appointment half an hour before mine.

Moments after she left Starbuck's, I got a text from her: "He is already yelling about your caffiene habit."

Mind you, my "habit" is exactly one caffienated beverage per week. But I LOOOOOOOOOOVE that he was talking about me!!!

Two minutes later, I felt a presence behind me, and I looked up to see one of Dr. Hottie's little co-ed assistants, who said, "I'm supposed to confiscate your coffee."

"Too late! I already finished it! And you tell him that I can't believe he sent you to do his dirty work!"

You guys? He's stalking me! Gleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Posted at 09:29 AM | Comments (2)

April 08, 2008

Heartburn II: Son of Heartburn

The steady decline of old age is picking up its pace in my 38-year old body. Despite having started a work-out regimin three weeks ago, and despite my constant stuggle to cut down on sugar in my diet, my body continues to morph into that of my father's. (Dear God, is he going to be 75 this summer?!)

I did inherit some nice things from my father. My pretty hair, my tall stature. But I also got his hyper-active sweat glands, his uncooperative knees and -- most recently -- his uneasy stomach.

My father drinks Mylanta straight from the bottle. He's a Mylantaholic. Welcome to my future.

If you'll recall, three years ago, that son-of-a-bitch Cupid shot me with the heartburn arrow for Valentine's Day. I had heartburn so bad, it warranted a trip to the E.R. And those of you who think I was a wussy for going, clearly you don't know the pain of hot, liquid magma under your ribs.

Well, this weekend was a repeat of that pain. And why the hell does it always happen at night? I swear to God, I have never barfed or had to ingest stomach remedies during daylight hours. My digestive system has no respect for the amount of beauty sleep I require.

I went to bed with mildly unhappy stomach. I assumed it was because of all the garlic in the P.F. Chang's I had for lunch. At 1:30, I woke up thinking an alien was about to burst out of my chest.

At 3:00, I woke up Husband.

PW: Honey? Can you do me a favor?

H: Hmpf.

PW: Can you go to Walgreens for me?

H: Nnts.

PW: I have heartburn so bad I think I'm gonna die.

H: What did you eat?

PW: Nothing out of the ordinary.

H: Did you have garlic?

PW: You leave the garlic out of this! I have garlic every day, and it's never done this to me before!

H: Did you have some Tums?

PW: Yes. Before I went to bed. It didn't do anything.

H: Take some more. Take, like, four.

PW: Tums ain't touchin' this pain! Go to the 24-hour Walgreens and ask the pharmacist what he recommends!

H: What time is it?

PW: Three o'clock.

H: Oh, for Pete's sake.

PW: It's either Walgreens or the E.R. You decide.

H: Fine!

That was 3:00 a.m. Saturday morning. But in truth, the rumblings of torture had started Friday afternoon. By Saturday afternoon, after many ineffective Mylanta/Maalox cocktails, I was seriously considering the E.R. again.

Then I made the mistake of going on WebMD.com. I started by looking up heartburn, which led to ulcers and gall bladder, and by the time I was done, I was convinced I had stomach cancer. Again.

I finally resolved that, since our new insurance sucks, I would wait until Sunday morning. If I was still percolating battery acid then, I would go to the E.R.

For dinner that evening, Husband and Younger Step Daughter ordered pizza. How cruel is that?! My stomach was barely tolerating club crackers, and those bastards ordered a succulent, pepperoni pizza from Perry's.

Well, my stomach was going to destroy me from the inside out no matter what I ate, right? I might as well enjoy it! Knowing I would pay with my life later, I indulged in a couple pieces and savored them as a convict savors his last meal. Pure, primal pleasure, tainted with the knowledge of one's impending death.

But, you guys... I didn't die. I didn't percolate. Nothing burst out of my chest. In fact, the more I ate, the better I felt.

Daring not to believe my luck, I waited ten minutes between each piece. I figured the non-pain was probaby the calm before the storm.

But it wasn't.

Perry's Pizza Cures Terminal Heartburn.

It's the only logical explanation.

Posted at 07:08 AM | Comments (4)

April 02, 2008

My Stupidity Knows No Bounds

So I had this theory... that, if I brought my entire purse into Jewel with me, being larger than just a wristlet, it would be more difficult for me to forget about and leave behind.

I'm feeding a dozen people tomorrow night, and I also have to make some ridiculously decadant cookies for Marty, who rescued me from my own computer ignorance by coming over Monday morning and taking two minutes to fix my internet connection. TWO MINUTES. So clearly, not a difficult problem. And yet? Too difficult for Blondie McBlonderstein here.

Anyhoo, I brought my lovely and talented black leather Coach mini duffel purse into the Jewel with me.

And promptly left it as an apparent parting gift for the "differently abled" person who bagged my groceries.

I. DON'T. LEARN.

Thank God she is too "differently abled" to know a Coach purse from a bunch of bananas because she saved it for me and returned it to me when I went jogging back into the store.

And in a beautiful Lifetime Channel moment, the "differently abled" girl restored the bitchy, jaded suburban housewife's faith in humanity. Awwwwwwwwww.

I hope they get Jane Seymour to play me and Rosie O'Donnell to play the bagger girl. Because no one plays a 'tard like Rosie.

Posted at 02:34 PM | Comments (4)

March 12, 2008

Wenchie & the Sandman

I do many things while I sleep.

I hog the covers. I freeze my ass off because Husband hogged the covers. I accidentally kick Husband. I fart.

I've been known to snore, but ONLY when I have a cold. When I take Nyquil, I have vivid sex dreams about everyone in the world but Bruce Campbell.

When I was little, I used to sleepwalk. Once, I came downstairs without my pajama top. On a night when my parents were entertaining some of my Dad's co-workers. Yeah, I knew how to make an entrace even then.

I sometimes talk in my sleep, but not like Husband. I'll mutter a bit, but Husband will sit up and say stuff like, "I have to take the bridge plans over to Naperville in the morning. Do you think Bob will be done with the files by then?"

One time, I did a total 180 in bed so that I woke up with my head at the foot of the bed under the sheets. Scared the sheet outta me!

But last night was a first.

I don't remember what woke me, but Husband looked at me and asked, "Do you realize you were singing?"

"Um... no."

"Were you asleep?!"

"Um... yeah."

"You were singing in your sleep!"

Actually, in my defense, it was more like humming. But there was a distinguishable melody. With my luck, I'm sure it was the next number one hit, but now we'll never know.

How cool would it be to be a one hit wonder at 38?! And they'd come to my house to film an episode of "Behind the Music," and they'd have to meet my family. And they'd decide that my family is so insane that they'd make a great reality show.

...

Okay, good thing I woke up.

Posted at 09:43 AM | Comments (2)

February 20, 2008

GIVE IT BACK!!!

Well, fuckity fucker-fuck FUCK!

My Coach wristlet was stolen. Along with $40 in cash, my Mastercard, 2 debit cards, my Jewel card, my library card, and my Hallmark Gold Crown card.

Well, okay, it wasn't stolen at first. I left it in the shopping cart at Jewel. So technically, it's my fault. HOWEVER. Since then, someone has clearly found it. Found it AND NOT TURNED IT IN OR CALLED ME. Someone found it and intends to keep it and never return it.

So yeah -- STOLEN: My black, leather Coach wristlet.

I have today off work, so I was going to drive out to Billi's house and hang with her and the kidlets for the day. But first, I had to get gas, and I told her I'd pick up some milk and taco shells.

At the gas station, the stupid machine wasn't accepting my debit card. Probably because it was frozen solid and, therefore, not functioning properly. It's 10 degrees today. In a huff, I used my Mastercard and then put it in my wristlet with my debit card.

Normally, I just keep cash, my debit cards (1 normal, 1 attached to my eBay account for use at the Post Office), and a few "rewards" cards in my wristlet. This way, when I'm running errands, I can just pop in and out of the car with my little wristlet, instead of lugging my giant purse around with me.

But today, as Fate would have it, my Mastercard was making a rare appearance inside my wristlet. DAMMIT.

Next stop, the Jewel (that's a grocery chain, for you out-of-towners). Once again, I only brought my wristlet with me. Thankfully, the machine accepted my debit card. (After the gas station incident, I was a little nervous that I had finally spent us into Poor Town.)

I loaded my groceries into my car but left my wristlet in the little front basket when I put the cart into the cart stall.

I cannot tell you the rage and loathing I have for myself right now. People, I am NOT one of those people who loses things or forgets them or misplaces them. I ALWAYS know where my keys are, my glasses, my gloves -- EVERYTHING. It's part of my anal-retentive nature. I just don't forget stuff. ESPECIALLY stuff like CASH and COACH and CREDIT CARDS! Jesus H. Obsessive-Compulsive Christ, I'm not irresponsible!!!

Except that I was today. Oh, happy morning. Tra la, tra la. I'msofuckingpissedatmyselfrightnow.

When I was nearly at the entrance ramp, I glanced down at the passenger seat and didn't see my wristlet. Gloves, check. Purse, check. Cell phone, check. Wristlet...?

Nausea.

I pulled into a gas station and checked my entire car from every angle. No wristlet. So I hightailed it back to Jewel. The cart stall where I had put my cart back was empty, so my wristlet had obviously been seen by someone.

I ran inside and quickly checked the carts. Nothing. So I went to the Customer Service desk. No, no one had turned anything in.

By this time, half an hour had passed. Plenty of time for someone to do the right thing. Well, clearly, whoever has my wristlet has no intention of doing the right thing.

I left my name, numbers, and description of my wristlet and its contents with the grocery jockey, but I know I'll never see it again.

And you know what really chaps my ass? I live in an affluent neighborhood. No one around here needs my $40. The only people shopping at 9:00 a.m. on a Wednesday are moms and old people. So here are my theories:

1. It was an old person living on a fixed income in some nearby apartment, to whom $40 is a nice surprise. Fine, Grandma, take my $40. BUT RETURN THE REST! I DON'T CARE! Just don't make me go through the hassle of cancelling all my cards (which I already did)!

2. It was the cart guy. See, my Jewel employs the mentally handicapped to bag groceries and collect carts, and I can forgive a 'tard for not being clear on wrong and right. But what is Forest Gump going to do with plastic and a Coach wristlet??? GIVE IT BACK!!! Keep the $40 as a reward -- I DON'T CARE!!!

3. It was some 19+ year old chickie working there, and she was jazzed to have a Coach wristlet fall into her lap, especially on a check-out monkey's salary. FUCK YOU, TIFFANY! GIMME MY WRISTLET BACK!

Notice that I don't think a mom could have done it. I just have this idea that moms know what a hassle it is to loose stuff like that, so they'd never inflict it on a fellow woman. Especially not with a kid in tow, for whom they would be setting a terrible example. Aren't I silly?

Oh, and? Husband is out of town. He's driving back from Indiana tonight. I cancelled our Mastercard because I know he has other credit cards he can use, if need be. I cancelled my eBay debit card because I'll need my new one as soon as possible.

But cancelling our joint debit card... that's a harder decision. I'm not immediately worried about it because the THIEF doesn't know the PIN number. And I don't want Husband to be without it for his trip home. Also, it takes 7 to 10 days to get new ones. That's over a week without a debit card. That's something that needs to be planned for, so I'm waiting until Husband gets home. We'll need to withdraw enough cash, using his card, to last us a week, before I cancel mine.

And honestly, this isn't as much of a hassle as it would be if I'd lost my REAL wallet, or my entire purse. I'm actually pretty lucky it was just a piece of my personal belongings.

The hardest part of this is knowing that someone found it, looked inside, and made the conscious decision NOT to turn it into the Jewel Customer Service Desk. The decision to KEEP something that is not theirs. Something that 80% of will land in the garbage because they can't use it. Hell, the thief may even be stupid enough to have no use for a Coach wristlet.

So for $40, someone ruined my day, ruined my plans to see my family, ruined my faith in humanity, and made me spend a bunch of time on the phone with various strangers. That sucks. I would NEVER do that to someone. Even if I was dirt poor and starving and needed that $40, I would at least turn in the rest of it.

Sorry about the milk and taco shells, Billi. But if you get up to the Coach outlet and pick me up another small, black wristlet, I'll pay you back.

Posted at 11:07 AM | Comments (5)

February 18, 2008

Things I Have Too Many Of

Nail Polishes (full size): 16

At the moment, I'm wearing black, with a top coat of silver glitter. It represents the limitlessness of outer space. Because I'm deep like that.

Nail Polish Minis: 16

Fifteen shades of pink and one black. Hmmmm, there's a joke in there somewhere...

Hair Products That Smell Like Food: 11

The one in back on the left is Vanilla Birthday Cake, I believe. And how come every time I try to type birthday, it comes out bitchday? Never fails.

Lotions, Creams & Ungents -- Most of Which Smell Like Food: 23

I'm so well-oiled, it's amazing I don't slide right outta my clothes, out the door and into the street.

Labrador Retrievers: 2

In retrospect, one would have been puh-lenty.

Posted at 09:59 AM | Comments (3)

December 19, 2007

Nicki, I Thought of You

Monday, when I got home from work, there was a pidgeon sitting on my front step.

My friends. Horrified, aghast, repulsed, distraught -- none of these words can convey my feelings upon seeing a feral bird that close up, snuggling its disease-infested body against my dwelling.

Yesterday morning, the bird was gone when I left the house. I don't know where it went. Perhaps it was eaten by the coyote that frequents our neighborhood. Perhaps it crawled off to die in an area that was less exposed. I don't really care. I was just glad it was gone.

But yesterday, arriving home from work, I again spotted the offending animal, sitting in the same spot on my front step. My flesh actually crawled off my body, to O'Hare, and boarded a plane. I believe it's in Atlanta, Georgia, right now. I hope it's getting a tan.

People, that bird was sick and had chosen my front step on which to die. I can't imagine why. Perhaps it saw the slobbering mutts in the window and the myriad of flowers in the garden and thought, Ah, here is a lover of nature. Surely this house's inhabitants will take me inside and at least make my final hours warm and comfortable.

Fat fucking chance, Bird Flu! I waited until Husband came home and demanded that he deposit the thing in the garbage. Of course, that means I won't be touching him for a few days, but that's to be expected. I'm not going to risk getting The Black Plague. Especially not right before Christmas.

I'll bet you're wondering, Why did this incident make her think of Nicki? That seems rather insulting to such a lovely and eloquent person as Nicki.

That's because I know that Nicki shares my bird aversion and would have exactly the same reaction as I did: Do I get Husband to pitch the bird, or do we just sell the damn house and move?

Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (1)

November 14, 2007

I've Got Yoooouuu Under My Skin

So if my 100% eBay feedback rating (from 816 unique users) isn't enough proof that I'm a socially-inept poindexter, perhaps this will help tip it in:

I have R.T.S. Repetitive Task Syndrome, which basically means I'm doing the same thing over and over, too much. The R.T.S. is in my forearm. My right forearm. That's right, I have... Mouser's Arm.

I have a computer-related injury, people. I shouldn't be surprised, really. Think of all the other injuries I've gotten by doing nothing particularly strenuous: hurt my leg jogging across the street; sprained my ankle taking the garbage out; kinked my neck while sleeping. It only makes sense that I pulled a muscle sitting on my ass looking at lip glosses.

Dr. Angel: If the inflamation reaches the tendons, it's gonna be tennis elbow.

PW: You do realize the full irony of that statement, don't you?

I hate him so much sometimes. He thinks he's so smart, with his degrees on the wall and his books on the shelves. If he's not careful, I'm going to stop thinking about him every time I shower.

I was so excited when he suggested acupuncture! I let him stick ten needles into my arm, and honestly, it didn't even hurt.

PW: Cool! I look like that guy from "Hellraiser!"

Dr. A: Neat, huh?

PW: Oh, man, I wish I had my camera so you could take a picture for my blog.

Dr. A: I'll take one with my phone and email it to you! [leaves and comes back with phone] Now, I've never actually done this before...

PW: Is there a thirteen year old in the waiting room who could help you?

Dr. A: No. [takes the photo] Got it! Now what's your email address?

PW: S... L...

Dr. A: Wait, slow down!

PW: [gives him whole email address] ...at Yahoo dot com.

Dr. A: T-Y?

PW: No, C-O-M.

Dr. A: Shut up. Now lemme see if I can figure this out...

PW: Know what I love? You've got people in your waiting room, and you're in here emailing me a photo of my perforated arm.

Dr. A: Meh. They're fine.

Of course, the photo didn't go through the first two times he tried to send it. I had to call him at work and have him resend it, but here's the fruit of his labor:

Irrefutable proof that I finally got poked by Dr. Angel.

Posted at 07:52 AM | Comments (4)

November 09, 2007

The Back Bone's Connected to the... Poop Bone!

As has been established, I don't poop while on vacation.

Have we covered Sleeping In Any Bed But Her Own Gives Wenchie a Lower Back Ache? Well, it does.

PMS also gives me a lower back ache and keeps me from my regular pooping schedule.

Calamity ensued when PMS and vacation happened at the same time last month. I went up to Door County with Billi and Terri, while riding the cotton pony.

Like many people, we ate extra-much while away from home. By the third day of not pooping, I had to wonder just how backed up my system was and if perhaps I should stop eating altogether. I pictured my intestines like a queue, velvet ropes holding people in their place in the snaking line. The line getting longer and longer as the weekend wore on. Every bite I took, I could just see the queue getting fuller and fuller, like the line for Disney's Haunted Mansion (the ride, not the movie).

By the time I got home, I was in an awful state. My lower back was crippled, partly from constipation pain, partly from PMS-inflamed strange-bed syndrome.

(It has occurred to me that this post really wins the prize for Too Much Information. And knowing this blog, that's really saying something!)

Luckily, I had an appointment with my chiropractor for Monday, for my RTS (repeated task syndrome, i.e. I spend too much time at my computer mousing, and thus my forearm and elbow burns with every movement -- I have a blog-related injury).

PW: Dr. Angel, I have a stupid question.

Dr. A: Those are my favorite kind!

PW: Can a messed up back affect your insides?

Dr. A: Sure. What hurts?

PW: My lower back is KILLING me.

Dr. A: Oh, so you're constipated!

PW: Wha-- NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Dr. A: You're not constipated?

PW: No, I just... There's a rule! You're not supposed to talk about constipation with a hot guy!

Dr. A: I'm not! I'm talking about it with you!

PW: Well, I'm not at liberty to discuss my inner-workings. Let's just say I'm having issues. Now fix my damn back.

So he did. I burped twice in the car and farted four times in the Post Office. The machinery was coming back to life.

I pooped within an hour of getting home, and then twice more before going to bed.

Now THAT'S a chiropractor!

Posted at 03:11 PM | Comments (2)

October 29, 2007

Percolating

Beans, beans, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel
So eat your beans at ev'ry meal!

Are beans a fruit? I don't think so.

So, I don't know what's going on with me lately, but I've spent the past three days farting up a storm. One would think that I have finally become my mother, but Spikette is nine years older than me, so she gets to become Mom first, and she hasn't mentioned the Constant Farting Thing hitting her, yet, so I'm going to assume I just ate something really, really noxious that's just percolating in my lower intestine.

Husband and I went out with PJ, Ramone, Egrau and J Saturday night to celebrate me and Egrau's birthdays. There were multiple bottles of wine and multiple desserts and multiple presents (and a multiple-heart-attack bill), so we were there for quite a while.

After a while, it became apparent that I was going to have to Break the Seal.

(For those of you unaware of Breaking the Seal, that's when you can drink and drink all night without peeing, but once you pee that first time, you're going to be peeing every 15 minutes after that. So Breaking the Seal is bad.)

Luckily, PJ drank twice as much as me (being Irish), so she had to pee, too. We went together!

And, as will happen when one sits down and relaxes one's nether regions, I let out a fart that lasted about 30 seconds. Damn, I wish Husband had been there to hear it!

Of course, PJ and I start laughing hysterically in the otherwise empty bathroom, and I go, "Dude, I'm sorry, but hey, these things happen."

She barely eeked out, "That's... okay!"

And from somewhere near the sink came a voice, "That's okay by us out here, too!"

Thank God I was already on the potty because I peed a little I laughed so hard. I could barely pull up my pants. PJ was doing that thing where you laugh so hard that you can't even make any noise.

It was a beautiful moment.

I'm a born entertainer.

Posted at 05:36 PM | Comments (1)

October 18, 2007

I Am the Plaything of Passion

This is the first part of my horoscope today:

It's all about the finishing touches today. Pay careful attention to grooming in the morning, and make sure you're stepping out the door dressed in the perfect look.

And now that my Sephora-employed Older Step Daughter has turned me on to all kinds of fabulous products -- and, in essence, made me as much of a make-up whore as I am a purse whore -- grooming is one of my favorite things to do.

For Christmas last year, Heather bought me a cute, little palette by Two Faced called The Plaything of Passion. It has two lip glosses, two eyeshadows and a blush. I've used all but the teal eyeshadow.

Until this morning.

I'm wearing a shirt with all different blues and greens, with a matching earring and necklace set in silver and turquoise. So I thought today would be the perfect day to audition my teal eyeshadow.

Okay, I'm turning 38 in a week and a half, but that's not too old to occasionally be hip and trendy, right?

Right?!

After applying the eyeshadow, I couldn't decide if I looky kicky or whorey. But since whorey has never been a look I've actively shyed away from, I decided that either was fine, and I went to work.

Two hours later, I went to the bathroom and decided that I look like Mimi from "The Drew Carey Show." So I wiped most of it off.

That's what I get for letting Yahoo! make grooming decisions for me.

Then I told this story to the gal in the cube next to me, to try out the material and see if it was blog-worthy. And she's like, "No, it looks really natural!"

Proving that she is the kindest human being on the planet. And very likely color blind.

Tonight, Spikette is dropping off my latest Avon order, which includes some on-sale $3 navy blue eyeshadow because I want to try the color without investing a lot of money into it.

Although, since the teal was such a disaster, am I right to be a wee bit wary about the navy blue?

Posted at 05:15 PM | Comments (4)

October 11, 2007

I Em To Smart

So I'm sitting there at a stoplight, staring at the butt of the car in front of me because what else is there to do at a red light? I don't want to chance making eye contact with the freaks I'm forced share the road with.

And I'm like, "Hey! That's my same exact car! Same model, same color, same year. Huh."

Because these things fascinate me in the pre-coffee hours of the day.

And then I noticed that the car had bars going across the back, like some sort of animal containment contraption.

Wait a minute... I have bars going across the back like some sort of animal contaiment contraption!

...

Is that my car?

And people, I actually looked around the car I was driving to make sure it was really mine.

And then I went to work and cured cancer.

Posted at 08:07 PM | Comments (1)

October 09, 2007

Baboon Foreplay

It's been uncharacteristically hot this October. (That's a lot of letters in that word.) I don't like hot. I don't like summer.

See, I'm a sweater. No, not a cableknit -- I am One Who Sweats. Profusely. You're so turned on right now, aren't you? It's a lovely traight I inherited from my father. Thanks, Dad!

And while we're at it, thanks for the bad knees, the near-allergic reactions to direct sunlight, and the long, thick, luxurious blonde hair.

Hey, one outta four still ain't great.

This extra month of sweaty weather we've had means more opportunities for me to break out. Specifically, I'm talking about zits on my back.

This just keeps getting sexier and sexier, doesn't it?

Oh, don't act like you've never broken out somewhere weird. Like that random pimple on your forearm, despite the fact that you shower regularly. It's not beyond the pale to assume that the occassional tiny blemish shows up on my sweat-slicked back.

Right between my shoulder blades. A spot more unreachable than the top of Mt. Everest.

And it ITCHES! It itches like CRAZY! I'm rubbing up against door jams like a rutting moose, for God's sake! It's not lady-like!

Finally, I broke down and asked Husband to pop it for me, even though I knew what his answer would be:

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Cuz it's gross!"

"I'd do it for you!"

"I know, and I HATE it when you do that!"

"If you really loved me, you would pop my zit!"

"Stop it!"

"Billi would do it!"

"Then go ask her!"

He's so mean. All those times I drive his sorry ass to the E.R., and he can't pop one little zit. What a baby.

So the other night, I guess he was feeling a bit randy. He started that oh-so-subtle thing that husbands do where they rub your back and ask if you're sleeping.

Getting minimal response from me, he started scratching between my shoulder blades and then, very deliberately, scratched off the tiny zit between them.

What can I say? He got lucky that night.

Posted at 04:57 PM | Comments (3)

October 03, 2007

Lil' Wenchie's First Blog

I didn't really keep a diary growing up. I started a few, but it was too hard to think of something to write every single day. I just wrote the occassional horrible poem. No incriminating names -- just vague angst.

I still have them all. God knows why, they're all terrible. But it's 8:34, and I'm totally strapped for a decent blog topic, so I turn to my old poetry.

Reading through them, trying to find one that makes me cringe slightly less than the rest, I came across what can only be... A Blog
Entry. Written September 11, 1986:

All That Way For Nothing

I imagine that, from the air, we must have looked like thousands of ants swarming to our little hill, but to me, the traffic on the Kennedy looked like a huge parking lot.

"Take the L," Mom said. "Traffic will be busy."

"On a Saturday?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

"It'll be busy," Mom repeated her warning.

But being the teenagers we are, we drove -- and got stuck in traffic.

We crawled nearer to the city, and I caught the stifling, sour smell of industry. The buildings grew in size as we were gradually consumed by Chicago.

After driving the wrong way down several one-way streets, Cara and I finally opted to park the car and walk. It was decidedly safer.

"Ever hear of one-way sidewalks?" Cara joked.

One step and we were quickly drawn into the shuffling crowd of women in blazers, skirts and tennis shoes; smart-looking yuppies with yellow ties and tassled, leather loafers; and black men reeking of cologne with orange feathers in their white hats. Despite our own funky dress, it was impossible for us to stand out.

Soon, we came across two huge, glass doors bearing the famous Gucci symbol. Cara appraised the building, then stared at me. I easily recognized the obnoxious look in her eyes.

"You wanna?" she asked, grinning.

"No. Absolutely not. No way. It's out of the question."

We went in.

A fake-looking woman sniffed in our direction, then briskly walked away, not smelling money. Under the suspicious eye of a bulky security guard, we surveyed the wares in a proud display case.

"A hundred and forty dollars for a watch?" Cara screeched.

With my face aflame, I dragged my giggling friend out of the store.

All the commotion made us hungry, and after examining the meager contents of our purses, we stopped at McDonald's.

"Welcometomcdonaldsmayitakeyourorder," babbled the dazed-looking woman behind the register.

Fifteen minutes later, with undigestable lumps in our stomaches, we were once again swept up by the crowd, our destination in sight: The Art Institute.

In front, a woman unsuccessfully fried to take a picture of her leering little boy on one of the massive lions as passers-by unknowingly drifted in front of her. I pitied her for a second, then paid my money and was given a little, pink clip so I could walk freely around the museum.

After the first room of paintings, we didn't even bother to pick up our feet as we walked. All the youthful energy that had posessed us earlier that morning evaporated, leaving us with fifty more rooms and no desire to see them. Then we thought of the five hard-earned we had spent to get in there.

We toured the fifty rooms. We laughed, had a good time, but I can only remember three things we saw: a giant carving of a hand that looked like it would make a great couch; a photograph of a bald man covered with bees; and a realy scummy-looking guy with purple hair and four earring staring at a totally black painting. I wondered what such a person could get out of a dark screen.

We began out trek back with a sense of dread. My numbed legs moved at their own pace. I could neighter speed them up nor slow them down. Only my nose was alive, with the different food smells wafting out of each restaurant we passed. I distracted my hunger-headache by concentrating on identifying each one: pizza, french fries, gyros, soft pretzels.

I was never so happy to see Cara's faded red heap of junk. I collapses on the vinyl and slept all the way home.

The End

Oh my God, that was so boring.

However, I am proud that, at sixteen, I knew to write "passers-by" and not "passer-bys."

You gotta take your victories where you can.

Posted at 08:51 PM | Comments (1)

August 29, 2007

My Life, My Love and My Lady Is the Sea

Today, I bought the following songs off iTunes:

"Criminal" by Fiona Apple (genre: heroin chic)
"Don't Disturb This Groove" by The System (genre: 80s R&B)
"Africa" by Toto (genre: essential)
"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass (genre: nerdy)
"What Is Hip?" by Tower of Power (genre: can't not dance)
"The Dutchman" by Steve Goodman (genre: folksy angst)
"Freedom" by George Michaels (genre: supermodel)
"Dream a Little Dream of Me" by The Mamas & The Papas (genre: pure awesome)
"Don't Answer Me" by The Alan Parsons Project (genre: 80s angst)

Yes, I actually paid a dollar of Husband's hard-earned money for "Brandy." You're rolling on the floor in pain, aren't you?

Oh! I forgot to buy "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder! And there's a song about eBay by Weird Al that I want.

Speaking of Weird Al, my bro-in-law and Spikette went to see him the other night. Bro-In-Law knows Al's drummer, so they got to go backstage and hang with Weird Al and the band. B.I.L. is the guy in the middle:

The other guy who's not Weird Al is Jon "Bermuda" Schwartz, Al's drummer. I don't know who the chick is. Probably some Weird Al groupie. Love the hot pink bra strap. Sexxxy!

Nephew was home with a babysitter, so B.I.L. had Al call Nephew and tell him to Go to bed! But Nephew is a Weird Al fan, too, so I doubt he could sleep after that!

B.I.L. is so ultra-cool -- in ways that you and I will never be -- the he also knows the drummers for Styx and R.E.O. Speedwagon. Know how? CUZ HE'S A DRUMMER!

A'doi. And he's awesome. And he just joined a new band called Luna Blu. Okay, yes, the name is a bit gay and sounds more like a boat than a band, but he didn't pick it, and it in no way reflects the personality of the band. So shut up.

If you live in the NW Chicago area, Luna Blu is gonna be at Arlington Park "Party in the Park" next Friday, September 7, at 3:00 p.m. So go and be groupies so they will book many gigs and make lots of money and B.I.L. can buy me presents!

And if you spot some blonde in a sparkling skull shirt dancing like a spaz, come ask me for my autograph! Or just go up to the drummer and say, "Hey, I read your sister-in-law's blog. Tell me horribly embarassing stories about her." You'll be there 'til Tuesday.

Their playlist looks like my iPod list:

"It's My Life" by No Doubt
"Hit Me with Your Best Shot" by Pat Benetar
"Missionary Man" by The Eurythmics

But no "Brandy." Dang.

Posted at 04:06 PM | Comments (3)

August 27, 2007

Because Heather Never Blogs Anyway

And because I don't have time to blog today. I caught some kind of hybrid virus from handling mildew-y carpet all weekend, and I must now take to my death bed. (Last minute confessions of love welcome!) And when I get up? I get to haul area rugs onto the driveway and shampoo them! Wheeeeeeeeeee! My life is so glamorous!

Anyhoo, I got this little delicacy in an email from Heather, and it's way funnier than what I did this weekend, so here ya go. And I don't even have the energy to correct it.

went to a wedding on sat, at Carnivale- just a few blocks away from where my reception was...totally great place, but the most memorable moment of the evening for me was when a waiter slipped and dropped an ENTIRE TRAY OF MOJITOS right next to a baby in a baby carrier and although she was covered in booze and garnish, the baby didn't wake up.

and I wanted to scold the parents for leaving the baby in a carrier ON THE FLOOR at a party, and acting like the WAITER was the jerk? WTF? either way, 'drunk baby' was the catchphrase of the evening...

Isn't Drunk Baby an awesome name for a band?!

Snippy Bitch, I hope that, while helping me this weekend, you didn't contract Hybrid Mildew Virus. I doubt my homeowner's policy would cover that.

Posted at 01:58 PM | Comments (2)

August 09, 2007

I'm Selling Out!

That's right, The Man has gotten to Wenchie and turned me into an even cheaper whore. I was approached and am being paid -- PAID -- to run some ads on my blog. I am capitalist scum and couldn't be more pleased!

Don't be mad at me, darlings. Don't shake your head in woe. Don't loose any more respect for me that you already have. There will always be plenty of Wenchie goodness -- barf stories, poop stories, vaginas, mockery. I'm not going to compromise my writing style because someone doesn't like me saying Fuck.

(Yes, because Fuck is a style. I'm such an ignoramous.)

Ever since I was a little girl and wrote my first poem about a mermaid, I've dreamed of being a real life writer. This blog has allowed me to reach an audience of questionable taste without the hassle of having to actually publish a book. Or write one, for that matter.

And NOW, not only am I doing what I love, but I'm doing it half-assed and getting PAID for it! God, I love this country!

Believe me, you don't have to be envious of my wealth. It's a paltry sum that's not going to change my lifestyle or anything. I asked for it all in quarters, so it seems like more. It's really just the idea of being paid that I'm jazzed about.

Oh, who am I kidding. I'm buying a suede Dooney purse, and you're not!

Here are the links to the posts with the ads, in case you're curious: shoe ad, costume ad, home builder ad, gift basket ad and Native American culture ad.

I know, that last one is pretty random, right? It's like ice cream, pizza, corn, umbrella!

I am a bit scared that my flying monkeys will abandon me. After all, I quit reading Dooce after she went commercial. But in truth, I quit reading Dooce after she got married, had a baby and became boring. So I think I'm okay.

(Oh my God! She dissed Dooce! Can she do that? Won't Moveable Type shut her down?!)

So, yeah, I'm a sell-out. But if someone offered you money to sit around reading blogs, you couldn't get them your PayPal info fast enough, so shut up.

And if anyone would like to place an ad for purses, I got three more purse blogs coming up, so now would be an ideal time.

And then some boobies or something for the men. So... bra ads?

Love,
A Big, Money-Grubbing Whore

Posted at 01:41 PM | Comments (1)

July 31, 2007

White Trash Summer

You guys, the summer is two-thirds over, and I haven't been skinny dipping with even half of my hott friends. I've only had, like, three Lynchberg Lemonades. I'm a shitty, friend. I'm a shitty, sober friend.

I wish I could say I've been scuba-diving shipwrecks or following the Sasquach migration or something. But no. Where have I been? Door County and the Renaissance Faire. Could I be more white trash?

After I got meat-on-a-stick at the Ren Faire, I got this:

A henna tattoo. And why did I get a henna tattoo, branding me as a smelly hippie for the next two to three weeks? Because I had nowhere to go that evening, so I didn't want to get my face painted.

I now want to get henna supplies and a book and do my entire body. Seriously. I love this. I'm gonna write my name on Husband's ass while he sleeps. And maybe give Younger Step Daughter a moustache.

But more on the Ren Faire later.

So it's summer, and I'm so tired of my toe. Yes, the nail is still attached. But it's disgusting, and I swear, looking worse instead of better. The part that, apparently, absorbed the impact, in the nail bed, has grown out into view. It's a blood-colored ridge that runs across my entire nail.

And I'm so sick of wearing nail polish that's black or brown or eggplant. I want summer colors on my toes! So I threw away all decency and painted them lavender.

Pretty, no?

Lest you think that my summer has been all sunshine and deep-fried Milky Ways and lavishly decorated appendages, my summer has also been the internal struggle of not wanting that damn huge, metal dog cage in my kitchen, and not wanting to let the world's largest termite to run free in my home.

Look what that bitch Stella did to my wall.

Now, it could be that she's just as disgusted with the prior owners' decorating as I am. But more likely, she's just a retard who eats wallpaper. Oh, crap, it just occurred to me that there's probably lead in that 40 year old paint. The cycle of retardedness continues.

So what's more white trash than a henna tattoo, a dubious toenail and a partially-eaten home? Not much. Oh, my truck is starting to rust along the bottom, too. Perfect.

Posted at 04:12 PM | Comments (4)

July 25, 2007

Pigs No More

Like me, New Boss (NewBo?) has added some extra pounds to his near-middle-aged self, like cream cheese to a bagel. He's not in any danger of having to be removed from his own home with a crane, mind you, but he's not happy. Like so many of us, he'd like to scrape a little off the middle, ya know?

As my efforts to organize his office continue, I went on an electronic file purging hunt. Like a territorial animal, I got rid of all my predecessor's files, while resisting the urge to just squat on the computer.

In doing so, I noticed a lot of documents that belonged to NewBo, and yet weren't business-related. So I made him a Personal file and dragged them all into there.

Most of them were traveling league baseball schedules, batting line-ups and such. But one jumped out at me. It was called "Pigs No More." C'mon, I had to read that one! I mean, it's not like he was trying to hide it, after all!

It was... like a menu. A spreadsheet of three meals a day plus a snack. I assumed it was diet-related and put it in his Personal file. And I'm not one to discuss peoples' weight unbidden (this post being the exception, apparently), so I certainly had no intention of mentioning it to him.

In fact, it was all but forgotten when I told him how I had arranged his files, and he's like, "Did you see Pigs No More?"

He sounded quite excited about it, so I told him I'd glanced at it briefly. Then he told me about this diet plan he had going with his friend last year. The whole jist of it was that they had to email to each other a list of everything they ate. And apparently, shame is a great incentive because NewBo lost 12 lbs. rather than admit to Big Macs for lunch.

In my relentless search to shave off a few pounds, I have never come across this method. Sure, I've heard you're supposed to write down everything you eat. But I will tell myself out-and-out bald-faced lies -- and believe them -- so that never worked.

But having someone else hold you accountable... hmmmm, that's an idea worth looking into. So I emailed Billi and bounced it off her. Her reply?

"That's a good idea. Only I'm not ashamed to tell you I just had potato chips and french onion dip for dinner, then a bowl of choc. chip ice cream for desert. No fruit or veggies passed these lips today!"

And therein lies the rub. Neither of us have any shame. I could have an entire tube of Pringles and some Twizzlers for lunch, then a Coldstone Creamery All Lovin' No Oven for dinner, and not only would I have no qualms about admitting that to her, I'd be bragging about it!

I wrote back to her:

"Please. The closest thing I had to a veggie today was the salsa and chips at 4:00. Right after the Chips Ahoy and before the Blizzard."

I guess it's some weird frat-boy-esque thing. Guess what I can eat and still not throw up! So lady-like. I'm sure my mother is beaming.

Well, I'd sure love to hear any other ka-ka-may-mee weight-loss gimics that have worked for others! And don't gimme that "eat less, move more" crap -- that's just crazy talk!

Posted at 02:31 PM | Comments (5)

July 18, 2007

Fabulous

When I was young and had a totally smokin' hot body, when I could wear spandex without a bulge to be seen, I was disgusted by the men who checked me out. I thought they were lecherous and vile and should be locked up and castrated.

Oh, how I long for those lecherous looks again. I know it's horribly un-feminist of me, but at 37, it's nice, every once in a while, to be reassured that my youthful smokin'ness has been completely obliterated by old age and extra poundage.

Losing the luscious locks hasn't helped. It shames me to admit it but... I don't feel special anymore. I hate my short hair.

Which is not to say -- before you short-hairs start sending me hate mail -- that I hate short hair in general. To the contrary! Egrau, who has the shortest hair of any female I know -- probably about three-quarters of an inch right before a haircut -- looks fabulous. She's gorgeous. She's got the face of a 40's movie star, and she totally works her buzzcut. She puts those wailing Next Top Model wussies to shame. Shame!

Me? Not so much. I'm a tall, broad-shouldered broad. Aside from the man-baiting melons, my hair is/was the one thing that makes me feel girlie. Now that it's gone, the hogans are having to work extra hard, and they're not happy. Having led a pampered, pushed-up, expensively-cradled life, they're just not used to the pressure of being my sole lure.

The other day, I was out walking the dogs. I was wearing my yoga pants and a slightly-fitted t-shirt. Not horrible-looking, by any stretch of the imagination. And yet male after male drove by without so much as an eye-flick in my direction.

*sigh* I know I shouldn't care. It's vain and shallow and prehistoric. And I wish I didn't care.

I wish I had the guts to shake my fist at their departing cars and yell:

"Oh yeah? Well, you shouldn't look at me! You're not worthy! I'm much too fabulous a human being to be bothered with you! People think I'm witty and well-educated! I'm dynamite in the sack! I bake unbelievable cookies, and just give them away! Because that's how fabulous I am! More than once, I have brought an entire church congregation to tears with my singing! I am generous and talented and cuddly! I AM FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!"

But I don't. And then a 40-ish woman with curly hair drives by and glances at me.

And I nod and think to myself, "Oh yeah. I still got it."

Posted at 10:09 AM | Comments (4)

July 16, 2007

Frittering

Billi called on Saturday.

B: Hey, we're going out on the boat! You and Husband wanna come with us?

PW: Can't. I have a headache right behind my eyes, and if I open them to look at the scenery, they will pop out of my head and into the water and get eaten by seagulls.

B: ... Okay then. Maybe next time.

Billi called on Sunday.

B: Hey! We're gonna go to Old Orchard and have lunch! Wanna meet us?

PW: Old Orchard? That's like... light years away from you guys. Why Old Orchard?

B: Dunno! Haven't been there in a while. We're gonna walk around outside, have lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. Come with us!

PW: Can't. All the stuff I didn't do yesterday has to get done today.

B: Like what?!

PW: Painting the stupid mudroom. Getting ready for Movie Night.

B: Fine.

PW: I know. I suck.

And you know what? I really do suck. I mean, where have I gone wrong that Billi and her family are jet-setting all over two counties, soaking up the sunshine, and I haven't done shit this summer?! I'm just frittering away my time like it's March.

My most exciting thought? "Should I look for the green Dooney & Bourke Sac on eBay, or the black? Hee! I said sac."

I need an adventure! A road trip! SOMEONE TAKE ME ON AN ADVENTURE!!!

So yeah. If you were at Old Orchard this weekend, and you saw a woman with three ridiculously gorgeous children and a really tall husband, and you thought to yourself, "Hmmm, that's what I've always imagined Wenchie to look like. Only prettier." That was Billi. Ask her for her autograph next time.

Seriously. Road trip? Anyone? Bueller?

Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (1)

July 12, 2007

Ugh Haiku

whole pack of Twizzlers
dinner soon, I'm gonna barf
what was I thinking?

Posted at 05:12 PM | Comments (0)

July 05, 2007

The Feast of July

The 4th of July has officially joined Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter as a holday at which we gorge ourselves.

Up until this year, the 4th was always summer food: fruity Jello, slurpy watermelon, crunchy coleslaw. You know, foods low in carbs, high in water content. Over-eating is hard to do when your shorts are already sweaty and sticking to you. The last thing you want is for them to feel even tighter.

And there was my first mistake. Yesterday was hot and drippingly moist, so I decided that we would eat inside. On the dining room table. Where the bloated ghosts of past Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter feasts linger year-round because they're too full to float away.

The next mistake? Making Independence Potatos instead of cutting up the half of a watermelon we have sitting in the fridge. Stooooooooo-pid!

[The origin of Independence Potatos: I hate mashed potatos, so for my first big family dinner, my Mom gave me a recipe for what she calls Funeral Potatos because she always makes them for funeral luncheons. (We're Lutheran.) Well, at Easter dinner, Ramone didn't think it was right to be eating Funeral Potatos to celebrate Jesus' resurrection, so he dubbed them Our Risen Savior Potatos. And now they just morph into whatever occassion I make them for, i.e. Independence Potatos.]

The third stop on the way to Fullsville was Egrau's contribution. I had asked her to bring some kind of salad. So what did she bring? Pasta salad! Not that it isn't freakin' awesome and I totally have to get the recipe from her. It's just funny that she chose the same route as I did -- the carb route.

So typical of us. *sigh*

And then. There was dessert.

Of course, for six people, PJ couldn't make just one dessert. She had to make an entire pan of chocolate-chip-caramel-walnut brownies, and an apple pie that was eight inches high. A la mode.

But the piece de resistance was the entree. We had some nice beef filets that Husband was going to grill, but about mid-afternoon, he came down with one of his increasingly-frequent stress headaches.

(No, smart-asses, living with me has not finally caught up with him. Work has become unbearable for him. That kind of I'm-going-to-light-a-match-and-walk-away unbearable. I'll tell you about it when the smoke clears. Whenever that is. But until then, well... I have been advised not to discuss it.)

Fifteen minutes before company arrived, he barfed. (Nothing funny -- just a plain ol' in-the-toilet hurl). So I wasn't about to make him stand over a fire in 85 degree heat. See? I'm nice sometimes!

So we ordered pizza. And had with it potatos, pasta, brownies and pie. The food coma brought on by the meal was so severe, I went to bed at 8:30 last night.

I had eaten so much that, by 8:10 this morning, I had already pooped twice.

Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (4)

July 01, 2007

Bad, Bad Mommy

My Barbies are still dressed in their winter clothes. I have been a neglectful mother. I hang my head in shame.

Summer is always the bitches' favorite season because they can dress real skimpy and slutty without freezing their plastic asses off.

So who wants to come over some time in the next couple weeks and help me redress them?

Posted at 11:46 AM | Comments (1)

June 28, 2007

No Freebie

My new job is going swimmingly. Although, truthfully, all I've done so far is clean up the damn pig sty that is my cubicle and organize a bunch of crap. Still, New Boss is pleased with my obsessive-compulsive behavior. Plus, he has said that he doesn't like meek people, which also bodes well for me.

Because I'm going to be dealing with confidential info and stocks and huge mounds of scratch, the company has to do an in-depth background check on me.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again -- Thank God I don't have my name on this blog!

I have to go get fingerprinted today at 4:00 at my local police station. Fingerprinted. So that said fingerprints can be sent to the F.B.I.

Do you believe that shit? People, I'm a glorified secretary, and the last thing I'm going to be doing is flipping through peoples' files for juicy tidbits because it's all numbers and boring as dry, white toast.

But I have to be fingerprinted. Me, who doesn't want to do the one-touch fingerprint check-out dealy at Jewel because I don't want my prints In The System. Well, I'm In The System now and not pleased at all!

See, the way I see it is this -- everyone gets a Freebie. Except here in Chicago, where Freebies are limitless. But in theory, everybody gets one. Like, if you have to commit a felony, you get one, then your prints go into the system. Assuming you don't get caught, it's your Freebie! Because they have nothing to match the prints against! So as long as you never commit another felony, you're golden!

But now my Freebie is gone. I'm Freebie-less. Sans Freebie. And that just doesn't sit right with me because, if there's a felony that really needs commiting, I'm going to have to hire someone to do it. Can't do it myself. It's a very sobering thought.

So now I have an hour and a half left to commit a felony. Damn, I'm going to have to work fast.

Posted at 02:22 PM | Comments (3)

June 25, 2007

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Can you believe I even used that title? Wasn't that the name of a Bugs Bunny episode? I'm so embarassed.

Well, as I'm sure you've surmised from my plagerized title, I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow. And why is that blog-worthy? you're wondering.

A. Because it's my hair, and I have been named She of the Immaculate Hair.

B. Because I'm getting ten inches cut off. TEN!!! That's a lotta damn hair, people!

It's a crime against humanity, I know. But as upsetting as I'm sure it is for all of you, be assured, it's for a good cause. Locks of Love. Their mission statement is:

To return a sense of self, confidence and normalcy to children suffering from hair loss by utilizing donated ponytails to provide the highest quality hair prosthetics to financially disadvantaged children.

See that? Highest quality hair. Well. I'm practically obligated, aren't I?

But here's the thing. It takes a long time to grow ten inches of hair. Especially when one is actually growing an extra surplus of hair so that one is not bald when the ten inches is cut off. Now, I likes me some long hair, but it's gotten ridiculous.

The washing, the rinsing, the conditioning, the combing out of the knots, the drying, the curling/straightening, the brushing, the styling -- dudes? My arms are tired.

And now, the requisite Before photos. I'll have the After photos on Wednesday. On Tuesday, I will be crying too hard to blog.

This one I took in February. I know because Valentine's Day was the only day I ever wore red nail polish. A mistake I won't be making again.

Do you know how hard it is to take a picture of your own hair? This is my hair Sunday morning. It's pretty much been my standard 'do since retiring. It's easy to grown one's hair out, when one doesn't ever have to look professional.

But said 'do doesn't cut it in an office environment. Unless, of course, I were at the office after hours. Vacuuming and emptying waste paper baskets.

No, I need to look polished and put together. And since we all know I couldn't care less about my wardrobe, I often let my hair do most of the talking for me. And right now? It's saying...

"I'm a damn hippie."

Yes, this is the cascade of glory that is undergoing the knife at 2:00 p.m. Tuesday. My hair dresser is positively quivering at the idea of giving me A Whole New Look. I, however, am less enthusiastic.

So why go through with it now? Why not wait another six months? Well, frankly, what with my employment beginning today, I want to be able to sleep in another 20 minutes each morning, and I can do that... with ten inches less hair.

So. Who wants a lock?

I had this I.M. conversation with Marty, who took the news fairly well.

PW: I'm cutting 10" off my hair on Tuesday. Want a lock?

M: sure! I'll put it in my hope chest

PW: Ok, I'll save one for ya.

M: 10"??? how will I recognize you?

PW: Please. Like your eyes ever make it higher than my chest.

M: sometimes your hair hangs down in front and kinda covers your boobs

PW: Wait. You have a hope chest???? Fag.

M: I'm kind of excited to see it

PW: the short hair?

M: yup

PW: for you, it'll be like not having sex with a whole new woman

Seriously, who wants a lock? I will be selling them for a small fee. Or a small gift. Or a kiss. With tongues.

Posted at 07:48 AM | Comments (3)

June 14, 2007

Where Has All the Fuck Gone?

Yesterday evening, I was pumping gas into my car, and a couple of teenaged girls were trying to figure out how to use Mommy's gas card to put gas in Mommy's minivan. And because they were obviously much more mature and sophisticated than most teenaged girls, every other word was Fuck. Because, you know, that's what grown-ups say.

And to further prove their intelligence and coolness, one of them lit up a cigarette. At the gas station. While pumping gas.

But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I suddenly realized how little Fuck there has been in my life lately. What with Nicki abandoning me, Heather was pretty much my sole daily link to Fuck. And since I often forget to sign onto AOL I.M., I probably hear Fuck less than half a dozen times a day. Sometimes not at all. It's very distressing!

My love affair with Fuck started, predictably, when I began waiting tables. In order to counteract all that fake smiling and niceness that the wait staff must show to the customers, they swear like... well, like wait staff when they're not around the guests.

Working at LePeep was especially hilarious. It was me, the gay host, the token "lifer" waitress, and half a dozen cheerleaders from the local high school. They were all about 5'2", their weight still in the double-digits, and cute as Care Bears. Precious!

Oh, did those gals get an education. They thought they had learned all about Fuck in the smoking bathroom by the performing arts wing. But those girls didn't know Fuck.

After a few weeks, The Lifer and I had it so the Mexican cooks would cross themselves anytime the cheerleaders were around. But it sounded so cute when they said it!

Ironically, I married a man who is barely on a first name basis with Fuck. And now that I'm so far removed from Heather, Nicki, Chick Boss, Assistant Chick Boss and Hott Boss, there's just so little Fuck for me to enjoy.

I miss it. I really do. I find myself "accidentally" bumping into people at Walgreens, just hoping one of them will tell me to Fuck Off.

There's only one clear solution really. Mom, you're going to have to start using The F Word more.

Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (6)

June 04, 2007

Thank God I Have a Treadmill!

You know that scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” where they’re trying to leave the school? And there are birds covering every inch of the playground equipment? And they’re totally still, but you just know that they’re watching? And waiting?

That’s what this morning was like.

We’re fortunate enough to live a half-mile from a lovely public park and nature preserve, so most mornings, I walk one or both dogs (depending on how much hassle I feel like dealing with) down to the park and around the pond. It’s really quite lovely and peaceful.

But the cicadas showed up in significant numbers for the first time in my neighborhood this week. Every tree over seventeen years old is covered with them. So much so that the disgusting creatures are starting to migrate to cars, fences, garden décor and even an old couch that someone left out for the garbage men. *shudder*

The last time the cicadas showed up, it was for Spikette’s wedding in June of 1990. She got married in a pretty, little chapel… in the forest. The time before that, I was just three years old. You wouldn’t think I’d remember anything about it, but I do. I remember them falling off the trees onto us. Gross gross GROSS.

The town I live in is one of the “Tree City U.S.A.” towns, meaning we have a certain number of trees per square mile or whatever. It’s a pretty town, but more trees means more cicadas, and that’s just not sitting well with me right now.

I know the cicadas can’t hurt me. Logically, I know this. And I like to think that my Wenchie persona is above such things as creepy-crawly-bug-fear.

But I’m not. There, I said it. These damn cicadas give me the chronic heebie-jeebies, and I don’t care who knows it!

I was pretty much fine for about the first quarter of our walk. The crunching beneath my sneakers had made me only mildly nauseated. But when I got to the park entrance and saw All… Those… Trees…, I thought to myself, There’s no fucking way.

So we turned around and headed home. It was then that the cicadas sensed my presence. The signal went through the trees. Small squadrons were sent out intermittently to dive bomb my head. One flew within inches of me, and I squealed like a little girl. The sound of their wings makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and do jumping-jacks.

Still one-third mile from my home, I picked up my pace. I kept looking behind me and making ridiculous movements because I was sure one had landed on my back. Thank God I was the only person stupid enough to be out walking this morning.

For the next few weeks, I’ll be sticking to the treadmill, thankyouverymuch.

Posted at 04:30 PM | Comments (4)

May 23, 2007

Things I Do That Annoy Myself

1. Saying, “I’m starving!” Am I really starving? No. Of course not. Although I can see my feet just fine, alas, my ribs are but a fond memory. To say that I, with my Secret Stash drawer full of Snow Caps and Good 'n' Plenty, am enduring scurvy and faced with an uncertain future, undermines what it truly means to be starving. I’m a horrible, horrible person.

2. Waiting too long to go pee. I have a small house and two bathrooms, and yet, I'm often in danger of wetting myself because I’m too lazy to drag my diet-A&W-sodden ass down the hall as often as I should. Which means when I do go, about the time my kidneys start aching, I have to tiptoe, so as not to slosh around too much.

3. Conversely, waiting too long to go poop. As a rule, I don’t like to sit on the toilet and read or meditate or whatever the hell it is that people do when they take half-hour-long shits, so I wait until my bowels are damn good and ready so that I can squeeze one out in less than 10 seconds. But sometimes, I wait to long, and then I’ve got a turtlehead poking out. Not a comfortable walk.

4. Talking on my cell phone when I’m driving. For some reason, I can’t get it thru my head that I, too, am a witless asshole when I drive and talk. I will swear to make a sailor blush when someone in front of me has forgotten what the gas pedal and turn signals are because they simply must discuss the last episode of “Grey's Anatomy” in detail, but that’s just other people. I don’t forsake driving skills for mindless so-what-are-you-doing conversations. NooOOOooo.

Send your hate mail to piratewenchdotorg@yahoo.com.

Posted at 11:45 AM | Comments (4)

May 11, 2007

A Joy to Behold

There are many things that you will never, ever hear me say:

“Mmmm, that vegan meal was delicious!”

“I just don’t feel right unless I jog five miles every morning.”

“But Bruce, we can’t – I’m married!”

Also on that list for many, many years: “I have to get home and finish the yard work that I started this morning.”

Yard. Work. Two words I’m happy to use on a regular basis. But never together.

Until this week.

To justify my early retirement, I’ve been trying to do as much around the house as humanly possible to make Husband’s life easier. My plan is that he will soon get used to home cooked meals and a spotless house and only wearing his underwear for one day before washing it, and he’ll beg me never to go back to work.

Traditionally, anything that fell outside the house walls –- i.e. the cars, the yard, the big money –- was his responsibility. I don’t shovel. I don’t pick up poop. I don’t get the oil changed. I don’t plant flowers.

But let’s face it -– there’s only so much I can dust before there just isn’t any dust left. I’m telling you, you could perform surgery in my kitchen. I served punch out of my toilet at the cast party last weekend.

So yesterday, I took a good look at the front of our house… and promptly died of shame.

When I came back to life, I thought, My God, that crap under our tree is totally overgrown. It’s starting to take over our driveway. And the neighbors’ driveway. And I’m pretty sure that fern has been extinct for 400 billion years. Yeah, that’s all gonna have to go.

It’s pretty sad when you look homeless while actually standing in front of your house. So I put on my gloves, got a broom and that clipper thingy, opened an official “Yard Waste” bag and started at it.

And people, I have discovered N*I*R*V*A*N*A!!! I can’t even explain what fulfillment yard work has brought me! I love it! I want to write bad poetry about it! I want to ride past its house on my bike twenty times a day! I want to marry it!

I can work for a scant half an hour, and then stand back and survey the clean edges, the lack of dead brown stuff, and the patio! Did we always have a patio?

My inner Obsessive/Compulsive is so, so gratified by yard work. It’s so much different than housework. See, I can clean the whole house, and by the next morning, there’s sticky stuff on the counter and dog hair tumbleweeds in the corners and water spots on the bathroom mirror.

But clean up the yard… and it’s paradise! The weeds will take at least a couple weeks to grow back. There won’t be leaves falling for months! I can make it lovely, and it will STAY lovely for days and days and days! A joy to behold all summer!

There’s also the added benefit of a good work-out. One of the dozens of reasons I hate exercising is that I always feel like I could be doing something else much more immediately rewarding, like bidding on eBay or baking cookies. But with yard work, I get stuff done AND get to suffer for it physically! It’s nature’s most perfect activity!

Of course, I’m still not going to plant stuff. That’s Husband’s job. Plants commit suicide in my presence. But if I’m only touching stuff that’s already dead or that I want to be dead, I’m golden! I can use my powers for good instead of evil!

Wow. I guess that’s another thing I never thought I’d hear myself say.

Posted at 01:47 PM | Comments (4)

April 30, 2007

The History of Swearing and Jerry

When I was still Jerry's fulltime nanny, and he was still a toddler, I would take him on errands with me. His Mom didn't mind, and it was nice for both of us to get outta the house sometimes.

On one such occassion, I was driving to Target (a place Jerry is very familiar with, thanks to me), and some jerk cut me off, causing me to swerve and my stomach to turn itself inside-out.

Also causing me to swear loudly, "Shit!"

Have I mentioned that both of Jerry's parents are pastors? Yeah. Well, guess what he picked up from Nanny? I sheepishly came clean to them, and they were very understand, but still, I was pretty embarassed.

Fast forward several years. Jerry was about eight, and I was preparing dinner. Predictably, because I was within a 100 yard radius of knives and fire, I hurt myself and said, "Crap!"

Jerry very politely said, "Could you please not talk that way around me?"

What I was thinking was Jeez, dude, lighten up. But I knew he was just responding the way he had been taught, so I smiled tightly and went to tend to my wound.

Then there was today.

I picked up Jerry from middle school at 3:00, and on the way home, I had to change lanes. An everyday occurance.

Now, I'm a good driver. Ask my Mom. I have to be because everyone else out there is a retard. Before changing lanes, I looked in my rearview mirror, noted that the car in the other lane was at a reasonable distance, and turned on my turn signal.

But as I merged into the other lane, Honky McHorn was all over my ass, scaring the shit out of me and forcing me back into my original lane. Then he had the nerve to drive up next to me and do the "What the hell were you doing?" pantomine with his hands.

So I rolled down my window and screamed, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THAT SHIT?! YOU TOTALLY SPED UP WHEN YOU SAW ME SIGNAL! FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! I HOPE YOU FUCKING CRASH!"

And then I realized that I had just set a very bad example for quiet, little Jerry in the back seat.

Desperately, I tried to recover.

"Oh. My. God. I am so sorry, Jerry. That guy was a total jerk, and he just made me so mad, speeding up like that and blaring his horn."

And Jerry just smiled and said, "That's okay. Sometimes I get mad, too."

God bless you, Fred Rogers, wherever you are.

Posted at 09:42 PM | Comments (0)

April 27, 2007

Accessory Whore

As I type this, I am sporting so many cool accessories, I can hardly stand how fabulous I look.

From head to toes:

* Dark blue pillbox hat. With veil.

* False eyelashes worthy of a drag queen.

* Seven strands of pearls, varying lengths.

* White satin opera gloves.

* Every charm bracelet I own.

* Floor-length circle skirt.

* White Keds encrusted with faux pearls and sequins.

No, I'm not going out to mow the lawn. I only wear three strands of pearls for that, duh.

My show opens tonight!

Trust me -- you will see Mary Kate and/or Ashley sporting this look any day now. You watch!

Now, where did I leave my fox stole...?

Later...

Now that I've spent far too much time looking in the mirror, I've realized something. The look I was going for was kind of "Breakfast at Tiffany's," but I'm afraid I ended up more "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?"

Posted at 04:48 PM | Comments (5)

March 05, 2007

Flying High

My friend Natalie was in town briefly, and I always enjoy hearing stories of her romantic trials. A Chicago gal through and through, she currently lives in New York because that's where you go to break onto Broadway. I send her a check every month because I plan to have my big, lily-white butt firmly planted on her coattails, once she makes it big.

Anyhoo, we caught up over some lovely Panera paninis (say that ten times fast!), and we got to trading stories of our dating escapades gone horribly awry. I was reminded of one of my favorites.

I briefly dated an Italian guy named Marco. So briefly, my Mom probably doesn't even remember any of this. In fact, I'm not even positive Marco was his name. A friend of mine in college set us up because she thought we'd look good together. Seriously -- that was her entire motivation. And sadly, I went for it.

Hey, if I wasn't stupid, I'd have nothing to blog about, so shut up!

One summer evening, he was driving us to the movies. Out of the blue, he said to me, "You know, I wouldn't even tell you this, except that I'm really flying high on acid right now."

Uh-huh. Acid.

In the passenger seat, I was thinking, Boy, a conversation that starts like that probably isn't going to go very well. I was also thinking, He's probably not as in control of this car as I'd like. But I let him continue, out of sheer morbid curiosity.

He said, "You should probably know that I'm a dealer."

"Like, a car dealer?" I asked, knowing damn well that's not what he meant but hoping to impress upon him the absurdity of the current situation.

"No, like a drug dealer. Coke and pot."

"You're kidding me."

"What? It's not like I'm pushing it to little kids on the playground. The people I sell to would just get it somewhere else if I didn't provide it."

Cuz that makes it okay. He's just providing a public service! I made my displeasure clear, and then he got all defensive and blamed ME for not having figured it out on my own.

"Where did you think I got this car and this stereo? You think I paid for that with my day job?!"

"Well, you live with your parents, so, yeah! I did!"

He wanted to continue to berate me for being a "silly, little girl," but I told him to stop the car. And he did. Right in the middle of the street. Luckily, we weren't far from my house, and it was still pretty light out, so I walked home.

My parents were surprised to see me home so early, and hell if my shellshocked brain could come up with a good excuse, so I just told them the truth. I got out of the car because my date admitted to be flying high on acid.

As you may imagine, they didn't know quite what to do with that information. They couldn't really get mad because, upon learning I was dating a coke dealer, I had done the right thing. So they just made sure I had no intention of seeing him again, and we watched some t.v.

Who drives a car on acid? And how did I not know I was dating a drug dealer? God, I'm so glad I'm not nineteen anymore.

Posted at 07:47 AM | Comments (2)

February 08, 2007

Ice: Cause & Solution

You know, I've been getting a wee bit annoyed by all the people insinuating that, now that I'm between jobs, I'm sitting at home on the couch watching Oprah and eating bon-bons. In fact, I'm almost insulted that some folks seem to think I'm a lazy-ass with nothing else to do.

Yeah, I'd be offended, ...if it weren't for the fact that I'm totally spending the better part of my day on the couch.

Because I sprained my ankle.

Day Two of Blissful Unemployment, and I slip and fall on the ice. In my defense, it's January in Chicago -- who knew there'd be ice?!?!

I was bringing the garbage can in from the curb -- a Man Job -- and I fell. Scared the shit outta me.

First thought: Shit, my leg is broken.

Second thought: I hope no one saw that.

So I crawled into the garage, where I was sure there was no ice and once in the house, ironically, got some ice to put on my ankle. Ice, like Homer's alcohol -- "The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems."

As I sat there, icing, I mentally assessed the damage to my ankle. And leg. And knee. Yup, the knee wasn't feeling great, either. I was kind of hoping it was one of those walk-it-off kind of injuries, but after a few hours of stabbing pain, I gave up and called Dr. Angel, my hot chiropractor who looks like Angel, the vampire with a soul.

Why go to the E.R. and wait seven hours when I can see Dr. Angel on demand? I told him I'd be there in twenty minutes. He's only ten minutes away, but I had to factor in enough time to change out of my unemployment attire -- pajama pants and a sweatshirt. Yes, I dress up to go see my chiropractor. Shut up.

While changing my pants, I realized, I have to shave my leg. I can't let Dr. Angel touch my nasty, hairy leg! Quick -- into the bathtub!

Having shaved the injured leg, it occurred to me that he might want to see both legs, side by side, in order to ascertain if there was any swelling. So then I had to balance, on my nearly-broken ankle, and put my other foot on the rim of the tub to shave. As if any of us needed any more demonstration of what an idiot I truly am.

Vanity, thy name is Wench.

(I know Spikette [nee Older Sister] understands.)

Driving with a mutilated right ankle is no fun. I hobbled into one of the patient rooms.

I didn't know if he'd want me sitting down on the bench or lying down or what, so I said, "How do you want me?"

He said, "Naked."

Oh, honey. If only. Doesn't he know it's not nice to tease old, married ladies? So I unzipped my pants, and he dropped my file folder. Papers went flying everywhere -- Hee! It was like a sitcom gag, and yet totally adorable.

Several x-rays and an hour later, he decided it's not broken, but it's badly sprained in two places. I'm going back Saturday morning for a brace. In the meantime, "no unnecessary walking." Which means, only walk to pee or get food. Also? No driving.

So now, not only am I unemployed and unable to bring any income to the table, I'm also gimpified and unable to do the simplest household chores. If I was a horse, Husband would shoot me. I'm utterly useless.

Well, I guess there is one thing I don't need to be on my feet to do...

Posted at 12:49 PM | Comments (3)

January 30, 2007

Say "Soho Hobo" Ten Times Fast

I can not be trusted.

Nine o'clock this morning, I'm driving Husband to O'Hare so he can do a business overnight in Louisville, Kentucky.

Four hours later, I'm slapping down plastic in the Coach store.

"This purse is a steal at a hundred and ninety-eight dollars! At that price, I'd be a fool not to buy the matching mini-skinny!"

Frankly, I'm shocked I walked outta there without a key fob, I was so euphoric!

But people, you don't understand how beautiful this purse is. It's the culmination of all my spring/summer purse fantasies. A lilac so soft, it's nearly baby pink. A leather so soft, it's nearly baby butt. A love so forbidden...

Well, nevermind. Let's just say, Husband's side of the bed won't be empty tonight.

Ohhhhhhhhh, sweet Soho Hobo!

Posted at 02:35 PM | Comments (2)

January 24, 2007

My Oriental Rug

Okay, all this Wenchie Is Quitting! shit is getting monotonous. So I thought I'd take a breather from that particular brand of faux-drama with... a different kind of faux-drama.

Teenaged poetry, to be exact. Yeah -- mine. God, this is so embarassing. But we could all use a laugh, right? Because we're all getting tired of my whining.

Learn To Ignore

Peaceful incense by candlelight.
I try to remain calm
on my oriental rug.

But knowing that you're miles away --
having fun without me,
not caring about me
-- makes me burn much hotter
than these tiny flames teasing my eyes.

Ignore my anger --
it's so easy for you.
I hate you.
I love you.
I can't come back to you.
Learn to ignore your own emotions now.

PW 8-31-88

"On my oriental rug?" What was I thinking?! What a pretentious moron!

I was eighteen. OBVIOUSLY. I don't even remember who I wrote that about. Some winner, I'm sure. I really knew how to pick 'em back then.

Another one? Oh, if you insist.

Security

I exist in cruel coldness
and surround myself
with decorative boxes
containing the souls
of the soft-eyed and soft-hearted
to keep me safe and warm.

PW 12-29-88

So... yeah. A little dark, even then.

I hope you've enjoyed this foray into the humiliation of Wenchie. Please don't think for one nano-second that I don't know that these poems SUCK HAIRY DONKEY BALLS. They are purely for your amusement.

Ugh. I have books of this shit. Heather, be sure to publish it all when I die, under the title I Was a Teenaged Asshat.

Tomorrow, we will return to our regularly-scheduled bitching...

Posted at 01:29 PM | Comments (4)

January 15, 2007

The Calls Are Coming From Inside Your Head!

What I want to talk about today may make some of you uncomfortable. It's an issue I have rarely seen addressed by even the most boundary-snubbing writers, comedians and radio personalities. It's even less socially tolerated than an open discussion of vaginas.

I'm talking, of course, of nose-whistling.

You know what I'm talking about. You've probably experienced it at least once in a solemn gathering, either as the whistler or as the person looking around wondering, What the hell is that noise?

I have allergies. So at any given point in time, the inside of my nose is coated with a skin of mucus that varies in consistency depending on time of year, time of day, etc.

Despite this, nose-whistling is rarely a problem with me. I'm not really a heavy breather, ya know? I'm not one of those people you can hear breathing. Probably because I'm barely breathing, and I can't find the air. Don't know who I'm kidding -- imagining you care.

What?

Nothing.

I barely breath. My blood barely moves through my body. My core temperature is below 98.6 degrees. I can't keep myself warm. I'm almost as dead outside as I am inside. You know what problem the undead don't have? Nose-whistling!

However, once I go to sleep, it's a whole different story. I wake up in the morning, and there's Special K in my nose. And man, it clings! It is often eye-wateringly painful to get that shit outta there!

It's the midnight Special K that makes my nose whistle. I've even woken myself up with the nose-whistling. I'll be suddenly awake, checking the Husband for snoring, checking the air for toxic farts, checking the house for sounds of The Murderer.

And as I'm listening, I realize, That's no door creaking open, being pushed ever go stealthily by the hand of an axe-wielding ex-boyfriend; that's MY NOSE.

And that's just the depth of humiliation, isn't it? There's no rolling over and nudging the Husband for a little nookie after that. Heck, you might as well just read a book because even earplugs aren't going to block out the sound.

Because -- get this -- the whistling is echoing in your head!

Trippy.

So, um... I didn't really have any point or advice on the subject of nose-whistling. I just thought I'd get it out there, expose the elephant in the room and open up the topic to discussion.

God, could you imagine if an elephant had a nose-whistle?! It'd be deafening!

Posted at 01:27 PM | Comments (2)

December 21, 2006

My MySpace Space

This morning, my still-drunk cousin IMed me from his bedroom, where his "date" from the night before was still passed out in bed, with his muddy dog. Classy, no?

He's a douche, but I love him. Mostly because he's not afraid to be a douche. He owns his douchery and is, as a result, very funny and virtually void of pretense.

In the course of our conversation (during which I must decipher some of the most horrendous spelling and grammar known to man or beast), he happened to mention that he has a MySpace. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA! He's a banjo-pickin' construction worker... with a MySpace. I'm going to have to call him Kate-Lynn from now on.

Now, I have a LiveJournal. It's where I started, and I kept it when I got my own site because of the small-but-valuable network of friends I've made there. (Shout-out to Lori and C. Elff! Werd t' ya mutha!)

I've toyed with the idea of creating a MySpace, to maybe draw more traffic to this site. But a MySpace just seems so... I don't know... teenaged girly, ya know? My sixteen year old step daughter has a MySpace. Aren't she and I supposed to have, like, NOTHING in common? Isn't that the rule?

(No, I'm not linking to her or "friending" her on my MySpace. She's very pretty, and I don't want you sickos stalking her.)

When my cousin mentioned his MySpace, I, of course, demanded a link, and promptly laughed my ass off. He's a crass little gayrod, that's for sure. I read his blog posts -- very funny, when translated from the original Stoner -- and wanted to see his photos. But I can't see his photos unless I have a MySpace account.

So I made a MySpace. Yeah, this is the level to which my life has plummeted: I made a MySpace account... so I could see photos of my cousin toking up and sitting on the toilet. *sigh* Words fail me.

But, hey, I was already committed. The foul deed had been done, so why not add some friends? Found a few, requested a few more (including Tyra Banks and Janice Dickinson).

JANICE!!!

I doubt I'll blog there much. Even with my added twenty hours of leisure time every week, I already have this website and the LJ to keep up. I can't do everything! But I'm sure I'll keep adding friends, to validate my existance and make me feel special.

--<jumping up and down like a heavily caffienated teacup poodle> Friend me! Friend me! Friend me! </jumping up and down like a heavily caffienated teacup poodle>-- But if I don't know you, drop me a quick note so I know you're not just some starving artist or amateur pornographer looking for free ad space.

Not that there's anything wrong with amateur pornography...

Posted at 05:53 PM | Comments (2)

October 17, 2006

An Interesting Place To Keep One's Keys

Oh. My. Sweet. Lord.

I saw another man's penis this weekend, ladies and gentlemen. And it was weird.

But it totally doesn't count as adultery because it's owner is gay, and I didn't even touch it! In fact, I shrieked embarassingly like a virgin, then pointed and laughed.

...

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Remember my friend Big, Gay Joe, of Barbie-enabling fame? Well, he, a grown man, throws himself a big birthday party every year. With champagne and meatballs and presents and singing and everything. I think it's awesome, but then again, you know how I feel about presents!

I don't think I've missed many of his parties in the... twelve? years that I've known him. Sometimes I bring a girl friend (safety in numbers). Sometimes I brave it alone, and the only people there I know are Joe and his nephew Ken, the token straight guy.

Since I've been to so many of Joe's parties, it's to the point now where I know a few more people. Charlie, the model/dancer. Lawrence, the theatre nerd. Monica, the biker lesbian.

I know what you're thinking. Wenchie HATES people! And small talk! I can't believe she'd willingly walk into a party like that ALONE!

Actually, it's much easier than a non-gay party. At non-gay parties, all the guys are staring at my boobs, and all the chicks are staring at my boobs and hating me for them. At non-gay parties, I'm a freak for being 36, for not having reproduced and for having teenaged step daughters. At non-gay parties, you have to talk about where you work, where you grew up and where you live now.

At Joe's party, we talked about how long it would take Arlene to recognize Craig, since he wasn't dressed as "Gina," and how were the lesbians going to get the cake to the party on their motorcycle? And, for some reason, it's not as annoying when women stare at my chest -- probably the novelty factor.

I love Joe's parties. I'm completely white bread, and oh, how the gay men love to take me under their wings and talk trash with me! They think they're educating me, and I am a rapt pupil because gay men are Thee Most Hilarious People On Earth!!! Especially black gay men. Is that racist?

Anyhoo, this year, Husband came with me. Willingly and of his own accord! And with little or no trepidation. See, he works in a field where, if he were a homo-phobe, he wouldn't be the successful, filthy-rich man that he is.

We sat on the couch with Charlie and "Gina" and made fun of all the other guests. Then we moved on to the guests who weren't there but had been in past years.

Gina kept calling me into the kitchen to do shots with him and tell me how cute Husband is. He actually used the words "puppy dog eyes." Yeah, Husband will be hearing that every, single day for quite some time.

Charlie called me into the kitchen and whipped out his wang.

See, Charlie recently got a Prince Albert and, despite Joe's admonishments to "quit pulling down your damn pants," was very excited to show it off. And really -- if you're going to go through the trouble of getting your penis pierced, why wouldn't you show it to people?

My first reaction was, "Oh my God! It's huge!"

And I suppose Charlie thought I was talking about Charlie Jr., but really, I was talking about the ring. I mean, seriously, it was no delicate earring or something. It was like a Tiffany key ring! HUGE!

But I let him think I was talking about his johnson.

And no, I don't have a photo. I really do need to upgrade to a camera phone for events like this. I'm sure Mom has never seen a Prince Albert, and that's what my blog is all about -- education.

Posted at 01:01 PM | Comments (0)

September 06, 2006

Today's Blog Is Brought To You By the Letter "D"

The Victoria's Secret Stores have undergone some changes recently, as you may have noticed, if you've wandered past one -- or steered clear of one -- at the mall.

They sell clothes now -- athletic wear, for the fifteen-to-twenty-five demographic, who work up such a sweat running and jumping and flinging their ankles behind their ears.

The in-house product displays are... well,... I heard a Frederick's of Hollywood model walk by and go, "Check out the hootchie mamas, damn!"

And they now have Bra Technicians (I gotta get that on my business card) who will give you a fitting, i.e. measure you. Yeah, thanks, Hilda, but I have a measuring tape at home. I'll figure it out.

Besides, the thought instantly calls to mind my very first bra-shopping experience with my mother -- she and the saleslady both grappling my tiny, tiny lumps and going, "Does this seem like it fits?" As I silently implored the Lord to make me a boy.

Anyhoo, my shopping buddy, Chick Boss' Assistant, needed some new bras, so I figured, what the hell? I'd try a couple on, too. So Hilda gave me The Box of Bras in my size. Seriously, it's a black, laquer box, and it has a representative of each Victoria's Secret bra in my size.

It was a really big box.

I'm sure you're all quite titillated by this point, picturing me in some bra-trying-on montage, probably set to the song "Rag Doll" by Aerosmith or something. Black 'n' lacey! Red 'n' push-up! Pink 'n' frilly! Riiiiiiiiiiight.

Trust me -- it was not so.

When you get to be a certain cup size, bras are no longer frilly and dainty and alluring. No, when you're a D cup, it's all about structure.

C.B.A. was quite envious, as her entire bra could fit inside one of my cups, but it's no party, lemme tell ya. The under-the-boob sweat, the men who can't look you in the eye, the women who hate you because their men can't look you in the eye -- ugh. What I wouldn't give, in August, to throw on just a tank top and wash the car without getting arrested.

Long story short, Victoria's Secret makes some damn fine bras. When I got back to work, I decided I just had to change into one right away.

So I took my blazingly hot pink, unmistakable Victoria's Secret bag in hand and made the long walk to the bathroom. On the way, I passed just about every man in the entire company, most of whom glanced at my bag and, upon recognizing it, suddenly found the ceiling incredibly fascinating.

Ah, well, it was worth the embarassment. The Girls look GREAT! Just ask C.B.A. -- I had her do a before and after comparison. They're so perky!

And now Grover will sing a song about donuts.

Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (4)

August 07, 2006

Vacation: The Anti-Poop

I don't know about you guys, but my body seems very reluctant to poop while I'm on vacation. Is it just me?

I don't know what it is. It's like my lower intestine isn't all that familiar with its surroundings, so it gets nervous and decides, "Ya know? I'm just gonna sit this one out."

Oh, sure, I can squeeze off a few nuggets every couple days -- just enough to stave off pharmaceutical intervention. But a nice, big dump, where you leap off the toilet singing and feeling ten pounds lighter? No.

And this phenomenon occurs only on vacations. The rest of the time, I can rely on my bowels for at least one good movement a day -- two, if I'm particularly fortunate. I think that's fairly normal, and hey, it works for me.

The funny thing is, once I get off the expressway and am five miles from my home, my lower intestine wakes up and declares, "Hey, I know this place! Let's party!"

And all of a sudden, we're back in business. I can feel the overture begin, and the last couple of miles are a death-race to my own bathroom -- Wenchie vs. The Sphincter. Who will prevail?

Well, of course, I always prevail, or this entry would be entitled, "Why Wenchie Is Getting a New Car."

So there's a my weird vacation poop confession. Dookie takes a holiday.

Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (2)

July 05, 2006

The Aging Cliff

Everyone calls it "The Aging Process," but I don't think it's a process. I don't see it as a slow, steady slide. I've noticed that I can hum along at a fairly decent clip for a while and then suddenly drop off a cliff screaming "Holy shit, I'm ooooooooooooooooold!" all the way down.

For instance. The year I turned 32, I developed allergies where there were none before; I gained 20 lbs. without changing my habits one damn bit (I'm 5'9", so it doesn't look that bad on me, but still); my flawless, wrinkle-free skin suddenly had more zits than when I was in high school; and I had to have an orange-sized mass removed from a 4-inch whole in my abdomen. Dudes -- 2003 SU-U-U-U-UCKED!!!

Prior to and since then, I've been happily treading water, with only the occasional humbling moment to remind me that I'm no longer sixteen, cool, and staunchly wearing white, canvas Keds 365 days a year. In Chicago weather, no less.

The first time I opted for a hat in the winter, despite what it would do to my bangs by the time I got to work? Old.

When I made the conscious decision never to go see a movie on a weekend because of all the people? Old. And crotchety.

Having my tiny nephew tell me, "Dude! This is awesome!" Old.

Noticing that the hardcore music from my teens is now musack? Old.

And most recently?

Over the weekend, Husband, PJ and I were at our shanty-cabin in Wisconsin. On Monday, we decided to rent mopeds and cruise around the place. It was so much fun! PJ said I look like the Orbit Gum Girl in my helmet.

[Gah! I just Googled the Orbit Gum Girl, in order to provide you with a link, and I found a spanking blog with some guy talking -- in great detail -- about how fun it would be to spank the Orbit Gum Girl. And now guess what I can't stop thinking about? No, I'm not giving you the link. Google it yourself, perverts.]

Anyhoo, that was my I'm So Old moment. I actually wore a helmet.

I gave up everything I believe in -- namely, my inalienable right to die a quick death by splattering my head like a melon on the cement -- to suffer flat bangs and a chin strap all day.

Why? Because -- heavens to Betsy -- we were going TWENTY MILES AN HOUR!

Apparently, I turned 63 over the weekend. So where are my goddamn presents?!

Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (4)

June 14, 2006

Flick!

Has this ever happened to you?

You've got a tiny bit of a drippy nose one day, due to allergies or something. Not really worth blowing your nose for -- just annoying and there.

So you're chatting with someone, and they say something mildly amusing, so you give a tiny laugh. Only it's more of a small, quick exhale through your nose than an actual laugh.

And a tiny bit of your drippy mucus kinda flicks out of your nose or does a bubble-pop or something, and the only way you even know is because you feel it. But you stand there, horrified, wondering frantically if the person you were talking to saw it.

Is it just me? Because I've never noticed it happen to anyone else.

So, either I am the only one in the world this has ever happened to; or it has happened to everyone at one point or another, and it's just not something you notice on other people.

Needless to say, I'm hoping it's the latter.

Posted at 01:12 PM | Comments (6)

June 09, 2006

I Got the Bottom Three

I have been wanting a set of these miniature chairs from Pottery Barn since 2004. I don't know why. We've discussed my mini-chair fetish with no insights forthcoming -- let's just accept it as reality and move on.

I found half the set on eBay, and that's quite enough for me. Because, really, who needs six miniature chairs when three miniature chairs is plenty? I mean, six miniature chairs?! That's ridiculous!

The woman who sent them must've only wanted three of the set, also, because the three she sent me still had tags on them. Each chair had a tag that admonished me "Decoration Only." Well, good thing they told me! I was going to sit in one! THAT would have been embarassing, eh? Especially the trip to the E.R. for removal...

Anyhoo, here are the chairs, quite at home on our bedroom wall with the rest of the brick-a-brack.

Yes, that's a Christmas stocking and Santas. No, this photo was taken last week. What's your point?

Posted at 02:44 PM | Comments (8)

June 06, 2006

The Bitch with a Heart of Gold

Nicholle is an evil person, which is both: a) why I love her, and; b) how she puts up with me. The funny thing about her, though, is that I seem to be the only one who knows how evil she is (until now, I guess).

Everyone else in the world thinks she's a peach. She's sweet and adorable and charming..., until one has walked away. Then the whips out her voodoo doll and starts muttering curses and slaughtering chickens. She's so effortlessly duplicitous -- it's kinda scary and often makes me doubt my own sanity.

For example.

I'm in charge of our in-house company newsletter. I have help, but I do a lot of the work because I'm anal-retentive, and I want it the way I want it.

We have an office in Raleigh, NC, and they were kind enough to send me some tidbits for an article (the hoi polloi are not allowed to write their own articles). Apparently, in the space of one month, the Raleigh employees -- the whole damn office, mind you -- sponsored and worked a rest stop for a local MS walk, and helped old people in a retirement home color Easter eggs.

And it's not like it was during work hours, and they were being paid for it. On no. This was extracurricular, volunteer work.

I looked around my own office and thought, We are selfish, horrible people.

I also feel this way after Husband insists we watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." The person who gets the new house is always like some blind, widowed pastor, who is also an army veteran, with seventeen disabled, adopted children, in addition to her three orphaned nephews, who take in runaways, abandoned animals, and battered women, while running a soup kitchen and suicide hotline.

After seeing such selfless giving and looking around my own cushy lifestyle, I can't help but turn to Husband and ask, "Can we rescue a pony or something?"

I voiced my self-reflective concern to Nicholle, and she was very sympathetic. She even tried to help me think of ways our office could help out in the local community.

She reached deep inside her black heart and said, "How 'bout we do makeovers of other people in the building -- it will be fun and charity wrapped in one!"

See? This is why I love her.

Posted at 03:42 PM | Comments (1)

June 05, 2006

Honey, I Found a Pine Tree for Forty Bucks!

This weekend, Billi and I bolstered the Wisconsin economy to the tune of $400 each. On pottery, antiques and folk art. Yes, Heather, folk art. (I love making her cry.)

We also ate ice cream for lunch each day. Two scoops in a waffle cone, and dude, those ice cream monkeys don't skimp. It was a total buttload of ice cream for four bucks (just look at my ice-cream-inflated butt to know what a buttload is).

Oberweis can kiss my dairy-saturated butt. You can't lick the sprinkles they spilled on the floor for four bucks at Oberweis. Now it's lunch time and where's my ice cream, dammit?!

Within a fifteen minute period, the following four things occurred:

1. I spilled Birthday Cake ice cream on my new Coach wallet, while trying to spit out a gnat.

2. I bought a seven-foot faux pine tree (complete with pinecones) for $40. Oh, yes I did! And I drove all the way home with the trunk protruding into the front seat of my Explorer, to earn myself the title of Best Wife Ever.

3. I ripped part of the pocket off my cute, cute embroidered jeans. While getting into my car. I have no idea how. Not a word about my butt, dicksmacks.

4. I was photographed and interviewed for an article for some tourist periodical, along with Billi. I'm never gonna live this one down.

So, yeah, pretty much a typical vacation weekend for me.

Among the things I purchased:

1. Two antique child-sized chairs. GOD, how I love little chairs. I don't know why, since I pretty much can't stand child-sized people. Perhaps I just enjoy the idea of them sitting uncomfortably on straight-backed, wooden chairs? Sit still, or you'll get the ruler again!

2. Faux tree. Well, trees, actually. It's a cluster of three trees on one base. One four feet, one five and a half feet, one seven feet. See, Husband makes original wooden Christmas ornaments every year, and we've been wanting a place to display them year-round. Geez, that declaration is even gayer in writing than it is verbally.

3. Two bud vases -- one pottery, one wood (purple heart). Apparently, diminutive vases hold the same appeal as diminutive chairs, and I've acquired enough in the past couple years to now warrant calling it a collection.

4. Small, partitioned, antique fruit crate, which I will stand on end on my dresser, to display my bud vase collection. I hate myself so much right now.

5. A jar of Cherry Honey Mustard Sauce. So yummy with pretzels!

6. Zest soap. It's the only thing that will sort of rinse clean in the damn soft water they have up there. Stupid well water! I HHHHHHHHHATE soft water. Can't get clean! Can't get clean!

I'm going back up on the 19th with Egrau and PJ. And I have permission from Husband to buy a ten-piece folk art nativity set. Yay! Weirdly-stylized baby Jeebus with chicken and bunny!

Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (2)

May 30, 2006

Unbridled Purse Lust

Those around me lately have noticed that I've become a bit of a purse fetishist. If it's pink and costs more than $200, I want it. Coach, Dooney & Bourke, Prada, Kate Spade -- I want them all. The more ridiculously pretentious, the better. I want the ones that are so ugly, if they cost $15 at Penney's, no one would buy them; but because it's a COACH purse, it's worthiness is validated by the preposturous amount of money one has to shell out to carry it home.

See how that works? Yeah, neither do I.

I don't pretend to understand my designer purse fetish. I'm not proud. In fact, I'm a little embarassed. Especially that time another purse fetishist and I were both eyeing a little pink number on the Coach clearance rack ($135 -- such a deal!), so I picked it up and rubbed it all over my entire body, thereby ensuring she wouldn't buy it.

Not my proudest moment. But I recovered.

[Nicholle, when you see your Christmas present and realize that it, too, came from the Coach clearance rack, rest assured that it touched only my hand and then the sterile inside of a shopping bag. Wrapped in tissue.]

[And for those of you who doubt I would really do such a thing in the middle of Nordstrom's, you should also know that I wore my hair in Princess Leia braids when I saw "Star Wars Episode Three" at my local movie theatre on a Tuesday night, and I have licked my dessert plate clean in a very crowded Buca di Beppo's. I don't embarrass easily.]

I am enthralled with any purses that have little snap-closure pockets on the outside. I am entraced with the petite wallet-on-a-string "wristlets." And I am fascinated by the fact that Coach makes tennis shoes to matchy-match their purses. Matchy-match!

So Heather's like, "When are you going to blog about your purse obsession?"

And I'm like, "Never. People will be bored, and I'll sound like a shallow, superficial, materialistic bitch."

And she's like, "So?"

I hate it when she traps me with her cast-iron logic.

At lunch, I saw a woman with a miniature doberman pincher in a green argyle sweater, and I suffered the insane desire to have an accessory dog that I could dress up and carry around with me. Dudes, tiny hoodies!!! This is obviously an offshoot of my unbridled purse lust and should be considered even more dangerous than gauchos.

Then Heather informed me that many designers make pet carriers. THIS is why I love America.

Posted at 01:37 PM | Comments (1)

May 24, 2006

Hot Foot

Today, my eyes are all puffy, and I look 100 years old because I was awake for two hours last night with Hot Foot.

You knoooow -- Hot Foot? When your feet are really, really hot? Like baking hot, but the rest of you is fine, or even chilly? It only happens at night?

Am I the only one who gets this?

Look, if "Restless Leg Syndrome" and "Seasonal Affective Disorder" are valid ailments, then Hot Foot should earn me a few hours of sick time, or at least a little sympathy. I couldn't sleep! It felt like someone was holding my feet under the warming lamp at Bennigan's like a plate of nachos!

I tried to stick my feet out of the blankets, but then my shins got cold. Actually, the rest of me was quite chilly, so I don't know what the hell was going on with my feet. It's not funny!

I wonder if it's because of my gout? Was I drinking last night? Yes, I have gout. Told you I'm 100.

Seriously, I have body temperature issues. I'm pretty sure I'm a reptile. What with my aversion to sunlight, I'm probably a descendant of the Sleestacks.

I cannot maintain my own body temperature. I have to take cool showers in the morning, or I'll sweat for the next two hours. Even in the winter. But after that, if I am sedentary for ten minutes, I'll be freezing. So much so that my fingers turn pale and my nose is cold.

At night, I go to bed freezing cold and snuggle up against Husband for warmth. And when I say snuggle, I mean plaster myself up against him so that every possible inch of me is touching him, and he keeps scootching over to the side of the bed to escape the crazy, living-dead lady.

Then, in the middle of the night, I'll wake up sweating and have to take some of the covers off. Sometimes I even go to the washroom and wipe myself down with a hand towel to mop up some of the sweat.

You are soooooo turned on right now, aren't you?

And NO, I'm not even close to menopause age, so wipe that knowing smirk off your face before I scratch your eyes out.

Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (4)

April 25, 2006

My Mom Is Gonna Crap

Did you know that the word cunt, which everyone thinks is so vulgar and heinous, is just an acronym? Calling a woman a cunt is a sure way to get your face slapped. And even niggas who will actually say the word nigga will call it "the C-word." And yet, it's as harmless as the word scuba.

Self-contained underwater breathing aparatus.

Can't understand normal thinking.

See? It's just a slang some guy thought he was clever to invent. Get it? 'Cuz women can't think normal? Get it? Oh, how clever!

Really, it's not a word to get upset about. It's a nonsense word. Except when Heather and I are together. Then, we are total cunts.

Seriously, we're completely intolerable when we're together. If I saw us, I would hate us and avoid us at all costs, but first I'd give us dirty looks. We regress and become like those really, really obnoxiously popular high school girls, except with bigger vocabularies for more biting insults. We're just awful.

It's like, normally, Heather and I are well-read, level-headed, diplomatic and witty. But for whatever reason (probably due to some karma from a past life), we try to out-do each other with who can crawl the farthest back into the primordial ooze. It's quite sad.

We went shopping on Saturday, for seven hours, in the swankiest shopping mall in the area. And after we finished one particularly scorching diatribe, during which we referenced Asians, the learning challenged, tan-orexics, dwarves, all foreigners, and anyone who wears tights, I had to call a spade a spade.

PW: Dude, we are total cunts.

H: No, we're not. We're Cuntacular!

PW: Hee! Cuntastic!

H: Cunterrific!

PW: Um... did we already say Cuntactular?

H: Yeah, we started with that one.

PW: Damn. ... Oh! Cunterful!!!

H: HA!

PW: I'm so blogging this.

H: Oh, man, your mom is gonna ground me!

Posted at 01:23 PM | Comments (2)

February 16, 2006

I Hate Jack

There comes a time in everyone's life when they must decide who they are and what they stand for. When they stand at a crossroads and must decide to take the easy way, or the right way. When they must differentiate themselves from the rest of the pack.

I am Pirate Wench, and I hate Jack.

Jack from "LOST," that is.

Even if you don't watch the show, you may have heard of him. He's supposed to be the "dashing-yet-troubled hero," but really, he's just a smug, arrogant, narrow-minded FUCKTARD who thinks he's King of Craphole Island, and who doesn't share any information about himself or anything he's seen on the island with anyone, and yet he expects everyone to trust him and can't believe it when people don't want him to help them RUN THEIR LIVES!

*pant* *pant*

Sorry. I just really hate him.

Have I mentioned that I hate him? Cuz I really do. I yell at the screen whenever I watch "LOST." Husband can't even watch it with me anymore.

He's like, "Why do you watch this? It just makes you angry!"

And he does have a point. So last week, I watched "Bones" instead. Okay, "Bones" isn't exactly critically-acclaimed television. It hasn't won any awards. But it doesn't make me angry, and it has David Boreanaz who, I think I've mentioned, resembles my hot chiropractor.

It was a difficult decision, but I stand by it, and I know my real friends will understand and eventually come to accept my new lifestyle.

So I was IMing with Billi and trying to figure out when I would go visit Boy Child and Girl Child next.

Billi: You could come next Thursday and I could tape Lost the night before. If it's a new one that is. I still haven't watched last night's yet.

PW: Um, I'm giving up LOST
PW: it makes me too aggravated. seriously, I can't watch it
PW: altho' I'll still read the recaps
PW: but it's on the same time as "Bones" and that doesn't make me yell at the screen
PW: I know, I'm a freak and I"ll be the only person in America who doesn' twatch it
PW: I hope we can still be friends

Billi: .......oh...........my...........gosh.........

PW: I know
PW: I'm sorry!
PW: I just... I HATE JACK SO MUCH

Billi: you're............killing............me.....

PW: and seriously, no one talks to each other.
PW: it's drama based on non-communication, and it makes me mental

Billi: knife.....in...........my.........heart....

PW: ok, now you're scaring me
PW: I"M SO SORRY!

Billi: ....can't...........breath......

PW: oh, stop it!

Billi: .....i......hate.........you.........,you......traitor.......!

PW: serioulsy, Husband gets so mad at me, "Quit yelling at Jack! He can't hear you! Why do you watch this?!"

Billi: I'm going to go cry now.
Billi: Stop with the excuses.
Billi: You suck.

PW: I know. I KNOW!
PW: I'll watch it when Bones is a rerun!
PW: I just can't take it! I hate half the poeple on it!
PW: I only like, like, three people!
PW: Hurley, Sun and Claire!
PW: oh, and Eko

Billi: And Kim?

PW: don't hate me

Billi: and Locke?

PW: well, Locke was all outta character last week
PW: who's kim?

Billi: And Sawyer???
Billi: Isn't that Sun's husband's name?

PW: and sawyer is, apparently, a shithead this week (I read the recap)
PW: yeah, Kim is okay
PW: oh, and Rose

Billi: But Sawyer is yummy.

PW: but seriously, I had to make a decision, and I chose the show that doesn't make me enraged.

Billi: You still suck.

PW: I ttoally do. but I'll read the recaps so I still know what's going on. cuz the recaps don't enrage me
PW: if they didn't move Bones to the same time, I woudlnt/ have this problem!
PW: and they'l probably cancel it anyway, cuz I like it

Billi: GET FREAKIN' TIVO!!!!

PW: YOUR HUSBAND HAS TO COME OVER AND HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!
PW: you have to come early to Husband's party

Billi: Okay, I just heard Boy Child repeat a Larryboy video....
Billi: He said, "Fly my bushy minions, FLY!"

PW: OH MY GOD!
PW: THAT'S SO AWESOME!

Billi: I'm going to go watch Lost now, since I'm not a traitor.
Billi: Good-bye, Judas!
Billi: Are you guys home tonight?

PW: I'm home after 7:30.

Billi: okay. Bye!

PW: bye!

I just know she's planning an intervention.

Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (6)

February 08, 2006

I'm Going To Hell and Taking Lola With Me

If Tragedy + Time = Comedy, then I feel that enough time has passed for me to write about this. I mean, it's been -- what -- a few weeks since Lola's father-in-law bought the farm? Plenty.

So this one time, I went to hang out with Lola for a whole day because she lives way-the-fuck-far-away from me, so really, what's the point of driving out there for only a couple of hours? At the time, she and her hubby were just starting the long, horrific process of her father-in-law's demise, and she needed some support Wenchie-style. So, we went to Target.

Whoo-hoooooooo! Our BIG! NIGHT! OUT! Truly we are teh coolness, Lola and I. Lola has a new house requiring much fun accessorizing, and I just can't get outta that damn store under $100 (it's like the non-Scandihoovian IKEA), so we had quite the cart-full by the time we were done looking at pre-framed "art" and holiday placemats and $9.44 reject DVDs.

I paid first and was at front of the cart (the prow, I guess); Lola paid second and was at the handle. So she was leaning over the cart and tossing all her things onto the conveyor belt, and I noticed that she missed a couple very small items in the corner, like some eyeshadow and a pack of gum.

But I also noticed that the fifteen year old check-out girl didn't notice the very small items in the corner. Taylor was too busy chatting up the cart-fetcher to pay much attention to anything else. (Not to be confused with the fart-catcher, of course.)

Now, normally, I'm not a thief. I only steal hearts. (Hee!) But I knew how much it would freak-out Lola, so I pretended not to notice the very small items in the corner.

Lola checked out, and Taylor put her bags on top of the very small items in the corner. In the parking lot, Lola was putting her bags in her car, so I gasped and pointed in the cart.

"Lola, you shoplifted!"

"WHAT?! Oh my God! Should I go back and pay for them?"

I was laughing too hard to answer. I snagged another soul for you, O Dark Lord, Father of Lies!

A few days later, I received the following email from Lola.

"You will be amused to know that my sister-in-law and I shoplifted a bag of Skittles from Target, which we found just as I was telling her about my last shoplifting experience. Apparently, I'm dealing with this time of extraordinary family crisis by resorting to crime."

Next time we hang out, I'll tell her the speed limit is 35 while we're in a 25 mph zone! MWAH HA HAAAAAAAAA!

[Please send all hate mail to stealingiswrong@analmail.com.]

Posted at 12:44 PM | Comments (2)

January 20, 2006

Pompeii

I'm still waiting, Nikki...

No real blog today, kiddies. No time to write! Played hookie from my cube and spent most of the day downtown with Husband. We went to see dead people writhing in agony, and then had lunch!

Lunch was with Bob, the Most Profane Man Ever, and I must say -- he's much less profane when he's sober. I almost like him better drunk. And now I know way more about Chicago's putrid underbelly than I ever thought I would.

Am I a hipster now?

Posted at 01:51 PM | Comments (2)

January 06, 2006

Bitter and Jaded

I think I've mentioned that Heather is getting married, right? Or as I call her now -- The Bride! Now, I've had two weddings, so I feel that I am justified -- nay, obligated -- weighing in on this subject.

Weddings are eye-rollingly bothersome.

First of all, so much goes into prepping for "The Big Day," and little or nothing goes into prepping for every, single, mind-numbingly tedious day after that, and that's a little whack, doncha think? Of course, The Bride! and Mord have assured me that they are going to remain as voraciously and passionately in love as they are today, for the entire duration of their marriage. So they won't have to deal with the problems that the rest of us do.

When Mord leaves his railroad-tracked BVDs on the floor for the billionth time, The Bride! will simply giggle at him, tilt her head, smile and coo, "Oh, you silly boy! What am I going to do with you?" And he'll take her in his arms and make love to her right there on the floor, both of them so swept-away that they don't even notice the poo-poo undies by their heads.

Second of all, you get the same results if you spend half an hour at a courthouse. And then you have the rest of the day to shop for furniture or go to the zoo or paint the kitchen, AND you have the money to do it! When I got married the first time, my Dad offered me $10,000 to elope. I SHOULD HAVE GRABBED IT AND RAN. Instead, I had the big wedding with the live band and Scandi-Mexican buffet and open bar and yadda yadda yadda. And after all that, it didn't even take. We were divorced four years later.

The second wedding, I wanted to elope, and there wasn't even any pending $10,000 bribe from Dad. I just really wanted to elope. But Husband had other ideas. So we compromised and had a small, casual wedding. No flowers, no band, no white dress (obviously), no booze -- heck, I wasn't even wearing underwear, that's how bare-bones our wedding was.

Minutes before the wedding was to begin, I was peeing one last time with Egrau. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, doing one last face check, Egrau said, "Oh my God, you have V.P.L. so bad."

"Really? What should I do?"

"Take 'em off!"

"What?!"

"You're gonna be standing at the front of the church, and for an hour, all anyone is going to see of you is your butt! Take off your underwear!"

So I did, and she stuffed them in her purse. Classy.

...

Where the hell was I going with all this? Oh yeah! I was gonna mock The Bride!'s wedding planning. The Bride! had sixteen pages of single-space typed notes on all the wedding chapels in Las Vegas.

Did I mention she's getting married in Vegas? Uh-huh. Oh she's totally eloping -- she's just making the rest of us follow her there. I'd better get to see some elaborate show with midgets and pyrotechnics and drag queens and unicorns, or I'm gonna be really pissed.

Anyhoo, the enormity of all the chapel info was making her (even more) mental, so I -- in my anal wisdom -- put it all into a couple of spreadsheets for her. Spreadsheets with lots of columns, comparing various wedding packages, which all fit neatly onto 8.5" by 11" paper for printing. She should carry these spreadsheets instead of bouquet -- that's how beautiful they are.

I'd like to say more, but this post has already run too long. I guess I didn't realize how much I wanted to talk about ME today, so The Bride!'s come-uppance is just going to have to wait until tomorrow.

Posted at 03:10 PM | Comments (5)

December 29, 2005

Two and a Half Inches of Lethal Bling

I'm considering spending some of my considerable Christmas bonus on a bit o' bling for myself.

(Some of you are thrown by the whole idea of me getting bonus money for, basically, blogging and chatting on IM, right? I know. It's a mystery.)

Go here, click on swords at the top, and check out the necklace. I'm thinking of getting it in silver. (Take note, my admirers: I don't wear gold, only silver and platinum. Keep that in mind when shopping.)

So what do you think? Hott or tacky? Or a little of both? Please vote; this is one of those rare occassions when your opinion matters, so take advantage of it.

Posted at 01:14 PM | Comments (6)

December 16, 2005

Christmas in the O/C Ward

On November 2, our Christmas tree was up and had lights on it.

On November 4, I had 75% of the Christmas presents wrapped and under the tree.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I had angry pilgrims protesting on my front lawn. They were all pissy because they thought I had completely forgotten their special day.

I threw some greenbean casserole at them and hollered, "Get yer damn silver buckles outta my ass and go protest Marshall Field's!"

I love Christmas. Well, mostly, I love Christmas decorations.

My Christmas cards went out the first week of December. However, I have a few left over, so if you want one, email me your address. I promise not to post them or auction them off on eBay.

I bought my last Christmas gift on Wednesday.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful -- hate me because I'm anal-retentive.

Posted at 03:24 PM | Comments (2)

November 06, 2005

Getting Ready

I had spent Saturday morning being domestic. I was wearing the jeans I had raked leaves in and the shirt I had baked cookies in. We were due at The Girl Child's birthday party in an hour.

Husband contemplated the contents of his closet and asked me, "How dressed up are you going to get?"

"...I might change my shirt."

Posted at 06:51 PM | Comments (0)

October 18, 2005

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On the Plain

My hair, while gorgeous, is a pain in the butt. There's the washing and conditioning and drying and straightening -- the detangler, the creme, the shine mist. I love how it looks when I wear it down, but I hate it in my face. It tickles.

So every now and then, I throw the whole mess in a ponytail and forget about it. But even that flops in my face and itches my neck. I've always wished I could wear a bun or something, but I'm not 87 years old.

Last weekend, I found the solution in Door County. Yes, you are completely justified to shudder at the thought of finding any hair solution in Door County. And yes, it is made out of leather and wood.

It's one of those contraptions from the 70's with the leather web-like thing and the wooden stick that goes thru it. You're supposed to wind up your hair, put the web-thing over it, then put the stick thru the web then the mass of hair then the other side of the web, to hold the whole thing close to your scalp. Would have been worn with a crocheted top and embroidered bell-bottoms.

It doesn't resemble an actual hair-do on me so much as it does a deceased ferret. But my hair is outta my face, and I don't have to look at the ferret, so I don't care.

One of the other secretaries on my side of the office is just the kindest, sunniest person, and she says to me, "You look so elegant with your hair up like that!"

Meanwhile, I'm sportin' a Gap hoodie and wondering, "What the hell is this on my pants?"

Yup. Practically a lady.

Posted at 11:20 AM | Comments (1)

October 05, 2005

Because I'm Ten

A forty-year-old virgin came up to me the other day and said, "You know how I know you're gay? Cuz you collect Barbies, you eat dinner with the same people every Thursday night, and you sing in a chorale."

And I just couldn't argue with him.

But in my defense, Husband, and K, Garrance and Adam from Mission Supper all sing in the chorale, too. Actually, that's not much of a defense. I need a better lawyer.

So we were at rehearsal Monday night, and our regular director wasn't there, so our pianist was leading the rehearsal. She's totally cool and adorable and fun and BRILLIANT on the piano.

We were just about to leave, and Jane goes, "Oh, let's sing thru this whole thing one more time, just for the hoo-ha!"

My, but that's an odd use for that word.

Needless to say, I collapsed in a fit of hysterical giggles. The kind where your face contorts into ugliness and you're actually closer to crying than laughing. How embarrassing.

And then I made the mistake of looking at Husband and Adam, and they, too, were laughing and red-faced and looking around shamefully. So how was I not supposed to laugh, I ask you?!

K goes, "Oh, would you get a grip?"

No. No, I cannot. Because I'm ten.

After rehearsal, Garrance told me about how the old choir director at church used to say, "Okay, we'll just sing a little snatch of this song."

What is it with choir directors and their unintentional vaginal euphemisms?

Posted at 02:58 PM | Comments (5)

September 06, 2005

I Play Bottles

We had an all-employee meeting today, and I'm terrified that, if I pay too much attention during these State of the Union speeches by our company's V.P., I might accidentally learn something about insurance. That is one thing I just could not abide, so I used the time to handwrite lots of blog material about my trip to Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, over the weekend. Then I realized -- hmmm, I should probably explain why I was in Chippewa Falls over the weekend. It was a working vacation of sorts.

My family is part of a musical-comedy group, I think I've mentioned before. We play bottles. No, really. Our director arranges pre-existing songs -- anything from Bach to the blues -- and we blow, hit and pluck bottles to make the music. My expertise is the bottlephone, which is like a xylophone, but with bottles. Hence the name. I also sing occassionally, play cymbals, kazoo, whatever.

The bottlephone bottles are wine bottles, whiskey bottles, champagne bottles -- yeah, 99% of our bottles are liquor bottles. It just worked out that way. You gotta have a lot of picnics to empty a ketchup bottle, but only one to empty a bottle of gin!

For blowing bass notes, we use green glass Yago Sangria jugs, which were plentiful when the band started over 25 years ago. But they have since gone out of production, so if anyone has some in their basement or something, I will totally pay you to send them to me!!!

The rest of the bottles we blow -- the bottles we use the most of -- are Leinenkugel's. Out of the hundreds or bottles we emptied and tried, the Leinies produce the best sound most consistently. I couldn't make this stuff up, folks.

And, as retarded as it all sounds, we're pretty damn good. We've been on several radio and t.v. shows, including The Late Show with David Letterman -- TWICE. Plus hundreds of shows for various occassions, including weddings and the annual gathering of bishops from the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America.

All the money we make goes to various charities. In 25 years, I think it's safe to guess-timate that we've donated over $50,000, including a recent $5,000 donation to the victims of Katrina. I don't say this to brag, but just so that you know how rewarding it is. I get to perform, have fun, hang with friends, bask in applause and adoration, and help lots of people through donations and benefits. I am ridiculously lucky.

Being a part of this group has also afforded me opportunities to experience many things I wouldn't have otherwise. I played on the same stage that The Beatles performed on! I'll never get over that.

Anyhoo, since we empty a great deal of Leinenkugel bottles -- and we don't exactly keep that fact quiet -- we thought it would be a no-brainer for us to go perform in the Leinie Lodge. And after years of sending them tapes and letters, we finally got an invitation to go play in their gift shop. (Apparently, they have higher standards than Letterman. Go figure.)

Now, when I hear the words "gift shop," I picture a couple cramped aisles of snowglobes and collector plates in an 8" x 8" area. But the Leinie gift shop has two fireplaces, a dozen leather couches, and a BAR. Plus, more square footage than my house.

We had two 45-minute shows on Sunday, 1:00 and 2:15 p.m. But really, the shows are just a minor detail of the trip, and I'll tell you all about it over the next few days. If you still respect me enough to come back, that is.

Posted at 12:35 PM | Comments (5)

August 25, 2005

They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha Ha!

I am so freaking stressed-out right now. And I don't mean barking-dog-crying-baby-rush-hour-traffic stressed. I mean about-to-implode-into-a-pile-of-goo kind of stress.

This is not the kind of stress cured by a pedicure or cookie dough or a new gown for Barbie. This is the kind of stress that can only be cured by a heavy, blunt object to my skull.

Why so stressed, you ask? Strap in.

Thursday Stress: First meeting with family counselor.
Friday Stress: Talk to Husband's Ex.
Saturday Stress: Throw party for 30 people.

I've given it much thought, while gasping for breath and holding back the projectile-vomit, and I've decided that I have three options here.

One, I can succumb to the ennui already setting in. What with the not-eating and not-sleeping, I'm pretty much one stiff breeze away from just toppling over anyway. Then Willowby can scoop me up, spirit me home, and prop me up on a chaise lounge in front of the parlor window. I'll wear a shawl, clutched around me with trembling hands, and gaze wistfully out of the window as my life ebbs slowly away.

Two, I can embrace my destiny as a white, middle-class, suburban housewife and become addicted to sleeping pills and Zanax (not just for airplane trips anymore!), and perhaps the occassional glass of wine when no one else is home. Just me and the dog, sitting in the silent kitchen, drinking chablis.

Three, I can just let the insanity take over, Hollywood starlet-style. The police will find me at 3:00 a.m., wandering in someone else's backyard, wearing only my underwear and mascara-raccoon-eyes, and talking to Elvis.

Which should Wenchie choose? Call in and vote now! 1-800-CRAZY-PW

Posted at 02:23 PM | Comments (13)

August 17, 2005

HEED MY WARNING!

This would be much easier if I were Catholic. Then I could be talking to some decrepit drunk behind a screen who won't remember what I'm going to say anyway, instead of talking to THE ENTIRE INTERNET.

Yup, it's confession time.

So, y'all know I'm married. And y'all probably know that I'm a stepmom. Yeah, I married a guy with two daughters who were, at the time of our nuptuals, 11 and 14. Now they're 15 and soon-to-be-18.

I HAVE TEENAGED STEPDAUGHTERS.

I'll give you a moment to let the horror of that sink in.

Not because they're particularly horrific people, mind you. But they're teenaged girls. And all teenaged girls, by their very nature, are horrifying. I know -- I was one.

And now? On Mother's Day, I send Mom a big bouquet of flowers and a card thanking her for not killing me, and then I get down on my hands and knees and annoint her feet with scented oils, which kinda freaks out the other people in the brunch buffet line, but screw them. They didn't have to raise me! Seriously, I was an Olympic contender in Eye-Rolling.

So did y'all see the front page headline on Monday's Chicago Tribune? BLOGS CAN BITE! (I'd link to it, but you have to register with your email address to read it, and I don't wanna. Go look it up yourself if you're so interested. Do I have to do everything around here?)

It's all about how blogging can get you in trouble, and it features Heather B. Armstrong, first person to get fired for blogging about work, as if anyone in the world hasn't heard of Dooce, yet! Crimeny!

Folks, I should have listened. I should have heeded Dooce's warning. Heck, the name of her blog is now a verb! How could I ignore that?! Clearly, I'm a retard.

In February, I started a blog on LiveJournal about being a stepmom. I wrote about how much it TOTALLY SUCKS HAIRY DONKEY BALLS to be a stepmom, and I got a lot of empathy and support from strangers who stumbled upon it.

Which is ironic, if I may get dramatic here for a moment. In my home, I often feel like Bart Simpson, jumping up and down, waving my arms and screaming, "Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!" To no avail. But the people who read and commented on my blog brought me such comfort. I'll miss that.

Anyhoo, the point is, it's gone now. And if you hadn't read it, lemme tell ya, it got MEAN. I mean, Wenchie's trademark snarkiness taken to all new depths. It was really, really bad. Repressed anger is not your friend. I definately needed a place to vent and rant, but it got way outta hand.

And they found it. My stepdaughters found it.

I'll give you a moment to let the horror of that sink in.

How? I don't know. Doesn't matter. Do they know about this one? Meh, probably. But I don't care. I love this website and am damn proud of it.

My marriage? Don't know, yet. There are so many unanswereds. Can anyone ever forgive me? Can the marriage be saved, if we both want it badly enough? When does the next season of "America's Next Top Model" start so I can get my mind off this for a bit?

Am I sorry? You bet your sweet ass I am. Have I learned anything? Um...

DUH!!!

Hey, I know lots of people have gotten fired for blogging, but has anyone gotten divorced because of it? Would I be the first? Would I be famous? Cuz I could really go for a lucrative book deal, and maybe a movie on Lifetime or something.

And the real question. Who would I get to play me -- Kirsten Dunst or Reese Witherspoon...?

Posted at 10:29 AM | Comments (14)

July 11, 2005

Paranoia Thee Destroyah

As you may know, three years ago, I bought a dress, cut some cake, moved all my shit -- again -- and instantly became the stepmother of two teenaged girls.

(Send Hallmark sympathy ecards to wenchie@piratewench.org)

Since then, the three little words I crave hearing aren't "I love you." They're "You're not crazy." Those words, said by friends, family and fellow stepparents, have kept me from drink. Have kept me from divorce. And most importantly, have kept me from having to dig shallow graves in the forest preserve under cover of darkness.

"Um, am I crazy, or is a black, spandex catsuit not exactly appropriate church attire?"

"YOU'RE NOT CRAZY!"

See how that works? Very, very important!

But other times, the key to keeping me feeling "normal" and "sane" is to make the people around me just as bat-shitty as I am. You know -- so I still look good in comparison.

I have suceeded in doing this to Anne's Mom. With no apparent effort whatsoever on my part, which is an added bonus.

You know how, when you get an email from someone's work address, it'll say on the bottom something to the effect of:

This e-mail and any attachments contain private, privileged and confidential information. If you have received this transmission in error, please immediately notify me and do not disclose, copy, or distribute this information. Thank you.

Well, on the bottom of all her emails to Anne (which Anne occassionally forwards to me for the hilarious content), Anne's Mom adds the following disclaimer:

Not for blog publication.

Now, I don't know if I'm legally beholden to that, but I tend to respect that request from most people. I mean, if Anne or Billi said it, I'd laugh in their face, blog it anyway, blog about them not wanting me to blog it, and then mock them in my blog. But not Anne's Mom. She's a nice lady. She loves her dogs. She puts up with Anne. So I gotta respect that.

That doesn't mean, however, that I don't take sheer delight in the fact that I've managed to make her completely paranoid. It's been months since I mentioned her that one time -- okay, twice -- and yet, such is her fear of becoming blog-fodder that she routinely adds a no-blog clause to each and every email. She's now one giant step closer to being as paranoid as I am.

My work here is done.

And Anne's Mom certainly never asked her, "Why do you need a Blackberry if you already have an iPod?"

Posted at 10:04 AM | Comments (4)

July 01, 2005

And We Did It With Only Three Colors of Crayons

In keeping with the artistic theme going on here lately,...

Wait... did you feel that? The ground shaking, the tsunami building, the very cohesiveness of our planet threatening to give way? That was EVERY ARTIST SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME rolling over in his/her grave, simultaneously.

Anyhoo, this is a picture that Heather and I drew during Mighty Joe's gig last Friday night, on the back of his playlist. It was a joint effort. (Meaning we drew it together; not that we were smoking a joint at the time, ...although that theory is not without merit.)

I guess we were... inspired? Infer what you will about Joe's music.

Posted at 01:07 PM | Comments (3)

June 14, 2005

Why I Love Wisconsin

Because beyond The Cheddar Churtain, you can buy your Cheese, Fireworks, Ho-Made Fudge, Ammunition, Moccasins, Adult Literature and Packer Paraphenalia ALL IN THE SAME PLACE! While you're filling your car with gas!

God bless you, Wisconsin.

Posted at 03:13 PM | Comments (0)

June 01, 2005

I'm an Idiot: Further Proof

We interrupt this Amish Old Navy commercial to bring you babbling about crap you don't care about, but it's better than actually doing work.

My AMAZING eBay finds arrived yesterday!

I got Barbie in King Kong for ten bucks, and she's actually sitting in a gorilla hand in the box. It's so adorable; she may be the one Barbie I never debox. [insert British lesbian joke here]

Also got the James Bond Barbie -- just the Barbie cuz who needs another friggin' Ken in another friggin' tuxedo -- Ken is the one accessory that Barbie doesn't need any more of. James Bond Ken looks too much like Frank Sinatra and not enough like Sean Connery for my taste.

Hmmm, I wonder when they're gonna come out with a kilted Ken...?

Anyhoo, today is me and Husband's third wedding anniversary. Who'd've thunk it. Three whole years, and still no actual bloodshed (the drillbit incident doesn't count). That's worth celebrating with a steak and a full-priced movie, no? You can send condolence e-cards to Husband via slaveofduty@yahoo.com. I'll be sure to forward them along.

(BTW. I love Anne, who called me and said, "Dude, your job sucks. It's 3:00, I'm bored, and you haven't blogged, yet." She's gonna be so disappointed with this.)

Speaking of Anne, we had the following conversation yesterday:

Me: Let the records show that it is now 12:53 p.m. on my anniversary, and I haven't so much as a Happy Anniversary from Husband, let alone a Thank You for the roses I sent him.

Anne: Dude. Isn't tomorrow your anniversary?

Me: Oh. Um. Yeah. Crap.

Anne: Okay, how is it that I knew that, and you didn't?!

Me: Uh... cuz you were at the wedding?

Anne: [you're-an-idiot laughter]

Me: Well, Big Boss thought today was Wednesday, so so did I!

Anne: You're an idiot.

I'm an idiot AND a crappy wife because I didn't even get him an anniversary present until today at lunch. I meant to! I've known what to get him for months now! I just haven't actually... gotten in the car and... gone to Office Max.

Yes, I'm shopping for an anniversary gift at Office Max! This is the kind of man I live with! He loves the paper shredder I got him. What?! Shut up!

He gave me my gifties last night. A watch with three leather interchangable bands -- one black, one brown, one red. And a big ol' gift certificate. Does this man know me or what?

Can't tell you what I got him, on the off chance he'll read this. I'll tell you tomorrow. Try not to lose sleep over it.

And this just now from Heather:

H: so, no new blog from the pw?
Me: I'M WORKING ON IT! Gol!
H: sssshaaaaaaaah.

Now get off my back, all of you! More on the Mighty Joe gig tomorrow, I promise.

Posted at 02:36 PM | Comments (1)

May 20, 2005

A Cry for Help, Without the Pesky Overdose

In an effort to pick-up more flying monkeys... er, readers, I'm going to register on Chicago Bloggers.

In the application, they ask for a brief description of my blog.

GAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

With all my wit and wisdom, I have no fucking clue how to describe this thing. Hard to believe, I know, but it's true. I hope you can still love me.

AND I hope that you can help me. How would YOU describe my blog?

Posted at 08:44 AM | Comments (4)

May 17, 2005

Terms of Endearment

When I was young, way back in time, and candy bars were a quarter, I thought the most perfect, wonderful, validating words ever possibly uttered were, "I love you." Oh, how I longed to hear them! I made deals with God. I made deals with Satan. I made deals with the butcher at Jewel. And when finally that first boy said it to me, I thought I would just die of happiness.

A half-dozen boyfriends -- and a half-dozen confessions of love -- later, it occurred to me that maybe "I love you" didn't have the magical, life-sustaining power that I had originally thought. And by that time, I had stopped getting taller, and my family DNA was settling in. So the three most important words in the world became, "You're not fat." He got sex, I got ice cream -- it was a win-win situation.

"You're not fat" has sustained me for quite a while. But recently, a man told me that, although I never finished college, I "come across as very well-educated." Really? Moi? Goddamn but that's even better than "You're not fat!" If I wasn't married (and we weren't in traffic), I would've been on him like The Boy Child on Lucy. And truly, I thought I had finally heard the pinnacle of affectionate outpourings. Dude thinks I'm smart!

I recently joined a local choral group, and we rehearse once a week in the music room of the high school that my step-daughters attend. (It'll all make sense in a moment, just bear with me.) Because they are teenagers and in desparate need of expressing themselves as hugely and retardedly as possible, there's always stuff written on the black boards. Stuff like Brass is the Ultimate Section! and Mr. Madder smokes chalk.

Last night proved no different, and the chalkboard had this to say:

Nick C. completes my world domination scheme

Is that not the fucking coolest thing you've ever heard?! I immediately wondered who this Nick C. person was and wished I was him.

I mean, to complete someone's world domination scheme -- THAT has to be The Ultimate Pillowtalk. If someone said that to me -- "Pirate Wench, you complete my world domination scheme" -- I would collapse in his arms, rip off his clothes and start amassing my flying monkeys.

Posted at 07:54 AM | Comments (1)

April 05, 2005

I Dream of Bloggers

Okay, it's official, I'm insane. I dreamed that I was hanging out with the infamous blogger Heather B. Armstrong, and then my worst nightmare happened -- she totally dissed me! Dissed by Dooce!

Actually, it was me, Heather and Dooce, hanging out at Dooce's place, on her bed, watching t.v.

And Dooce turned to Heather and said, "She's totally void of personality."

What? Me?! Void of personality?! Have you even read my blog, bitch? I've got personality coming out of my ass!

But Dooce had made her choice. Three's a crowd, and it was Heather she wanted to hang with. And Heather, my supposed biggest fan, apparently agreed with Dooce's assessment of me and totally blew me off for Dooce!

So I guess I was Heathered. By actual Heathers.

And I woke up pretty upset. Not because I was Heathered, mind you, but because I was dreaming about bloggers. It's official -- I'm in need of a twelve-step program.

Posted at 07:42 AM | Comments (2)

February 01, 2005

Nyquil = Awesome Sex Dreams

The Husband couldn't sleep last night, and I think I know why. It's because I was having the most AMAZING sex dream about Orlando Bloom, and the moaning and writhing probably kept him awake.

*sigh* So pretty...

And normally, I don't go for the pretty guys because I'm WAY too insecure to be with someone prettier than me (which is why my forbidden love of Heather will most likely go unconsummated**). But hey, when Mr. Languid Eyes & Curly Hair & Fetching Smile is standing in the bedroom of my teenage years in nothing but navy blue undies, I'M NOT MADE OF STONE!

And besides that, he was, for some inexplicable reason, totally into me, and seriously, I'm 35, married and carrying around an extra 20 lbs. I got no business being selective. Or scrupulous, apparently.

But as I said, it was the bedroom of my formative years, and I was in it, so I was single in my dream, and that makes it okay! (Hi, Husband! I love you! Kissies!)

So there were various petting and sex acts, and none of it was linear or cohesive. Kind of like a sex montage, minus the "Eye of the Tiger" soundtrack. But one part stands out in my memory.

Orlando totally farted. He was getting his clothes back on at some point, and I was in the bathroom fixing my JFL hair or whatever, and I heard him fart.

And I remember thinking, as I smiled dreamily to myself, "He's probably hoping I didn't hear that, and since he's so fucking hot and just rode me like a pony, I'm gonna pretend I didn't. But it kinda makes him more... human. Orlando Bloom farts. I don't think 'Tiger Beat' will be printing that headline anytime soon. It's just my little secret. He's a real person. And I did him."

Yes. So. Even in my fantasy sex life, I can't escape the escape of gas. Next thing you know, I'll have Bruce Campbell's dog watching us and licking himself.

[**As I was sketching out this blog in my head (as I am wont to do, constantly) the next morning, I was standing in front of a full-length mirror and putting on lipstick. This parenthetical sentence popped into my head, and I was struck with déjà vu.

I had to wonder when the hell, before now, I'd ever been putting on lipstick and thinking about the possibility of consummating forbidden love.

And then I realized, it's probably not as unlikely a scenario as I'd like to pretend.]

Does "Tiger Beat" exist anymore?

Posted at 09:29 AM | Comments (0)

January 14, 2005

Have I Mentioned I'm Going To Hell?

My good friend, who is a Pastor, is going out of town soon. Me and another friend have agreed to take care of her son; me for the first half of her trip, Kay for the other.

So, the Pastor emailed both Kay and I this morning with an itinerary:

"Since you two are tag teaming where Billy is concerned in a couple weeks, I'm copying you both on this email. We can have a 'three way conversation' if need be this way!"

And of course, Beavis and I are laughing hysterically that the Pastor said "tag teaming" and "we can have a three way!" In the same sentence!

And you know why that's pure comedic gold? She seriously would have no idea why I'm laughing.

Posted at 02:43 PM | Comments (0)

January 13, 2005

Potty Talk

Oh, c'mon, you knew it was inevitable, what with me being so uncouth and all.

The Big, Scandalous Confession
I don't always wash my hands after I go to the bathroom. Know why? I don't pee on my hands. Okay, I'll wash before lunch, or after a poop, but I don't think a quick pee warrants that I wash all the hand lotion off my delicate skin. People, I pee, like, twice an hour. It takes up enough of my time as it is. If I were to wash my hands. Every. Single. Freakin'. Time. I peed, I wouldn't have time to do anything else, which is good because all the skin would slough off my hands, rendering them useless anyway. And you know what? My sporadic hand washing has not killed me!!!

Music To Pee By
They pipe-in music in our bathroom here at work, which I lurve because it drowns out the sound of me pooping, so I can poop and hum to my heart's delight, and no one will be the wiser! But I think the building staff fights over which station to pick because one day I'll be singing along with Bono; and the next day, it's show tunes; and the next, elevator music. So Nicholle and I e-mail each other with "MTPB" -- Music To Pee By -- and keep each other current with the music selections and our thoughts on them. Like, "They were playing that goddamn 'Titanic' love theme again, so I decided I could hold it a little while longer." My favorite day was when I walked in to hear a co-worker unabashedly singing along with "New York, New York," while peeing.

Speaking of Pooping (Dooce Would Be So Proud!)
They also have this little machine that sprays a bit of scented stuff into the air at regular intervals. Now that's classy! I want one of them installed in my bathroom at home because whatever it is that comes out of my sweet, little step-daughter's ass is fucking toxic, man. And God forbid she use the Melon Scented Lysol Room Spray provided!

Juanita, Patron Saint of Sparkling Porcelain
I think I'm a little bit in love with a member of the cleaning staff here. I see her all the time. She speaks Spanish and very little English. She's probably about my age, and fairly cute, with a nice smile. And although her job is to clean up after other people all day long, she never fails to be friendly and cheerful. I mean, if I have to pick up Husband's boxers off the bathroom floor, I roll my eyes and moan and rag at him for 20 minutes. How this woman cleans bathrooms all day and manages not to despise all of humanity is unfathomable to me. She's clearly a saint. I feel like I should leave her a tip or something.

Bathroom Habits
I think Heather is weird because she pees twice a day and poops once a week. She thinks I'm weird for having to pause "Desperate Housewives" twice so I can pee. And we both think her brother is weird for putting Jello in her shampoo, but that's a whoooole other story.

Posted at 02:39 PM | Comments (0)

December 21, 2004

Have I Mentioned that I Love Presents?

There's nothing like Christmas to really make it painfully obvious just how lame of a loser I am. For instance, consider the gifts I got all excited about this morning.

From Anne, a Disney Princess Hallmark Keepsake Ornament. Squeal! Love it! And it's particularly appropriate, considering Anne is the one who started the whole princess debacle in the first place.

I'm all, "Oh, I love it! Thank you so much! It's so awesome!"

And she's like, "Personally, I think it's garish and hideous, and it would never come near any tree of mine."

And that's why Anne is a wonderful person. No, I'm not being sarcastic! Did she pick out something she thought was cool and that I should like? No, she humiliated herself and bought something she knew I would love. No matter how retarded it is. She's a peach, that Anne.

From Nicholle, the soundtrack to "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Swear to God. I thought I was the only person under 60 who knew about this incredibly hokey movie, let alone liked it! But then Nicholle mentioned something in passing one day, and I found a Sister in Schmaltziness.

Yes, it is the Gayest Musical Ever. Especially the Lonesome Polecat Ballet. Holy crap. And they take it so seriously! It's hilarious. And I wish I could say that I like it because it reminds me of a simpler times blah blah blah, but really, it's the plethora of athletic men that I dig. My favorite is Frank. He has this wavy hair that keeps flopping into his eyes, and he's always starting fights. What a punk.

Plus, who knew Russ Tamblyn would go on to play the whacked-out Dr. Jacoby in "Twin Peaks"? Who'd have thought that Julie Newmar could recover so damn well from playing the role of Dorcas? The whole thing just fascinates me.

I first saw the movie when I was 16 and had mono for three months. I guess Mom felt guilty for going to Norway for two weeks and leaving me with my sister (not that I'm bitter), and she was trying to entertain me. So she brought home the VHS tape of "7B47B" from the library, as it was her favorite movie as a little girl. Now normally, at 16, anything Mom liked was automatically not cool enough for me. But something about that stupid movie charmed me.

You may commence with the mockery now.

Posted at 01:19 PM | Comments (0)

December 20, 2004

Yet Another Reason I'm Going To Hell

I saw a mother and daughter in the lobby. The girl had Downs Syndrome and had on a letter jacket. On the back, it said "Special Olympics Pom-Poms." And I just can't even describe the mental picture I got. Sent me giggling shamefully all the way up the elevator.

Please address all hate mail to ignorantcunt@yahoo.com, and use the subject line "Hell is too good for you, bitch!"

Posted at 12:59 PM | Comments (0)

October 22, 2004

I am a Marketing Whore

Went to the huge mall across the street for lunch today, and when I walked by the Victoria's Secret store, they had a million little stuffed pink doggies in the display window! And I salivated, "They must be mine!"

See, when Step Daughter The Oldest goes away to college in nine and a half months (not that I'm counting or anything), her bedroom is becoming my office/Barbie gallery. The walls are currently grey, and I'm too lazy to paint, so I thought I'd just accent with pink, which, coincidentally, goes perfect with Barbies! (Not that I'm looking forward to it or anything.)

So you understand why this little, pink doggie had to be mine. No, you don't, but just smile and nod. I appreciate it.

But how to get said little blushing canine? Are they display only? Can I bribe a bimbette, er, saleswoman? Should I distract her with something shiny, grab a puppy and dash?

Still drooling, I pass the doorway, and Bambi squeals, "Buy anything from the "Pink" collection and get a stuffed dog free!

And that, my friends, is why there is a big ol' bag o' panties sitting on my desk right now. They even have a cute little doggie print! For when I do it doggie style!

Hmmm, I think there's a Victoria's Secret by J. Jill. And Husband practically begged me to get a new bathrobe and stop using his...

Posted at 10:50 AM | Comments (0)

October 06, 2004

We Eat Like Hobbits

Okay, next week, I'll be on vacation with my cousins and my Dad. Well, not simultaneously. Dad likes quiet. In fact, Dad and I can go an entire long weekend without speaking. We're Norwegian.

But when the four cousins come up with their four dogs to join Husband, our dog, and me, it's chaos. They're Danish, Polish and Irish, for God's sake!

Anyhoo, it has occurred to me that my entire family, regardless of heritage, has weird priorities. For instance, here's a conversation between Dad and I:

"Dad, instead of going home on Tuesday, stay an extra couple days and hang out with us!"

"With all those people and dogs?!"

"Well, yea, but it'll be fun! All we do is eat, drink and play cards. You'll love it."

"Does R still have his machine gun?"

"Um, I'll check..."

"If he brings it, I'll stay."

Then R's wife PJ calls. Well, okay, they're not technically married, but they've been together for long than most marriages last, so let's not split hairs. She buys his underwear; they're married. Here's my phone call with PJ:

"PJ!"

"Hi! Just calling to see what you're bringing to the cabin!"

"Um, lots of sweaters, a space heater, Barbies, Dad's banjo…"

"No, no, no. What food? I'm gonna bake."

"Ohhhhh! I'm bringing beer bread, some raspberry chipotle marinade for steaks, strawberry-cheeseball makings."

"I'm gonna pick up one of those huge slabs of bacon from Sam's Club. I'm also gonna bring my griddle to make pancakes for breakfast. Oh, and we have to go have biscuits and gravy at that one place. And we have to get some coffee cake from the bakery. And I think I'm gonna make muffins. Is your Dad gonna make Swedish pancakes?"

"PJ, you and R are only gonna be there for two breakfasts."

"Well, what about elevensies?"

"Good point."

And it dawned on me - while most people plan what to do on their vacations, we plan what to eat. Like I know we'll be going to the Marina for surf 'n' turf. And we have to have fried cheese curds at least once a day (it's a Wisconsin state law). And then there's the turtle sundaes at the Albatross. And we'll be having s'mores every two hours. And we can't play gin rummy without a veritable cornicopia of chips 'n' dip.

And before the breakfast dishes are even dry, we're going, "What should we do for lunch? Wanna get brats at the middle bar, or should we grill?"

Seriously, we're pathological.

"Oh, my god. I can't believe I ate that whole steak. I'm in pain, and that's with the button on my jeans undone. Hey, where's the waitress? Are we ordering dessert?"

If we could dine reclining on couches like Romans, I don't think we'd ever move.

"Oh, the dogs can just pee on the porch. You gonna finish those onion rings?"

I'm bringing lots of pants with elastic waistbands.

Posted at 09:15 PM | Comments (0)

September 15, 2004

Drip On My Blouse and Tell Me That You Love Me

Let me just say that I am morally opposed to Kraft Easy Mac. I find the whole concept insulting.

Are we so stupid and inept as a nation that boiling water and adding milk and butter is too difficult for us to handle? We have to make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese even easier? Are we unable to watch butter melting and reality television at the same time? Does Dr. Phil have to come hold our hand while we stir the macaroni?

Seriously, it's a sad commentary on how completely retarded we have become.

Having said that, I love the stuff. Man, it's so salty and creamy! And loaded with carbs! How could I not love it?! Oh, fie, you delectible, mind-numbing, cheez-laden, overly-simplistic national commentary! Drip on my blouse and make me yours!

They should call it Easy Smac' because that's how addicted I am.

Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (0)

August 19, 2004

Masturbation

Gotcha. Pervert. With a title like that, you were expecting a description of me, a mirror and my Hello Kitty! vibrator, no? Well, maybe another time. Right now, my blog is brand new, and I just feel the need to explain myself. Which rarely happens, so listen up.

I recently became reacquainted with a friend from high school, and we've been playing mad, blathering catch-up ever since. [**shameless plug alert!**] She is a web designer by trade and has her own website/blog.

The blog idea has always intrigued me, as writing and self-indulgence are two of my favorite things. But she gets the credit for tipping me over the edge into blogdom, the little minx.

I have another friend, you may know him, and he convinced me (read: begged me and plied me with gifties) to use LiveJournal so he could better communicate with (read: stalk) me.

Now, John is fairly well-known, and damn witty, so there are lots of people who actually care about what he has to say. Me, not so much. Seems like it would just be so much mental masturbation for me.

And there's the tie-in. Like masturbation, blogs are some good quality time spent with oneself, it doesn't hurt anybody, and -- contrary to popular belief -- you're not going to hell for it, so why not?! Yes, there's my whole motivation -- why not. Because it's there. Much like climbing Mt. Everest, only less chance of plummeting to one's death.

So there ya go. And if you've read this far, I thank you from the southwest corner of my heart because I'm pretty sure you're the only one!

Posted at 03:52 PM | Comments (0)