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 (4)

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 (5)

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...