July 15, 2010

The Follow-Up Interview

Well. After Rose told me about Laura Miller being the physical manifestation of All That Stands In My Way, it seemed that everyone in the world wanted to chime in on what kind of person Laura is. I heard the words "inappropriate" and "lazy" a lot.

I also learned that, years ago, Laura used to work in the unit we've both applied to. She had no clue how to behave around the V.I.P.s that unit deals with on a daily basis. But it took "years of struggle" to get her transferred to a different department. Sadly, neither Steel nor WM were around during that era, so neither of them are aware of Laura's checkered past. Nor, apparently, did HR feel it their duty to inform anyone.

But after many bowls of ice cream and hours of t.v., I came to the zen-like acceptance that, if they aren't smart enough to hire me, than they are too stupid to deserve and appreciate the awesomeness that is me. Besides, who doesn't love a little bout of unemployment? I could finally paint the hallway...

Screw all that, Wenchie! Tell us how the second interview went!

Okay, my darlings, I hear you! The second interview was shorter and less formal... and AWESOME! I rocked their fucking socks off! It's like there were angels hovering around me, depositing the most PERFECT answers into my brain, so that I could put them forth with sincerity and charm.

First, they let me know that they're glad they have some prior knowledge of my work skills, because if they'd had to base their decision solely in my first interview, I wouldn't have gotten a second. And I know that sounds harsh, but it's fair. I gave a tragically shitty first interview, and they were probably nervous that I was easily intimidated. So I assured them that that was NOT the case.

"I know! That first interview was horrible, but I want you to know that that was the exception and not the rule. I don't even know who that person was. I don't get nervous around new people or really important people. I've met all the V.I.P.s and got along with them great. There will not be a repeat of that episode."

They seemed reassured and even commented that I seemed more like myself. And smiling. Apparently, I'm known for smiling a lot. But, Wenchie, you hate people. Why smile at them? Because smiling disarms people and, therefore, makes my life easier.

They asked what I would have done differently in the first interview, and I said that I would have thought of all my great answers actually during the interview, instead of two minutes after I left the interview room.

"There's one answer in particular that I'd like to ammend. It's the first one you asked me -- why I applied for the job. And yes, all the answers I gave then still stand. I still want more money; I still want a permanant position; and I still really like working with the people in this department. But there's another reason I forgot to mention. I have outgrown the Administrative Assistant position."

Can't you just see them salivating?

"I can be The World's Greatest Secretary with one hand tied behind my back, and it's just not enough anymore. I want more to do, more to learn, more responsibility. I want to move up to the next level. I am totally ready for this."

They grabbed their spoons and dug into that one! And it's totally TRUE! It's not like I was bullshitting them or anything. I've outgrown being a secretary like I've outgrown cheap make-up and crop t-shirts.

All their questions were really general, leading me to believe that they had no particular issue they're concerned about. Like -- what do you think this department thinks of you?

"They like me! I know they do because every, single one of them told me that I should apply for this job."

Pause for laugh.

"And I like them. There are some units that don't help each other out. But during the big events here, everyone in this unit pitches in and helps out and works together and has fun. I like being part of that, and I've always felt that I fit in really well here."

Oh, I lied -- they did ask me one specific question, but I think it was more about Steel's experience with a former employee than it was about me.

He asked, "Let's say that you had some sort of problem with me. Something I said or did offended you, or you didn't think it was right. Would you feel comfortable talking to me about it?"

"Well, I wouldn't feel comfortable, but I'd certainly talk to you about it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I know you and would assume that any offense was unintentional, and I would want you to have the opportunity to tell your side of things. It's not good to let stuff like that fester. It can hurt your working relationship and affect the whole team."

Another homerun! And it's funny -- a year ago, I would have never thought myself capable of confronting a superior about his/her behavior. But I've come to expect respect from people, especially the ones I work for/with because they should know firsthand how much I deserve it.

I've had practice diplomatically reigning in PhD's occassional arrogant snottiness, so I'm well-equipped to handle fire-breathing dragons now. And Steel is no dragon.

Finally, they asked what part of the job description I think I'd have the most trouble with.

"The budget stuff. I've only recently started to become familiar with the way our budgets are structured. I haven't had to make any decisions, but Alpha has included me in discussions and meetings, so I'm learning. And if you threw me into budget planning, well, that just means I'd have to learn it in a hurry!"

"Anything else about the job description you want to ask us about?"

"I know that I'm supposed to ask you questions so you can see that I'm interested and thoughtful, but honestly? I know this job. This job is a compilation of the three jobs that I temped in for you guys. There's nothing about it that looks unfamiliar."

Are you ready? Because this is where the fat lady sang. This is where I brought in the pyrotechnics. This is what my guardian angel leaned over and whispered in my ear:

"I've been all over this department, and all over this organization. I've picked up new skills and new information everywhere I went. So for three years, I feel like I've been -- unknowingly -- training for this position. Everything I've done and learned has been leading me here. I feel like -- this is it. This is what it's all been about. This is where I'm supposed to be."

Cue the music... aaaaaand scene.

I didn't actually invoke God or the Holy Spirit or anything, but I think I implied it enough to really hit home with them.

Now. Will they hire me? I don't know. Laura Miller, I've heard, is out of the running, but there is one other person being considered. I think I have a good shot. A damn good shot.

But even if I don't get it, I've proved to myself that I can be a fantastic interviewee, and I've proved to Steel and WM that I am not a dithering idiot. Not bad for fifteen minutes of chit-chat, eh? And I did it all while on the first day of my period, which is pretty Herculean, considering I'd rather me under my desk in a fetal position.

After the interview, my friend J.A.B. (Jab! Hee!) told me to send a quick email thanking them both for their time. Brilliant! So I did -- thanked them for fitting me into their busy week and giving me another opportunity to prove myself.

I got the following reply from Steel: "You did well, Wenchie. I look forward to the future."

Holy crap! Are you thinking what I'm thinking?!

Posted at 06:00 AM | Comments (1)

July 12, 2010

News Flash: Reverse-Racism Is Still Racism

Recently, a lovely lass named Stacey commented that she is "an eat out girl," and I almost peed in my pants. Because I am twelve. Happily, she left her URL, and I followed it to find a very cool blog that is my new fav. (Heather, seriously, you just don't post enough, honey.)

Sadly, I do not have a Blogger account, which means that I can't comment on her blog. So I will comment here. On this post entitled "Deaf Negro."

Stacey, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I don't always have to be hilarious. That sometimes, I can forego the punchline and snarkiness and just vent my spleen. And thank you, most of all, for thwaping me in the head with the truth -- getting pissed at "people of color" does not necessarily make you a racist.

Yeah, "people of color." PoC. That's this year's politically-correct term for anyone and everyone who is non-white. It's kind of hilarious, isn't it? I mean, it tries so hard to be all-inclusive and non-offensive that it's almost... retroffensive. I mean, how is that different from "colored" of the 60s?

Anyhoo, here's my beef. I've lived in an affluent, (nearly) all-white suburb of Chicago for the majority of my life. And I had to get a job with a church in order to learn about racism.

Oh, but the irony gets better.

I get along perfectly with all the black people that I've worked with. (No one is calling me "Scandinavian-American," so if I'm "white," they are "black.") Apparently, they even trust me enough to talk about their hair in my presence! Social taboo! And if they secretly resent me for my "white priviledge," they don't let on. So it's all good.

The few Asian people who work there... well, honestly, has anyone ever met an Asian person with a huge chip in their shoulder and something to prove? No. Asians are chill. Yes, I'm generalizing about an entire continent of people. Sue me.

I don't even mind when the random Middle Eastern chick who speaks with a really thick accent is impossible for me to understand when she reads the Lesson in Chapel. I'm mainly there for the music anyway.

Do I get annoyed when the Spanish-speaking people at work speak REALLY LOUDLY in their native tongue because the people around them can't understand them anyway, and therefore, there's no reason to use their Inside Voices? Yes. But that's because they are RUDE, not because they are Latino. And when they're speaking English, we get along famously. I don't even assume they're talking about me when they're speaking Spanish.

I actually enjoy working with a varitable cornicopia of races. I've learned a lot of cool things about people and the places they're from, the lives they've lived. Knowledge is power, and my co-workers have helped to stretch my mind to the ends of the earth. After living in a homogenous area all my life, I feel like more of a grown-up working in our little United Nations, you know?

I work with women who wear saris! I am worldly!

No, in the most tragic and poetic plot-twist ever, it is The Human Resources Department that houses the biggest fucking racists I've ever met. And worse? They hide behind their cry of "Diversity! Diversity!" I wanna punch them right in the throat.

When my current boss -- Head Boss, not PhD Boss -- was fighting H.R. to get me my measly six-month contract, HR Troll #2 actually said to him, "You can't hire her. Your department isn't diverse enough."

Head Boss adorably played stupid, saying, "Of course, we are. We're fifty percent women!"

(And if you don't think that women are a down-trodden minority who need every advantage they can get in order to get a fair wage, then you haven't seen the gender salary disparities where I work.)

But Troll #2 wasn't fooled. She acquiesced only because he played the surgery card: "While I'm on sick leave, recovering from surgery, I need to know that things here are running smoothly! This is the wrong time for us to make a staffing transition!"

Regardless, I had suspected all along that my easily-sunburned skin was going to be a liability. Why? Because EVERY ONE of my good work friends have confided to me multiple examples of underqualified PoC getting and keeping jobs they have no business doing, and being hand-selected for promotions they haven't earned.

Wenchie Is Not a Racist Disclaimer: I freely and happily confess that there are PoC where I work who have earned and deserved their positions. Nor are they the exception to the rule. (And I hate that I feel compelled to add this knee-jerk renouncement!)

As you know, I submitted an application and resume for another position here. (Why? Because I am a glutton for punishment. And the devil you know is better than the devil you don't.) The position is THREE pay-grades higher than the one I'm in now. And most importantly, it's a position that is, essentially, an aggregation of three other positions in that department (thank-you, recession-induced downsizing), ALL OF WHICH I HAVE DONE BEFORE.

That's right, you heard me -- I have temped in this department three times, and in the great "restructing" of us, my three temp positions were combined into one position.

It's like Franken-job -- designed specifically for ME. There's not a person in the world more qualified for this job than Yours Truly! I mean, it's a no-brainer, right?

Right...?

Right, and yet... I am losing sleeping, dreading the day when I see a brown-skinned, underqualified person take that position in my stead. And worse, I am composing, in my head, the huge YOU-CAN'T-HANDLE-THE-TRUTH-style speech I'm going to make before packing a box and storming off.

I will be stunned if I get this job because it means breaking a pattern I've watched over and over. Despite the fact that the department already has four times the required percentage of "diversity hires;" despite every, single person in that department begging me to apply for the position; despite the extremely black department head giving me exactly the information I needed for my resume and cover letter -- I will probably not get this job because H.R. has the final say in ALL hires.

How fucked up is that?

On Thursday, fifteen minutes before I was supposed to leave work, Rose came down to see me. (Rose is the Official Title's big, black secretary, if you'll remember. Okay, well, she's called The Executive Administrative Assistant. Whatever. She likes me, and she is HILARIOUS.)

"I know for a fact that it's just you and one other person who got follow-up interviews," she said.

"Really?"

"Yup. So you're a shoe-in!"

"Who's the other person???"

"Laura Miller."

"I don't know her..." So I looked her up on our company database. She's black. "Oh, I'm screwed."

"What?! No. Trust me -- you're a shoe-in."

"Well, that depends on who is making the decision. Because if HRT2 is making the decision, she's all about the Diversity Hire. And I am so not Diverse."

"Oh, fuck that. I'm all the diversity they need. 'Sides, you've got way more skills than Laura. She should just stay where she is and answer those phones, that's what she should do."

I cracked up. Laura's job is to answer phones and send people resources. So yeah, she's got about one-tenth the skills needed for the job. But she's BLACK. And she's very well-liked.

And now I'm more scared than I was before Rose visited. Nice to know that the Official Title's secretary is rooting for me -- over a fellow "sistah" even -- but I kinda wish she hadn't told me.

I smell HRT2's stench all over this. With Laura's pitiful resume, she shouldn't even have gotten a FIRST interview, let alone made it to a second.

I don't think I'm gonna get this job...

Posted at 05:56 AM | Comments (1)

June 30, 2010

Dishing on the Interview

What is it about interviews that make people use the word "dish" as a verb? Heather is the third person today to tell me to "dish" about the interview.

I wore all black. Like Johnny Cash. Or Kenny Rogers. Probably more like Kenny Rogers than I care to imagine. Hey, I don't own a navy blue suit, so I went with what I know.

Anyhoooooo...

Cast of Characters

(I should probably give these guys names, if there's a chance I'll be working with them from here on out..)

Steel: Named so because of his steel grey hair. I worked for him for several months last year. He is often described as "persnickety," but I liked working for him. Our respective obsessive-compulsive behaviors complimented each other quite nicely. He's even more organized and detail-oriented than I am, so there were never any surprises or last-minute assignments.

WM: Named so because those are his initials, and I like how those two letters look together. WM was brand new when I was working for Steel. I never reported to him directly, but my assessment of him is that he's calm, quietly in control, slow to anger, and very honest. He's the kind of guy you want on your team.

HRT2: H.R. Troll #2. Second in command in H.R. Hates whitey. Doesn't like to hire whitey. Likes to hire people of color who are in dire straights and desperately need the income. Makes for some questionable hiring practices and less-than-steller employees. She also has final say on all new hires, and does not possess the ability to mask her contempt.

In short, the interview would have been great if it'd been with just Steel and WM. As it was, I was more nervous than I've been in years. Singing and dancing like a spaz for an audience of 800? Walk in the park. My wedding vows? Piece of cake. (Get it?) Job interview with three people I've known for three years? GOD-AWFUL HORRIFYING!!!

There were some questions I answered quite well, and I remember thinking, Awwwwwww, yeah, that was exactly what they wanted to hear! But for the life of me, I can't remember what they were. I have a touch of stress-induced amnesia, like the day after finals.

It's funny. There were a few questions where I could tell that they were looking for a specific answer. Seven years of waiting tables made me pretty good at reading peoples' faces and tailoring my service to their expectations. So I'd just start talking until I saw someone perk up, and then I'd really hammer home whatever it was I said that got their attention.

But most of the time, I was just brutally honest because I didn't have the wherewithall to spin anything or remember one damn piece of good advice that anyone gave me. I think I may have admitted to having an inappropriate sense of humor sometimes, and not liking being on my feet all day, and blowing llamas.

Why is it so hard to sell ourselves and say complimentary things about ourselves?! Why can I type here with such conviction that I AM THE SHIZZLE, but I lose all confidence when it counts?! Well, at least I didn't mention the Barbies or the blog.

The hardest question was, "What are three words that describe you?"

Um... hungry, racist and sarcastic? Fat, horny and clairvoyant? Demanding, superficial and high-maintainence?

I ended up saying, "Organized, easy-going and... funny."

Yeah. I panicked. I should not have gone with funny. But that's what everyone always tells me! And SHE WROTE IT DOWN, for God's sake! Oh, and it gets better.

"What are three words that PhD Boss would use to describe you?"

Oh. My. God. He often tells me how much he appreciates me and respects me, but he's never actually used adjectives. Are they going to check my answers with him later?

"Wow. Um... hard-working, fast learner... and funny. We joke around a lot."

OHMYGOD! It's like I was TRYING to sabotage myself! Funny twice? Really? You think you're THAT funny, Wenchie? Jeebus. Get over yourself.

Last question: "And what are three words another colleague would use to describe you?"

At this point, I could only assume they were trying to get me to say funny again.

"Well, the person I work most closely with, after PhD, is Alpha. And I think she would say that I'm a good worker, nice to have around, and... helpful."

What about my Mom, HRT2? You wanna know what I think my Mom would say about me? HUH??? C'mon, bitch -- BRING IT.

Sometimes, they'd ask a question, and I'd have absolutely zero answer, or I'd forget the question halfway through my answer (happened twice), so I'd just pull a politician's move and start talking about whatever I wanted to talk about.

Then they hit me with, "Is there anything you feel we should have asked you and didn't?"

Oh, honey. It's time for mama to shine.

"I think you should have asked me about my personal code of work ethics."

"Okay, then! Go ahead!"

And that's when I finally got on the ball and started selling myself.

There's no such thing as It's not my job. Anything anyone asks me to do is my job.

In the unlikely event that I run out of things to do, I will ask for more work.

There's no such thing as I don't know. It's I'm not sure, but I will find out for you.

I keep my home life at home. I don't bring my problems to the office.

Unless I'm absolutely impossibly swamped, I will always help a colleague when asked.

I don't freak out under pressure.

I don't whine.

I make a point to be the kind of person that I would want to work with -- kind, helpful and professional.

It'll be two weeks before I know if I made "first cut." If so, there will be follow-up questions and/or some sort of task to complete... They're not really sure, at this point, what the rest of the process will look like. Fun, huh?

My tits looked great.

Posted at 08:08 AM | Comments (3)

June 18, 2010

Rage-Induced Black-Outs: Part I

Sometimes drunks experience black-outs. People can experience a memory black-out after a traumatic experience, which is basically their brain protecting them from memories of horrible, horrible shit.

Me? I experience black-outs when people are rude to me.

And I'm not talking cut-me-off-in-traffic rude, or check-out-girl-who-can't-be-bothered-to-acknowledge-my-presence-with-a-mono-syllabic-greeting rude. I'm talking about the kind of rude when something completely amazing comes out of someone's mouth, to my ears, directed at me personally.

But not like, "You're such a bitch," or, "You play with dolls?!?!." That kind of stuff just makes me laugh.

What really sets me off is when people -- mainly men -- utter thoughts so archaic that I'm left wondering if I'm allowed to vote in the next election, or if all that silliness was just a pleasant dream I had. And even worse -- the chauvenistic, misogynistic ideas that they utter are so ingrained into their psyche that they don't even know they've said anything offensive!

Example: Several times, at my current place of indentured servitude, when discussing "career moves" (i.e. job changes) with a male boss, I have been asked, "Have you talked to your husband about this?"

>:O

That is my Holy Fucking Shit, Did He Really Just Say That? face. This face is often accompanied by a numbness on the left side of my body, and the inability to hear anything else said for the duration of the conversation.

Translation: "Does your husband know you're doing this, and has he given you permission? Because God knows that no one with a uterus is qualified to make a decision about their own life! Why don't you go back to your knitting and your Sex in the City reruns and leave the heavy thinking to us men? Now here's fifty dollars -- go buy yourself something pretty."

I told Husband about this once, after about the third time it happened.

He was all, "Well, of course, they expect you to talk things over with me. I'm your husband. We make decisions together."

"Uh-uh. No. That was not the implication."

"How do you know?"

"In the four times that you've changed jobs since we've been married, has anyone ever asked YOU if you've talked things over with ME?"

*silence*

*nervous cough from an audience member*

"Exactly," I said.

"Well, Jen asked me."

"Of course, JEN asked you! She's a WOMAN! Only another WOMAN is going to give a moment's thought as to how starting your own company is going to affect your WIFE!!!"

And then the flames that were shooting out of my nostrils set the kitchen towel on fire, and we had to stop talking and extinguish the blaze.

I suppose it's only natural that a man would wonder if me taking on a few more responsibilities would really be worth the extra bushel of potatos I'd be bringing home, since it would obviously interfere with my ability to come home after an eight-hour day and cook and clean and care for the children and tend to the harvest.

Don't you worry, Mr. Man. I won't be coming home and plopping down on the couch and watching t.v. all night. I know there are clothes to be mended and pies to be baked! I know my place, don't you worry!

Asswipe.

Posted at 06:30 AM | Comments (1)

June 03, 2010

On the Seventh Day, God Created Barbie

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

Some more.

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

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

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

H: sensible shoes with a heel, I hope.

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

H: NO!

PW: and she'll have to have short hair

H: at least give her a bun?

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

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

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

H: with a pink sparkle bible.

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

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

H: DO IT.

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

H: I will chip in for beading.

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

H: squee!

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

H: um...

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

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

PW: no, I mean a Barbie-huge cross

H: I love you.

PW: and I love you
PW: Episcopal Priest Barbie

H: Awesome!
H: left behind couture

---

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

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

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

Posted at 08:04 AM | Comments (3)

May 20, 2010

The Levels of Office Attire

PhD Boss was waxing philosophic the other day...

PhD: It's so quiet. I wonder why it's so quiet around here.

PW: Um, could it be the impending sense of doom? Knowing that another round of lay-offs is a WHEN, not an IF?

PhD: Really?

PW: Or it could be the bitterness of knowing that, despite taking on the responsibilities of all the people who were laid-off, none of us are getting a raise for at least two years.

PhD: You think that's it?

PW: I know that's why I'm bitter.

PhD: Are you bitter?

PW: Have we met?

I was relating this story to my work-friend, JB -- yes, she and I hate all the same people -- and she said that she was noticing a definite decline in the appropriateness of what people are wearing to work.

Since JB and I are both facing probable impending unemployment -- she because her hubby will soon be taking a job in a galaxy far, far away; me because my contract expires on August 31 -- we decided we should probably document...

The Levels of Office Attire

Suits, Ties, Skirts
The upper-echelon of business wear. I have made my career decisions specifically to avoid having to wear tailored jackets and waist-to-toe nylons.

Button-Down Shirt, Dress Slacks
Okay, you're not full-on formal, but you're obviously still a contender.

Polo, Khakis
De rigour for business casual. The uniform of mid-level executives and Target employees alike.

Henleys & Corduroys, Hoodies & Jeans
Perhaps, if you dress them up with a bespangled scarf, no one will notice that you're losing interest.

Yoga Pants, T-Shirt with Necklace
When your job is slowly sucking your soul, you don't have to energy to take off your clothes before crawling into bed and going fetal for ten hours. (I have a fabulous necklace collection. Even PhD Boss has said so.)

Walking Around the Office with Shoes Off, Socks Optional
Some people spend so much time dicking around on Facebook, they forget they aren't at home.

Sweats or Shorts
I firmly believe that capris fit in here, especially when worn with flip-flops or Crocs, but some may argue. Those some are wrong.

Pajamas
Plaid, flannel pants. Oversized t-shirt. Bathrobe. Perpetual mug of coffee, optional. Did you know that, with Netflix, you can stream cartoons directly to your computer?

Bathrobe
JB: Wait. We just covered that.
PW: No, I mean bathrobe only. When you don't even care if people see your wang.

Posted at 06:32 AM | Comments (0)

May 17, 2010

Why I Should Be Fired: Reason #42

So after a work day that literally included five minutes where me and PhD boss just sat and made stupid faces at each other on Skype (despite the fact that our desks are literally ten feet apart)...

"This is you. Du-huh-uh..."
"Well, this is you. Gar-rrr-llll..."
"Well, this is you. Uh-doiiiiieeeeee..."

...he says to me, "I should probably stop being so goofy at work. That's not cool for a boss."

So I says, "PhD, do you think I don't respect you because you're goofy sometimes?"

"Maybe..."

"Noooooooo, honey. I don't respect you because you're an idiot."

And then I laughed for five minutes. Hey, he's got no one to blame but himself for that one.

Posted at 06:15 AM | Comments (1)

March 22, 2010

And THEN She Said...

BILLI, on the phone with me:

*sigh* I just found a diaper and a pair of pants in the dining room. I gotta go. I think there's a half-naked boy running around my house.

PhD BOSS, about mid-way through Friday afternoon:

I have been so uncool as a boss today.

You see what's wrong with this one, right? He said, "Today."

The MOM-OF-THREE in the cube next to me:

Why isn't anyone in my whole family answering the damn phone?!

What I wanted to say: "They've probably all been murdered and are lying in pools of their own blood, and that's why they're not answering."

But then I figured, with my luck, they probably were lying there disemboweled, and she'd go home and discover all their bodies, and then I'd be real asshole. That kind of stuff always happens to me.

Posted at 06:44 AM | Comments (1)

March 02, 2010

Easter Pastels & Lasagna Blues

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

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

and won't shutthefuckup about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H: ha.

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

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

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

H: yes, yes you are!

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

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

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

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

Kinda like now.

Posted at 05:39 PM | Comments (2)

February 25, 2010

Latter, Dude

This has been The Week Of Bizarre Questions at work. We really need to take our phone number off our website. Often, I just cluck my tongue and forward them on to the person least unqualified to deal with it.

Wednesday afternoon's email, however, deserved some special attention. Lucky for Billi, she happened to be on I.M. at the time.

PW: dude, you will love this.
PW: we have an "info" email where people can direct general Jeebus-related questions.
PW: this one got forwarded to my dept.
PW: "My favorite nephew has married a lady who is of the Latter Day Saints. If she is still a member of LDS when she dies, would she still go to heaven to be with God and nephew?"

B: OMG

PW: isn't that hilarious?

B: That's insane.

PW: welcome to my job.

[For those of you stalking me and trying to figure out where I work, you may assume that I do not work for the Latter Day Saints. Not that I wouldn't -- they just haven't made the right offer, yet.]

B: Just write back and say, "no, she's going to hell."

PW: actually, I'm tempted to say, "She's going to heaven. YOU're the one going to hell for questioning it, bitch!"

B: Ha! She'll go to pergatory, because she's too stupid to follow the light!

Posted at 06:23 AM | Comments (1)

February 04, 2010

Lunch Date

Yesterday before lunch, Meg, the office tart, brought a big muffin to PhD Boss' cubicle to "share." And "sharing," apparently, includes eating tiny pieces of muffin, licking her fingers, tossing her hair, and crossing and uncrossing her legs.

The body language was unmistakable, and PhD was riveted. They laughed and whispered like they were on their third date and they both knew that sex was inevitable. See, Meg is currently off-again with her on-again-off-again boyfriend, so she was in need of some male attention.

Finally, they wrapped up their pre-mating ritual, just as I was prepping for my lunch date with Bobbi. A woman. Whom I always call "Bobbi the Girl" when I talk to Husband, so he doesn't think I'm lunching every week with some guy.

PhD: Wenchie, can you come over here for a minute?

PW: Fine. But when my phone rings, I'm outta here. So make it quick.

PhD: You know that meeting on March 4th? Did you reserve a room for that?

Phone: *ring* *ring*

PW: Later. [answers phone] Okay, I'll be right down.

PhD: So what're you doing for lunch? You wanna go get lunch?

PW: ... Noooooooo. I have plans.

PhD: With who?

PW: Bobbi.

PhD: Who's Bobbi?

PW: My boyfriend.

PhD: Oh.

PW: Besides, the way you were eating up Meg, I 'm surprised you're even hungry for lunch.

PhD: [audible intake of breath] Wow.

Uh-huh. That's right. I don't "share" my muffin.

Posted at 08:57 AM | Comments (2)

January 07, 2010

The Work Kiss

Earlier today, I told PhD Boss that he seemed angry and asked him if he was mad at me. So from then on, he was RIDICULOUSLY, bend-over-backwards nice to me. Which was disconcerting, especially when he insisted that we walk out to our cars together.

But first I had to wait for him while he was distracted by Meg, the Rubenesque blonde who has a cube near us.

Meg: Bye! See you in February!

PhD: Oh, that's right! Where are you going this time?

Meg: Tanzania, then Palestine, then London.

PhD: Wow. Well, have a safe journey! *smooch*

Meg: Oooooh, you're all scratchy!

PW: *eyeroll* God. Are you dating her now, too?

PhD: What? Nooooooooo!

PW: Dude. You kissed her.

PhD: We're friends!

PW: Whatever. I don't kiss my friends.

PhD: Oh, stop.

PW: And I sure as hell don't kiss anyone at work.

PhD: Did you see Alpha's face?! She was, like, COMPLETELY taken aback!

[Alpha is the other secretary here, if you'll remember.]

PW: Yeah, that's cuz you kissed Meg. On the lips.

PhD: I've seen Alpha kiss Head Boss.

PW: Neither of them are a hott, young blonde.

PhD: So you don't kiss people.

PW: Dude, I'm Norwegian. I barely hug. If someone hugs me, fine, but I don't initiate. And the only people I kiss are my parents.

PhD: What if someone's going away on a long trip?

PW: Nope. Oh, wait, Heather and I kiss, but it's that Hollywood kiss, where you kiss the air next to their face. I don't even know how that started.

PhD: See!

PW: ... Don't ever kiss me.

PhD: Really?

PW: Really really.

And for the record, my car could eat his car for breakfast.

Posted at 08:20 PM | Comments (1)

December 18, 2009

Little Wenchies On My Shoulders

A conversation between the little Angel Wench sitting on one shoulder, and the Devil Wench sitting on the other...

AW: Our hair is getting reeeaaally long.

DW: I know. Isn't it awesome? We got two compliments on it today!

AW: It's probably as long as when we got it cut for Locks of Love.

DW: Huh. Maybe. Wow, even our bangs look good lately. Why isn't anyone taking pictures of us? People are always wanting pictures when our bangs are clumpy and curving to the left. Why not now?

AW: You know, if we cut it off right now, we'd still have enough left to make a ponytail.

DW: Really. How fascinating. But I believe it is called a pigtail when it sticks straight out horizontally from one's head.

AW: Am I being too subtle? Read my lips: We should really make another Locks of Love donation.

DW: Why?

AW: We have almost two feet of hair! What else are we going to do with it?

DW: Preen. And bask in the compliments. And preen.

AW: An admirable goal, I'm sure.

DW: Clearly, you do not remember the emotional anguish of The Bob. The rending of garments? The eating of ash? Any of this ringing a bell?

AW: What's more important -- your vanity, or a little, bald child with leukemia?

DW: Well, I know what I'm supposed to say...

AW: A little, bald girl with huge eyes and inch-long eyelashes, clutching a plushie unicorn, telling Santa all she wants for Christmas is hair.

DW: Aaahhh'm just not feelin' it.

AW: You're a horrible person.

DW: Hmm. I think we'll wear our hair in a ponytail tomorrow.

Posted at 03:01 PM | Comments (1)

November 24, 2009

Drawing the Line

Wenchie at work: BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

PhD Boss: What's so funny?

PW: My friend just texted me a photo of herself in a cowboy hat, rhinestone belt, and the whore-y-est shirt I've ever seen.

PhD: Is she hott?

PW: She's totally hott.

PhD: Is she single?

PW: You can't have her.

PhD: What?

PW: She's mine, and you can't have her.

PhD: You won't introduce me?

PW: Absolutely not.

PhD: Why?

PW: Okay. Scenario one: you guys date, you break her heart, I'm forced to hate you. Scenario two: you guys date, she breaks your heart, I have to hear you whine about it. Scenario three: you guys date, you get married, I puke.

PhD: ...

PW: So you see my point.

PhD: You think I whine?

Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (0)

October 30, 2009

Finding My Place In the World

Yesterday, about half an hour before I was supposed to leave work and begin my own, personal birthday celebrations at home, PhD Boss called me over to his desk.

PhD: I have a few things for you.

PW: Make it quick. I'm outta here soon.

PhD: YOU make it quick! I need these documents scanned and put on the K drive. I need you to find out what fares are like to and from Palm Springs. And I need you to find everything we have on Pirate-Ninja relations and send them to Kate Johnson.

PW: In the library, or on the K drive?

PhD: K drive.

PW: Who's Kate Johnson?

PhD: She works for PNR. Just type in Johnson on GroupWise, and she'll come up.

PW: Not if I've never emailed her before.

PhD: Yes, cuz you have proxy to my email!

PW: Just to read it! I don't have access to your address list. That's not how it works.

PhD: Fine. I'll get you her address.

I went to my desk and opened the K drive, which is the shared drive where all the folder are for our department. There are 116 folders on the K drive. I shit you not. It's the craziest thing I've ever seen.

PW: [yells over to his cube] Dude! There are 116 folders on the K drive, and none of them have anything to do with Pirate-Ninja relations.

PhD: There aren't 116.

PW: I counted them.

PhD: Well, there shouldn't be.

PW: Come over here and look at my screen.

PhD: [begrudgingly comes over] That's too many folders.

PW: I know! You people are crazy! How do you find anything?

PhD: You really can't find the Pirate-Ninja documents?

PW: NOTHING here even remotely pertains to Pirate-Ninja relations, and I am not opening every, single folder.

PhD: It shouldn't look like this. Come over and look at my screen.

PW: Fine. [follows him to his cube]

PhD: This is how the K drive should look.

PW: [smacks forehead] Okay, the only thing different is that you have the folders in list form, and I have them as thumbnails. THERE ARE STILL 116 FOLDERS HERE! How do you find anything?!

PhD: It's easy!

PW: Well, I wasn't here when you geniuses created this mess, and it's not at ALL intuitive, so NO, it's NOT easy.

PhD: It's intuitive! You just have to learn it.

PW: Do you even know what intuitive MEANS?!

PhD: Shut up. Here, I'll find the Pirate-Ninja documents for you. [spends several minutes finding the documents]

PW: [looks out the window and sighs repeatedly]

PhD: THERE! There are the documents!

PW: Yeah, that was easy.

PhD: Now go.

PW: There are 30 documents there. Which ones do you want sent to Kate Johnson?

PhD: Um... Lemme see... [clicks on various items] This one... and this one.

PW: Should I be writing these down?

PhD: I'll tell you what. I'll email you the ones I want you to send to her.

PW: Don't forget to include her email address in the email.

PhD: Jeez, why don't I just send her the email myself?

PW: GREAT IDEA!

PhD: [starts typing the email] You really are something.

PW: [laughing my ass off] And YOU, my dear, are the BEST SECRETARY EVER!

Do you know what this means, my darlings?! It means that I have finally figured out how to bend others to my will! To make them do my bidding! I have finally started to use my powers for EVIL!

On my 40th birthday, I have become a force to be reckoned with! It's the dawning of a new era, I tell you! All shall love me and despair!!!

Posted at 04:26 PM | Comments (1)

October 20, 2009

Sparkling Conversation

Terry, Billi and I drove home from Door County on Sunday afternoon. Well, we started in the afternoon -- right after lunch, in fact -- but then we stopped for antiques. And pumpkins. And fudge. And a resale shop.

By the time we got south of Green Bay, the road was suddenly packed. And I do mean PACKed, as I noticed a lot of green and gold attire in the cars surrounding us. Anticipating a lot of stop-n-go traffic, we stopped to fill up the tank.

There was a nice-looking young man in a Packers jersey, drinking a Pepsi, so I went over and talked to him. (I know -- I hate and fear all people, and yet I have no qualms about walking up to random strangers and asking them questions. I don't understand it myself, but it's true. I'll talk to strangers in the check-out line, strangers in an elevator, strangers in the car next to me. My phobias are very selective and follow a complex set of rules. But that's a whoooooooole other blog.)

PW: Excuse me! Was there a Packers game today?

Packers Fan: Yup.

PW: Ohhhhh. Did it just let out?

PF: Yup.

PW: So all this traffic is Milwaukee Packers fans going home?

PF: Yup.

PW: So it'll be backed up for a while then?

PF: Yup.

PW: Okay. Thanks!

PF: Probably an hour.

Holy crap! Multiple syllables from a Packers fan to a F.I.B.*! I was quite honored, especially since the mound of pumpkins, shopping bags and bakery boxes, piled well above the bottom edge of the car windows, signaled that we were probably not on our way home from the Packers game.

Once we'd been in the car for a while after that, we discovered that the several-mile back-up wasn't due to the Packers fans. Indeed, they were in just as big a hurry to get home as we were.

No, the back-up was a gapers block, due to the car on its side, in a ditch. Terry goes, "Do you think alcohol was involved?"

I really hope the car had Wisconsin plates. I don't need any help purpetuating the F.I.B. stereotype.

* Fucking Illinois Bastard.

Posted at 06:55 PM | Comments (1)

August 26, 2009

How Do I Still Have a Job?

So PhDBoss needs to go to some event, for which I needed to make hotel reservations on his behalf. But he's not just staying for the event; he's staying two extra days to do some other stuff I don't even know what.

Which means that he'll be getting the event group rate for the first four days of his stay but have to pay the regular room rate for the last two days. Which is waaaaaaaay too difficult for their namby-pamby website to handle, so I had to call the hotel's 800 number.

I had to. Call. A stranger. On the phone. And talk.

I would literally rather go to the dentist.

So I called Bambi Frontdesk and explained what I needed rate-wise, and she put me on hold for three and a half days.

While on hold, I had the following conversation with PhDBoss.

PW: I'm having to talk to a stranger on the phone. This is all your fault.

PhD: Is there something wrong with that?

PW: I hate it.

PhD: But you talk to people on the phone all the time.

PW: And I hate it. Each and every time.

PhD: Well, you don't sound like you hate it.

PW: I'm a Scorpio. We're good liars.

PhD: I'll remember that. So what exactly do you hate about it?

PW: I hate people.

PhD: So you hate the phone, or you hate people?

PW: Both, separately. And together, with the white-hot hatred of a thousand supernova suns.

PhD: You know, that might hinder your ability to remain employed here.

PW: That's fine.

PhD: ... You didn't even have to think about that.

PW: Nope.

PhD: You're quick. I like that.

PW: I hate you so much. Don't talk to me until at least tomorrow afternoon.

And not ten minutes later, he was telling me how awesome I am at my job, and thanking me for all I do for him, and begging me to stay forever. And I'm not even sleeping with him.

I've never before pussy-whipped a guy while still wearing all my clothes. Apparently, my powers have grown even beyond my own comprehension.

I believe this is the sign I've been waiting for -- it's time to begin my play for world domination.

Posted at 08:35 PM | Comments (3)

August 11, 2009

OMG LOL

At the Pride Parade -- and I promise that, after this, I will move on to a new topic -- I saw a sight that really warmed the cockles of my heart. It was a bunch of people, from various churches of differing denominations, all marching together in the parade.

A representative from each group help up a sign with the name of their church, the flavor of their particular deity, and a rainbow. Being that a church -- and the relationship of this church with other churches -- is how I'm currently earning the peanuts on which I subsist, this sight was of particular interest to me.

I don't know what it's called in other denominations, but in my church, it's called Reconsiling In Christ -- the conscious decision to welcome EVERYONE through the church doors, regardless of age, gender, race or orientation (and probably some other factors, but since I was a bit amused we even had to vote on something that I thought always went without saying, I didn't pay much attention to the details; I was like, "I vote Yes! Where's the coffee cake?").

And I thought, "Well, here is a news-worthy moment. People of different creeds, banding together to welcome their homosexual brethren. Bravo, little lambs. Bravo."

Suddenly, I was moved by the Holy Spirit... oh wait, that wasn't me.

Probably because I'd had two alcoholic beverages, and it wasn't even noon, I thought it would be a good idea to text my boss. On a non-work day. From the Pride Parade. While drinking.

In my defense, it doesn't take a whole lotta booze to impair my judgement, so it's not like I'd done eleven watermelon shots or anything. Plenty of people routinely consume two glasses of champagne for breakfast under the guise of "brunch." And at least I had the good sense not to send him a photo.

So I texted him, "there are churches here carrying signs! we should so have a float in next year's pride parade!"

As the day wore on -- and the giddiness of champagne and exposed male buttocks wore off -- I came to regret my T.U.I (texting under the influence). Not that I had said anything wrong, but it was probably over-familiar at best, and unprofessional at worst. Monday morning, I tried to make ammends.

PW: So, um, sorry about drunk-texting you from the Pride Parade.

PhDBoss: You were drunk?

PW: Well, I'd been drinking a little...

PhDB: I didn't know you were drunk. I just thought you were being funny.

PW: Oh. Well, I only had two...

PhDB: I probably didn't need to know that you were drunk.

PW: Yeah...

Paralyzing Awkwardness: Hey, Wenchie, Boss, how you guys doin'? Mind if I join you? I think I'll just have a seat right here. Looks like I'm going to be sticking around for a while. You guys wanna order some Chinese food?

Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (0)

July 24, 2009

Oranges & Apricots

So my boss is in charge of the Bible study for some event he's going to, and he had me make 50 hand-outs to accompany his talk. Pictures of Masaccio's fresco The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden.

Real uplifting stuff, eh?

So I hit print and hear the printer wind up and print two... but then it stops. Great. Paper jam. I walk over there to find my openly gay co-worker, Sam, already at the printer.

Sam: Is this you, printing out Adam and Eve's Expulsion from Hell?

PW: Expulsion from Eden.

S: Whatever. I thought I was getting a fax, and all of a sudden, there's penises printing out!

PW: Where are they?

S: I think there's a paper jam.

PW: Well, open it up!

S: [pops open the front cover] Wow! Lookit all the apricot dials!

PW: You know how I know you're gay?

S: Because I said apricot?

PW: Totally. A straight guy would've said orange.

S: Apricot isn't gay!

PW: Of course, it is!

S: It's not like I said mauve!

PW: Straight guys only know five colors, and two of them are black. And none of them are APRICOT!

S: I think you're avoiding the real issue.

PW: Which is?

S: Why are you printing off penises?

PW: They're for Boss' bible study.

S: ...

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (1)

July 03, 2009

Introduction to My Boss

PhD Boss: Wenchie. C'mere.

PW: [grab my pen and notepad, go sit in his cube] What do you need?

PhDB: What's your favorite candy bar in the whole world?

PW: Um... Rolo Bits, but they don't make those anymore, soooo probably Milky Way.

PhDB: Wrong. Twix. Is the best.

PW: Um... okay.

PhDB: ...

PW: So, what do you need?

PhDB: Nothing.

PW: You called me over here to ask me what my favorite candy bar is?

PhDB: Yes.

PW: Because... you're going to buy me one?

PhDB: No.

PW: Okay, don't ask me for anything else for the rest of the day.

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (1)

May 27, 2009

And Speaking of God's Wrath...

If this eConversation with Heather doesn't get me on the next Hummer to hell, then I don't know what will. It also contains some social commentary on how I feel about corporations -- and lots of them do it -- who base salaries on what they perceive that employees NEED instead of what they actually DESERVE.

And how we make that leap from blasphemy to equal rights, I don't even know. Just go with it.

(eConversation had while in the throes of my most recent temp job)

PW: so, it looks like the person who now has the job I might have, works full time

H: but you're so smart you could do it in half time?

PW: that would be AWESOME
PW: cuz the broad who has it now is one of those who likes to bustle around and look busy and important and put-upon.
PW: so I"m thinking if I DIDN'T spend so much time on the cross, I'd get more done in less time

H: that's what we thought about jesus, too.
H: in case you're wondering if I could get any cooler?
H: I just got the invite to [Famous Huge Corporation] President's retirement party.

PW: SHUT THE FUCK UP!

H: I know!
H: I am the coolest!

PW: first the Rock Me Sexy Jesus bracelet, now this?!

H: how do you STAND me?

PW: I'm feeling so inadequate.
PW: I'm like, "Yeah, I MIGHT have a job that COULD have anywhere from 20-40 hours, but my potential boss is outta town, and no one KNOWS anything, LEAST of all what I'd make". and you're like, "I'm lunching with the Pope!"
PW: get me and my not-really-employed-ness

H: your boobs are still bigger, and your hair bouncier.

PW: I think I should get $45K/yr. for the bouncy hair alone

H: DUh.
H: you havn't accpeted unless you konw how much you're getting.

PW: clearly
PW: and it had better be GOOD
PW: I think a dump-truck full should hold me for a little while

H: Seriously.
H: although if you're part time at 45K? I will die of jealousy.
H: just hope you're prepared.

PW: that'd never happen
PW: I'd be lucky to get half that at fulltime
PW: because I am a woman and have no children, remember?

H: no family to support, right.

PW: exactly
PW: clearly, I"d just be working for spending money, so I can buy mascara and shoes
PW: because my husband is RICH and has no children that we are supporting
PW: I'm really just woring as a hobby
PW: I usually just roll up my checks and smoke them. never even deposit them.

H: Like Karen on Will and Grace!

PW: only drunker
PW: with bigger boobs

H: EXACTLY!

Posted at 08:23 AM | Comments (2)

May 08, 2009

Seventeen Again, Again

Last week, Heather and I went to see "Seventeen Again" because... I don't know. Now we're fans of the cast of "High School Musical"? I really have no explanation for the whole event. Nor do I have an explanation of how they think Troy Bolton in any way resembles Chandler Bing.

Regardless, the whole fiasco led to this conversation:

H: so, I had a rant in my mind about how you and me watching teen movies is like dudes watching fast and the furious-type action flicks...
H: and then it fell right out of my head.

PW: onto the floor?

H: except for the part where I acknowledge that my actual teen fantasy is to have my teenage body back.
H: I think it fell into my bra. but if I go looking in there, I will never finish my day.

PW: HA!
PW: how did it fall out? I mean, it's not like it's competing for space with all the OTHER really deep thoughts in there.

H: oh, I know what happened...I had it in my head last night, and then I somehow had a dream about somehow getting sent bacck to 1986 into teenagerdom, but with all the knowledge I already have. and yet, still a nightmare.

PW: If I had my teen body back, I'd be a hooker. and a really rich one
PW: and I'd dress like a ho every min of every day
PW: I'm thinking about my waist and hearing "sunrise, sunset" in my head
PW: "where is that little waist I once knew"

H: oh my god. I miss my tiny thighs! and that waist! yes!

PW: I miss sweat not collecting under my boobs
PW: but that's probably TMI

H: heh.
H: I miss not having to try shit on.
H: just knowing it'll fit and look great.

PW: if I had all my knowledge and went back to HS, I could score soooo much pot

Those must be encouraging words for my mother to read. But, see, Mom? You must've done something right because I wasn't a pot-smoking hooker in high school! Happy Mother's Day!

Which reminds me of this outfit from a wedding I was at over the summer:

I really, really wanted to hate her for wearing skin-tight, banana-yellow satin and snake-skin stillettos to a wedding. But I had to be honest with myself -- if I had her body, I'd be calling all kinds of attention to myself. A flashing neon hat would not be out of the question.

The moral is: If you are seventeen, relish your body! And you totally shouldn't be reading this. Go clean your room.

Posted at 05:10 PM | Comments (0)

May 01, 2009

I Passed!

IMing with Heather about various and random stuff...

PW: warning: racism ahead
PW: okay, now that I'm back from the *multi-racial feminist conference...
PW: all the black women in the building are making it a point to talk to me
PW: I guess word got around that I passed the test or something

H: the "is she lacist" test?

PW: apparently
PW: and apparently, I'm not

H: incredible.

PW: or at least no more than anyone else there

PW: who knew?
H: are you exchanging manicure tips?

PW: talking about hooker shoes!
PW: I'm IN!

H: aw. now you get to say "some of my best friends are black!"

PW: sweeeeeeet!
PW: I can add that to my repetoire of "some of my best friends are gay"

PW: and "some of my best friends are evil, soulless bastards"
H: kind of awesome that I am all three.

PW: you're the trifecta of P.C. awesomeness
PW: which is kind of an ironic twist
PW: and basically makes you the funniest, best dresser in the universe

H: in hooker shoes

* You guys, I cannot BELIEVE that I never blogged about the multi-cultural feminist theological event that I went to! (And by "went to," I mean "sat out in the hall playing with my fellow support person's iPhone while, inside the conference hall, over-educated people gave speeches that were way over my head." So much material! How did I miss that?! I have failed you.

Posted at 05:03 PM | Comments (0)

April 29, 2009

The Request

My Mom recently had back surgery, after months of being in pain. Don't freak out -- she's well on her way back to health and mobility. But in the days immediately preceeding her surgery, I went over to her house to vacuum, and I went grocery shopping for her. Because, apparently, my RETIRED father can't do those things.

Knowing him, if I gave him any shit about it, he'd just grunt something like, "I didn't get married and have three daughters so that I could do housework!" And then he'd dip a stick in mud and diagram his indignation on the wall with crude stick figures.

No matter. Mommie Dearest wiped my butt, my nose and my tears for many, many years, so I'm glad for the opportunities to repay her. The other day, I had another such phone message waiting for me when I got home from work:

MD: Hello! It's me. I'm wondering if you could help me.

PW: [Okay. What can't Dad do this time?]

MD: My back is feeling better, but it's still not perfect, and I haven't been able to reach my feet in six months.

PW: [This does not bode well.]

MD: My toenails are pretty bad.

PW: [Dear God, no. Please, don't ask me.]

MD: Your father is far-sighted, so I don't want him to do it.

PW: [She's really going to ask me. It's like I'm staring at a train speeding right for me, but I can't get out of the way.]

MD: So I was wondering...

PW: [NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!]

MD: Where do you go to get your pedicures? Call me back! Bye!

PW: [THANK YOU, JEEBUS! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!]

So I called her and told her, and she asked, "Your father wants to know if they do men's toes, too."

"Yes. But he'd better give her a HUGE tip! I've seen that man's feet!"

Seriously, his toenails are like tree bark. Uck.

Posted at 08:20 AM | Comments (1)

April 02, 2009

Adult Contemporary

JB and I were at lunch, and the piped-in music was "Ev'ry Little Thing She Does Is Magic," so I had to chair-dance a little.

PW: Wow. I haven't heard The Police in a long time.

JB: I know. It's weird -- all the elevator music now is "oldies," like, from when I was in high school.

PW: It's totally depressing. They play Madonna in my grocery store! I'm like, "Since when does Madonna qualify as easy listening?! I remember when she was edgey! 'Like a Virgin' is crazy edgey!" What the hell happened?

JB: She kinda fizzled sometime in the mid-90s... the decade, not her age.

PW: BWAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Best. Qualifier. Ever.

Posted at 07:58 AM | Comments (1)

March 27, 2009

Corpse Coutour

Regular reader Hope read my family's morbid birthday conversation (or as Heather calls it -- pillow talk) and left the following comment:

A friend and I told her sister we're burying her in a t-shirt that says WHORE across the front. She's a very private, chaste person who doesn't swear or do anything devious. She's actually petrified we'll go ahead and do it. Which we will.

Thereby instantly endearing herself to me with her desire to torment chaste, private people in death. It's like sunshine on my heart.

So I emailed her: OMG! I wanna be buried in a t-shirt that says "I'm totally blogging this!"

She emailed back: Maybe we can start a business - T-Shirts to Die For. You can bury your loved one (or not-so-loved one) in a t-shirt with an obnoxious saying on it. Like 'WHORE', 'I'm totally blogging this', 'When it rains, it whores'.

T-shirts to Die For. LOVE IT. Heather will, of course, be our model for our website, posing in an open coffin. And from there, it just turned into dueling banjos of inappropriateness.

Me:
"I'm not dead -- I'm just pretending so you people will leave me alone."
"Don't fight over my stuff."
"I killed myself to get away from you people."
"Don't give my dog to Uncle Bob."

Hope:
"I'm wearing clean underwear"
"I told you I was dying, why didn't you help me?"
"I left you nothing in the will"

Me:
"The mortician touched me inappropriately."
"I see you didn't splurge on my coffin."
"See you in hell!"
"I can't believe you wore THAT to my funeral."

Hope:
"You were never my favorite"
"I've been cheating on you."
"Now who's fat?"

Me:
"Forgot to tell you -- it's contagious."
"Guess where I hid all my money..."
"Stay away from canned clams -- trust me."

Hope:
"The butler did it"
"Life sucks, then you die"
"Party on Wayne, party on Garth"

Me:
"It's not you, it's me."
"Pull my finger."

Hope:
"I died and all I got was this stupid t-shirt'"

Me:
"<--- I'm with stupid."

I believe, in time, these t-shirts with be de rigour for the rigamortis set. Custom shirts available!

Posted at 08:56 AM | Comments (5)

March 20, 2009

You Can't Choose Your Family

Spikette's birthday was last week, so Mom had us over for lasagna and angel food cake to celebrate. I won't tell you how old she is because she will ride over here in her Model T and smack me with her handbag.

So here's our celebratory table conversation:

PW: When Mom and Dad die, I want that china hutch. It'd be perfect for displaying my expensive Barbies that I don't wanna have to dust.

Husband: Do you dust them now?

PW: No.

Mom: Speaking of dying, I was at the worst funeral in the world yesterday. TWO HOURS!

Billi: Holy crap! Why was it so long?

Mom: All five of his kids came up and gave a speech, and they were all crying, and you could hardly understand them. And there was so much music!

PW: Good Lord. That's just awkward.

Mom: For my funeral, I don't want all that talking.

Billi: Don't worry, Mom. For you -- twenty minutes, bada-bing, we're done.

Mom: One song, have the pastor say something nice..

PW: ...and then a casserole luncheon. What do you want to wear to be buried in?

Brad: Tube top.

Mom: What?!

Billi: HA!

PW: I'm not burying my mother in a tube top to have her boobs in her armpits for all of eternity! Mom, because I love you, I'll make sure you're in a push-up bra.

Mom: Thank you.

PW: And I swear to God, any of you assholes bury me in a skirt or dress? I will haunt you for all of eternity.

Husband: Oh, she'll do it, too. You better believe her.

Dad: I don't care what kind of funeral I have, as long as there's no blubbering.

PW: Not a problem, Dad.

Billi: I want lots of blubbering. You guys better be destitute without me.

PW: Is this chocolate-mocha frosting?

Mom: No, just regular chocolate.

PW: Huh. I taste coffee.

Billi: Spikette, open your presents. The Spare is getting crabby.

Well, happy birthday, Spikette. Maybe next year at your party, we can all talk about our colons!

Posted at 05:00 PM | Comments (3)

February 27, 2009

Dr. Hottie Should Go On Tour

Wenchie's List of Non-Sports-Related Injuries for Which She Has Seen Dr. Hottie

1. Pain in shin acquired while crossing the street, walking at approximately have-to-pick-up-the-phone-before-it-goes-to-voicemail speed for three seconds.

2. Tennis elbow from using the computer mouse too vigorously while trying to keep current on all the new eyeshadow shades on Sephora.com.

3. Sprained ankle from falling on the ice while taking out the garbage. Barely even made it off the back porch.

4. Injured shoulder from falling partway down some stairs, even though one's shoulder is generally the body part almost farthest from the stairs, when one is walking normally.

And the latest and greatest...

5. Pinched nerve in shoulder from hunching over my computer keyboard sixteen hours a day and then sleeping in a fetal position for the remaining eight.

If there's a way to hurt myself while remaining absolutely motionless, I've done it, or will do it in the very near future. I'm the most injured bookworm I know. Gerald Ford is like, "Damn, that girl is clumsy!"

So I walk into Dr. Hottie's office, and he always has to wait a minute before noticing me. He likes to pretend that he hasn't been looking forward to my visit all day. It's cute.

So the assitants say Hi, and he looks up from a folder like, "Oh, hi!"

And then he asks, "Did everyone compliment you on your hooter today?"

No, that's not a typo. One hooter. As in, I was wearing an owl pendant on my necklace. Which it took me about half a second to remember before I started laughing hysterically.

The older assistant blushed and was all, "What? What did you say to her? That's not appropriate!" And the younger one just kept looking sideways at us like she had no idea how to react.

I said, "You just say stuff like that because you know I'll put you in my blog."

And he was right. So as long as I'm talking about him, I accidentally left my card i.d. badge in his office. Upon further reflection, it was probably pretty Freudian of me. I went yesterday morning before work to pick it up.

He goes, "I was doing to drop it by your house, but I ran out of time."

Dr. Hottie knows where I live?!?! Almost dropping my i.d. at my house is the grown-up-and-married equivalent of almost riding his bike past my house, doncha think? Pretty soon, he'll be almost calling me and hanging up when I answer!

Posted at 07:46 AM | Comments (2)

January 19, 2009

Nicknames

A snippet of a conversation between Heather and I, in which I reveal just how much of a skanky ho I used to be. Of course, now I'm completely faithful to Heather and Husband, but back then -- hoooo, boy!

Mom, none of this happened on your watch, don't worry. I had already moved into my own place, so don't blame yourself.

PW: OH! MY! GOD! My boyfriend from the 7th grade just sent me a friend request on Facebook. SEVENTH GRADE I shit you not

Heather: hilarious. I dont'even remember the names of the guys I "Dated" in jr high becuz we didn't do anything

PW: I know. I "dated" one all thru 7th, and one all thru 8th basically. on and off. and they were friends.

H: d'oh!

PW: he just joined fb today, and he's single, so CLEARLY he's looking up all this exes. and how pathetic that he went all the way back to jr. high. how totally fucking sad and pathetic

H: it hurts to think about it. seriously. what the hell?

PW: i know. I almost want to cry for him. and I want to find someone and go "HOly shit, John L. contacted me!" but I don't even know anyone I knew then

H: I have no idea who that is, exactly.

PW: there's no reason you should.

H: but then again, if I were single right now I wouldn't even want to contact anyone in high school!

PW: there are only 2 exes of mine (from a cast of 1000s) that I would actually look up

H: not me

PW: but I can't find them, which is just as well, because I would totally commit adultery with them

H: hee. who?

PW: Pat's cousin Tom. did you know him?

H: nope.

PW: big fat guy. total player. I WORSHIPPED him. Pat was so jealous

H: hee.

PW: he was all, "How come you fuck everyone I know and not me?" I had no idea how to answer that without crushing his will to live

H: because you're...You, scooter. you're YOU.

PW: I KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you are GENDERLESS!

H: tried to fuck scooter, but...no. nuthin. I wonder how jenn did it.

PW: did they do it? I thought her mom was so psycho that they had no opportunity?

H: no idea. i assumed.

PW: I worked with Jenn at Upscale Restaurant for a while. on her second day, I blanked on her name and said, "Hey, New Girl! Hand me a spoon!" Two years later, everyone was still calling her New Girl.

H: hee. new girl!

PW: even tho' several OTHER new girls were hired after her. some people didn't even know her real name.

H: hahahahahhahaa the power!

PW: I KNOW! I also nicknamed the manager Doug "Doogie." because when I did it the first time, he threatened me with violence if I ever did it again. which is basically BEGGING me to get everyone in the restaurant to call him that

H: oh, HUGE mistake to get mad at non-racist nicknames.

PW: in time, he grew to like it.

H: sucker.

PW: at Breakfast Restaurant, my first day, the manager didn't remember who he'd just hired, so when I walked in, he said, "Hi, Specks!" because I wear glasses. so it's funny.

H: I'd have said "HI, Tits!"

PW: I said, "Hi, Spud!" guess which nickname stuck?

H: spud!

PW: totally

H: i mean, seriously. eyes or tits, I'm going for the gold, no offense.

PW: "Tits" might have stuck, but he didn't have the guts.

Posted at 09:18 PM | Comments (2)

January 16, 2009

Boobs Are a Many -Splendored Thing

When I first knew Heather, it was in high school. She's two years younger than me, and yet, I thought she was the coolest. She wore circle skirts and hats and would punctuate her naughty remarks with a coquettish wink. *swoon*

And I would always think, "People don't wink much anymore. Why is that? It's so adorable!"

Anyhoo, at the time, we were both lithe, little ponies. All over-sized sweaters and short hair and no boobs. But we were cute, in our own way, I guess.

So I was unprepared when we remet ten years ago, at the screening of a movie made by an old mutual friend, and here's this long-haired, curvacious woman in front of me. With boobies!

We squealed and hugged... and then Heather goes, "That was fun! Let's do it again!" So we hugged again, and all the men in the room sat down. I don't know what that was about.

Flashforward a decade. I get into work, check my emails, update my Facebook, sign onto Meebo, read me some Pamie, wait for Heather to show up on AOL I.M.

PW: Heather!!!!!!!!!!! I hate it when you're Away.

Heather: watching Activating Robin

PW: YAY! that's what I was going to tell you to watch! she DOESNT like smashing boobies? what's wrong with her????????? that's the best thing about girly hugs!

H: it was the moment we fell back in love, when our boobs met. seriously. I remember that hug like it was my first prom.

PW: exactly! me, too! hee! the night my boobs were deflowered by yours and finally understood what love means

H: it's like a song.

PW: you are the wind beneath my boobs!

H: you complete my boobs! (yes, my coworker totally read that line over my shoulder. awesome)

Posted at 12:54 PM | Comments (1)

January 14, 2009

Such a Pill

Stella -- my 2-1/2 year old black lab with the puppy face and huge feet and runty legs and weirdly-short tail -- has a chronic infection in her ears. It's not uncommon with long-eared dogs, but it's getting expensive. Not to mention, I have to clean brown crap outta her ears every night. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww! It's technically a yeast infection, but I try really, really hard not to think about that.

I also have to give Stella a tiny pill twice a day. With Daisy, I can just throw it in her food bowl, and she'll snarf it down. She's a retard. Stella is a bit harder to fool (surprising, I know), and she's tiring of my methods.

PW: Stella! Come!

Stella: [mosies into the kitchen] What.

PW: Whatsa matter with you? You usually come running when you hear me opening the peanut butter jar.

Daisy: I came running, Mom! Mom? I came running! Do I get peanut butter?

Stella: I'm kinda over the peanut butter.

PW: I see. Well, how about some cheese?

Stella: What kind?

Daisy: I like cheese!

PW: American.

Stella: The kind that comes hermetically sealed in individual sheets of plastic?

PW: Well,... yeah.

Stella: What else ya got?

Daisy: I like American cheese!

PW: Muester.

Stella: Monster?! Are you trying to kill me?!

Daisy: Idiot! We could've had cheese!

PW: [sigh] I have vanilla yogurt?

Stella: Didn't I smell some taco meat in the fridge this morning?

Daisy: I like vanilla yogurt!

PW: Vanilla. Yogurt.

Stella: Yogurt it is!

PW: [scoops some yogurt, hides the pill]

Daisy: Did I hear you talking about taco meat...?

Stella: [eats the yogurt]

PW: You don't even need a pill, so be grateful you're getting anything at all!

Stella: [licking her lips] Pill...?

Posted at 11:05 AM | Comments (0)

January 09, 2009

Sidekick

I have decided that I am now famous enough that I warrent a sidekick. A Thelma to my Louise. A marshmallow fluff to my peanut butter. A bottle of KY warming solution to my lonely Thursday night.

But before I reveal to you my methodical search technique, I must define a term that was used during negotiations: lunchmeat.

Heather is in the, um, adult entertainment industry. No, she's not a porn star. (Anymore.) She a web designer. Her day involves lots of photos of naked and semi-naked women.

Now... there are women whose labia are neatly tucked up against their va-jay-jays. And then there are the women whose labia hang down like billowing curtains of roast beef. Hence, lunchmeat.

(I can't believe my mother is going to have to read the word labia. TWICE. Sorry, Mom! I'll pay you back on Mother's Day!)

Anyhoo, when I signed onto AOL, there was an Away message where Heather should have been.

PW: Away?! How can you be away when I NEED you?! You're so selfish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

H: Wenchie!!! just got out of the longest meeting in the known universe.

PW: wow. did you have to bend the time-space continuum?

H: basically, yes.

PW: neato. so I've decided that you need to be my sidekick. on my blog. because Pamie has a sidekick named Dan who blogs on her site and blogs ABOUT HER, which is what makes him a sidekick. except that I wouldn't call you a sidekick

H: I'll kick your side, if that's what you need!

PW: no! I need a flying monkey! or a foundation garment -- I haven't decided which to call you, yet

H: heeee.

PW: what was your meeting about, and how many times did "lunchmeat" come up?

H: learning fatwire, which I am just about to go into another meeting to learn more. absolutely no lunch mentioned.

PW: fuckers! it's 3:00! how are you supposed to function???????????? and seriously, training on New Year's Eve? your company hates you

H: dude. I have to be here until I am done. which may be never...

PW: but enough about you. I need a sidekick

H: I am in.

PW: I knew I could count on you

H: you had me at kick

PW: I had you at lunchmeat. speaking of which -- GO EAT!

H: going.

See, that's what's awesome about Heather. She will devote the only two spare minutes she has in her busy, corporate day to catering to my petty desires. Oh, I know she'll never actually post on this blog -- she doesn't post on her own blog! But she humors me, and I appreciate that.

Posted at 08:46 AM | Comments (0)

December 22, 2008

My So-Called Blizzard

I'm sure you all heard something about the HUGE WORLD-ENDING, SOUL-SUCKING WINTER STORM that hit the Midwest last week. I was a little disappointed, as I didn't have my soul sucked AND I still had to go to work. Double-buzz-kill!

We've got about a foot of snow total, which is unimpressive to this survivor -- and enjoyer -- of The Blizzard of '79. I should have anticipated being let down. They kept pushing back the start time of the so-called blizzard, and we never get as many inches as the weather talking-heads threaten us with.

When I woke up to pee at 2:15 a.m. Friday (I had hot cocoa before bed), I looked outside to see a mere dusting of snow, like powered sugar on a bundt cake. So I was surprised to see another 5 inches by the time Husband and I got up at 5:30 a.m.

Before I could feed the dogs, I had to shovel a path across the patio from the kitchen door to the edge of the lawn. You see, I need to keep an eye on the idiots in the yard because they have recently discovered the delicacy that is frozen poop. I couldn't be prouder.

Mid-first-shovel-full-of-snow, I realized that we would, indeed, be driving over to Mom and Dad's to clear their snow as well. See, I had called Dad the night before. Well, I had called Mom, but Dad answered, which is always a shock.

PW: Hey, um, you know how they're predicting a foot of snow tonight?

Dad: Who is this?

PW: Your middle daughter.

Dad: Oh! My favorite!

PW: Yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that, if we get more than, say, four inches, Husband and I will be over in the morning to clear your driveway.

Dad: Oh. Why?

PW: So you don't die of a grabber in the driveway.

Dad: Oh! That's nice! I'd always thought you were just waiting for me to die!

PW: Yeah, well, not in the driveway. It's so cliche. I'm hoping you'll die in some bizarre home repair accident or weapons malfunction so I can blog it.

Dad: What's "blog?"

PW: Nevermind. So I'll call you in the morning and let you know if we're coming.

Dad: Okay. We're usually up by eight.

PW: Eight o'clock?! Who are you -- Paris Hilton?!

Dad: What time do you get up?

PW: Five-thirty!

Dad: Oh.

PW: Anyway, if you wake up to a snowblower, that's us.

Dad: Okay! Thanks!

Needless to say, he slept through the whole thing, probably because he was sleeping on his "good ear."

Posted at 08:35 AM | Comments (1)

December 01, 2008

Snoopy Was Never This Annoying

I was eating dinner in front of the t.v. in the basement last night (because that's the classy kind of white trash that I am), when Stella came downstairs and put her head on my knee.

Stella: Mom. It's dinner time. Feed us.

PW: Oh, it's after 6:00, isn't it?

Stella: Fourteen minutes after 6:00.

PW: I'm coming up.

Daisy: [at the top of the stairs] Mom! Feed us! Mom! Mom! Feed us!

PW: What'd you do -- send Stella down to get me?

Daisy: Du-u-uh. I don't do stairs.

PW: Stella is not your bitch! She's my bitch! You're both my bitches!

Daisy: You just like saying bitch, don't you?

PW: I really do.

Stella: Daddy hates it when you swear.

PW: Even better.

Daisy: Less talky, more scoopy.

Posted at 03:32 PM | Comments (1)

November 26, 2008

Heather & I Review "Twilight" via I.M.

A.K.A. Heather & I Overuse "Also?"

It should be noted that Heather and I were two of seventeen people in the theatre. All female. And we brought the median age up about a decade.

That being said, we were, without question, the most obnoxious, distracting and disrespectful people in the place. We were doing that ugly-crying-laugh during the scene where Bella and Edward were slow-dancing in his room, and that's when I snorted. In a near-silent theatre. With an echo.

Yeah, I hate us, too.

PW: first of all, a review of my movie snack. I don't think they use any real chocolate in Snow Caps anymore. I'm deeply saddened.

H: they don't? that is very sad.

PW: it's the end of an era, really.

H: no dinosaurs, eskimos, and real chocolate any more.

PW: SO not worth the $3.50 they raped me for them. but let's get to the real issue. was Twilight worth the $9.50 we paid for it?

H: no. no it was not. did you have nonpariels in your bra?

PW: I did have nonpariels in my bra. you must have overlooked them when you where in there. :) what about that part where Bella drops an apple, and Edward hacky-sacks it up into his hands. luck, or CGI?

PW: I blinked both times. so it just looked like "hey. an apple"

PW: blinked, or nodded off?

H: yes. I am still reeling that they included the baseball scene and didn't mention this

PW: LUCAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

H: yes! he pitches EXACTLY THE SAME as Alice

PW: pointy toe and all?

H: no, just really hot.

PW: how sad that you had that link READILY at hand. I know you watch it 20 times a day

H: we must mention that I can't wait until the werewolves get all grown up adult-like

PW: TOTALLY! now those are some dogs I would totally fuck

H: omg can you BE any funnier?

PW: I hope not. I don't want to snort again.

H: i understand

PW: altho that WAS the highlight of the entire movie

H: that was one of my favorite parts of hte movie! when you snorted!

PW: HA!

H: jinx!

PW: damn! well played

H: and how hot are the dads? because that's what made us old. the liking the dads more than the kids, right? and do note that if any boy took us on a 'let's climb trees and hike outside while I get all emo on your ass" date, we would have kicked his ass and found ourselves a real werewolf...er...man.

PW: I'm picturing you in a tree in your "comfy walking stillettos" which is kinda hott. especially the part where you cry cuz you're outside

H: i had to commune with this stump...

PW: I love the ballet leap mid-running the bases [in HSM2]!

H: happend in both HSM and twilight, strangely enough!

PW: HAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! ok, that's my masters thesis -- the parallels between HSM and Twilite

H: "while the levels of hate-inducing teenaged-angst differ btwixt the films, there are many parellels...."

PW: betwixt? nice

H: thanks

PW: omg, the Twilight website is so fucking slow

H: it's all flash.

PW: so you've been there...? loser. they have, like, 5 photos on the whole site. piece of crap

H: it is.

PW: I just clicked on the "party kit" link. custom Twilight Evite!

H: DO tell.

PW: there's a Twilihgt Party Checklist. let's see... razorblades, black skinny jeans, mousse

H: eyeliner. extra eyebrow hair...

PW: omg "Practice your OME! (Oh My Edward!) Scream!"

H: SO, what would you scream, exactly?

PW: I have no idea. Oh My Edward?

H: "what happened to your hair? "

PW: there's no photos of the dads or the werewolves

H: we;ll have to start our own site for the hot people from that movie. danm it.

PW: seriously. Rosalie is actually a brunette from The OC. no wonder I hate her. really? they couldn't find an actual blonde?

H: did you read what you just wrote, there? "an actual blonde" seriously.

PW: I know. how 'bout someone with less shitty roots?

H: ok, that's a good question, there. yes. also? we need to address the snoggability of the crazy-eyed vampire

PW: Mr. Rathbone makes me want to commit pedophilia

H: YES!

PW: he was born in 84 so he's... math in my head... 24!

H: holy crap.

PW: totally fuckable!

H: legal, but... man.

PW: yeah, he looks 12

H: and better as a brunette.

PW: yeah, totally

PW: Carlisle was in Riding in Cars with Boys. weird. James is 26, also of The OC. WEREWOLF HOTNESS! and totally illegal

H: even better!!!!

PW: should we discuss the cinematography or editing or something?

H: um. sure! I almost forgot to mention Crumping!

PW: yeah, but now I don't remember the context... it certainly wasn't the prom. were there, like, 11 people in their graduating class? and how did Victoria get in without a date or a ticket?

H: maybe she had both?

PW: did she eat all the chaperones?

H: HA! also? their whole town was smaller than our graduating class.

PW: true

H: I'm sure that if you liked the outside, the sweeping vista camera shit would be awesome? and if you like DWR catalogues, you would love the vampire's house.

PW: DWR? Dances With Redwoods?

H: HA! design within reach.

PW: I'm all about the Pottery Barn and Sundance. Also? What straight guy has a chaise lounge? Seriously, where was the vibrating leather couch with built-in phone and mini-fridge?

H: he was listening to bette midler. what do you expect? also? the music wasn't half bad, acutally, I was thinking of getting the soundtrack.

PW: oh thank god. I was, too, and I didn't want to have to hide it from you

H: you don't need to hide from me! I embrace the gay!

PW: YAY! actually, I just wanna listen to that last song and remember Victoria letting her hair down. mmmmmmmmmm...

H: hottt. even her coat was kind of hot.

PW: yeah, and the leaves in her hair. she's been a naughty girl, rolling on the ground

H: such a bad, bad girl.

PW: even her name is hott

H: Fever!

PW: now I want to sing to her. but she better not track any fucking leaves on my carpet. I just vacuumed in here

H: also? the second we saw the vampires, I think we both laughed like Nelson from SImpsons.

PW: I was surprised that vamps walk so slowly. I would have thought the opposite to be true.

H: they got nothin but time.

PW: true. I think that whoever tweezed Bella and Edward's eyebrows should be flogged within an inch of their life

H: he wasn't wearing groucho marx glasses... but it felt like he was...

PW: HA! well, I think we've run this movie into the ground. any parting thoughts?

H: under no circumstances will we see part 2 sober.

PW: agreed.

Posted at 08:58 AM | Comments (2)

November 25, 2008

Heather & I Anticipate "Twilight" via I.M.

H: I have been so awesomely busy today, I wasn't even aware that time passed until 4. and now it's almost 5~!

PW: YAY! txt me when you're 10 min. away from Cumberland, and I'll leave right away

H: between 635-650

PW: oh damn. long fucking commute!

H: fucking CTA!

PW: douchebags mother fuckers!

H: yeah! sweary swear swear!

PW: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I'm soooooooooooooooooo excited about this movie!

H: me too.

PW: like HSM without the music!

H: that should have been the campaign

PW: "Twilight. Twice the emo, none of the music."

H: HA! But no Lucas Gabreel

PW: Theres a hot, shirtless, blond guy in the previews. James, the hunter vampier who wnats to kill Bella, and really, who could blame him?

H: oh right! I was thinking he was a werewolf, for some reason, didn't put a name to him...

PW: Jacob is the Indian werewolf, and frankly, I'm totally Team Jacob

H: me too.

PW: edward has zero personality

H: because he is SOOOO BEAUTIFUL, supposedly.

PW: whatev. my dog is beautiful. I still wouldn't fuck her

H: hahahahaha

PW: altho I have, on occassion, tongue-kissed her. but totally on accident

H: of course. dog-necker.

PW: my nails are black and sparkly -- like TWILIGHT!!!

H: Nice! I am thinkign of looking for a charcoal nail polish - something about grey appeals to me...

PW: oooooooh, and it's very hott this season!

H: I will call when I am 10 min from cumberland.

PW: awesome! so excited!

H: me too!

PW: ANGST!!!!!!!!!!!

H: abstinence!

PW: androgeny!

H: and a theatre full of teenagers who will hate us!

PW: YAY!

Posted at 11:35 AM | Comments (1)

November 13, 2008

Oh, Miss?

Is there anyone worse than a waitress trainee?

Well, there probably is. Like people who commit genocide or drive under the speed limit. But when you're hungry, a waitress with her head up her butt quickly moves up the list to near-Hitler status.

I knew she was new when I saw her "uniform." The uniform for wait staff at this particular establishment is a white, button-down shirt and black dress pants.

Our waitress was wearing a white t-shirt over a Beatles t-shirt, and black velour track pants. So, basically, she wore to work what my step daughter wears to sleep in. I can't even find it in my heart to forgive a fellow Beatles fan -- she was that skanky.

I can only assume that it was her first day at work, and she'd hadn't time to buy the appropriate clothes. That's the only reason I could excuse her employer for letting her dress that way. I mean, if I want to eat in that kind of atmousphere, I'll stay home, throw on some sweats and eat cereal, standing up, over the sink.

First, it took her forever to come to our table. She got our drink order right, but the owner had to serve the saganaki that Sue and I had ordered. Granted, it involves fire, but when I waited tables, I could to three at a time, balanced on one arm. Half a glass of brandy, one swipe of the lighter, and half a lemon. Viola!

Halfway through devouring melty, melty cheese, Sue and I placed our orders. I got a hot dog. Seriously, they have those all-beef, Kosher hot dogs. God bless the Jews. Sue ordered "a grilled chicken salad sandwich."

Sue said that she enjoys chicken salad when she's out because it's one of the few things that she's too lazy to make for herself at home. So she was excited to see a cheese-topped chicken salad melt on the menu.

Half a life-time later, the waitress brought out my dog and... a salad with some diced chicken on top.

Uh...

Trixie?

This isn't what Sue ordered.

Apparently, she hadn't heard the SANDWICH part of the order.

Sue: I guess I should've known something was wrong when she didn't ask me if I wanted fries or cole slaw, but she remembered to ask you.

PW: And yet, she didn't ask you what kind of dressing you wanted -- which would have tipped you off -- so I don't think her moments of clarity are at all consistent.

Sue: Yeah.

PW: Have some of my fries while you wait.

So I was unspeakably rude and started eating my hot dog in front of Sue because I didn't want it to get cold. Ten minutes later, Trixie came back and set down on front of Sue... a grilled chicken breast sandwich.

Not a grilled chicken salad sandwich. A grilled chicken breast sandwich. So she got the sandwich part, but forgot the salad part.

Our eyes met across the table, but Sue graciously waited for Trixie to leave before speaking.

Sue: This isn't what I ordered, either.

PW: I know.

Sue: Did I order wrong?

PW: I heard you say grilled chicken salad sammich. I certainly would have remembered you saying breast.

Sue: Maybe I should have said melted. Was I supposed to say melted? I'm pretty sure I was clear.

PW: I knew what you were talking about. I'm guessing that she's not familiar with the menu.

Sue: Well, I'm going to eat it because I'm starving.

PW: Awwww, we'll give her a shitty tip, honey.

And we did.

Posted at 04:00 PM | Comments (1)

November 10, 2008

The Ghost of Christmas Present

My annual, multi-family garage sale has now become something of a tradition. It's nice because every participant has their own focus, so there's a huge variety of stuff.

Dad brings antiques and weaponry; Jerry's Mom rids her closet of last year's couture clothing and accessories; Snippy Bitch brings crafts and crafting supplies; Garrance is all about the Christmas decorations and back issues of magazines; and I rotate out some home decor to make room for new stuff.

I defy you to come and not find something you can't live without! (It'll be the Saturday after Memorial Day in 2009 -- mark your calendars!)

As is bound to happen, we often find ourselves shopping each other's tables, especially when there are no more of Garrance's magazines left to look through. And I just couldn't believe that Garrance was only asking five bucks for this!

Daisy: Holy mother of God, what is THAT???

Stella: Looks like Mom got a new tablecloth.

Daisy: Not that, you dimwit! The dead-eyed dwarf with the bag of small, dead animals!

Stella: Oh. I dunno.

Daisy: We must alert Mom to its presence! MOM! MOM! Bring your gun and holy water!

PW: What the hell is your problem?

Stella: Don't look at me. For once, I'm not the instigator.

Daisy: This ogre broke into our house! KILL HIM!!!

PW: It's a plastic Santa. Plastic!

Stella: Mom, how long until dinner?

Daisy: Oh, my God! It has Mom under its spell! It's up to ME to save us all from certain dismemberment!

PW: You are the worst dog ever. Use your nose! Does it smell like a live being?

Stella: It smells like the garage.

Daisy: I'm not getting my nose anywhere near that thing! It's a threat to our very existance!

PW: Oh, I'll threaten your existance, all right. Now put down your back fur. You look ridiculous.

Stella: (lick) Tastes like the garage, too.

Daisy: How do you know what the garage ta-- Don't try to distract me! You're on its side!

Husband: Oh for Pete's sake. Just leave it where it is. She'll get used to it eventually.

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (2)

October 24, 2008

Pulling My Hair Out

In the final days of September, I backed out of my driveway and into my stepdaughter's car.

Yes, yes, get it all out of your system while I wait.

...

Better now? Good.

Her car is normally parked in her grandmother's garage while she's at college, but we'd just had some work done on it and hadn't taken it back over there, yet. In my defense, it was early morning, there was condensation on my windows, and I'm a total knob.

Luckily, all I did was scratch my fender and put out her tail light, so Husband let me off with nary a mocking! So on Oct. 6, I got on eBay and, using the Buy It Now option, ordered a replacement tail light.

I carefully checked the seller's feedback -- 99.8% positive -- and carefully read the entire listing. The seller asked that we send the following info: year the car was made, and whether it's a 2-door or a 4-door. So when I paid using PayPal, in the little message box provided, I wrote, "It's a 1992 2-door Honda Accord."

TWELVE DAYS LATER, there was no package on my front step, so I sent the following email:

Hi! I was just wondering if this item has been shipped, yet? Thanks!

Nuthin'.

THREE DAYS AFTER THAT, I sent another email:

This is the second email I'm sending to you. I paid for this item over 2 weeks ago and haven't yet received it. If I don't hear from you within 24 hours, I'm going to seek a refund through eBay and leave negative feedback.

Six years and over 1,000 eBay transactions have left me embittered. I don't fuck around anymore. You get one chance to please me. After that, you'd better come out waving a write flag and present my item on a satin pillow.

I received this email the next day:

relax please. this is the 3rd time i am writing to you. check your spam email. You never told us if you have a 2 door or 4 door tail light. please email me and let me know if you need a 2 DOOR OR 4DOOR. I will ship the same day. thanks

Can I just tell you that one of my favorite things in the whole world is being told to "Relax" by a man? Know what else I love? That he put it in all caps the second time -- "2 DOOR OR 4DOOR." I love being treated like a retard by someone lacking basic grammatical skills. So endearing.

My reply:

I sent that information with my PayPal payment. "It's a 1992 2-door Honda Accord." Hence my frustration because you have had the information for over two weeks now. Go check it. And I check my spam daily.

And I do check my spam daily. But my eBay emails go into a special eBay folder that I set up. Which is how I know that he's LYING.

I got this yesterday:

thanks will ship today

sorry

That's more like it. Except that it isn't.

Because today, TWO AND A HALF WEEKS after initial payment, I got this:

and this would be more then two emails sent to you, i need to know your year for your car. we sent you multiple emails with never any reply s.

Clearly, they have some sort of Mentally Challenged Work Program going on over there. I can only assume that more than one of the monkeys knows how to work the computer.

With a heavy sigh and a clenched jaw, I sent the following:

Apparently, there is more than one person there answering emails because I have already had this conversation with Seller Company.

AGAIN, I sent the info with my PayPal payment on Oct. 6. It read, "It's a 1992 2-door Honda Accord." Go check it.

I can only imagine what poorly-worded gibberish I will get in response tomorrow.

If this car ever gets fixed, it'll be a bonafide miracle.

Posted at 09:33 PM | Comments (2)

September 14, 2008

Wenchie, Patron Saint of the Hot Dish

Yesterday morning, Husband and I made the move from Wenchietown to Floodsville. And so did everyone else in our neighborhood, town, county, state. So actually, Floodsville doesn’t look much different from Wenchietown, except for the overabundance of water.

Our neighbors across the street had to carry all the furniture out of their basement, but I think they beat the water and nothing got ruined. Our neighbors to the south had water gushing up through their basement toilet, just like last year. Our neighbors on the other side of them have six feet of water in their basement, just like last year.

The S.S. Wenchie, however, remains watertight, for three reasons. One, overhead plumbing. Whoever built this house was thinking. Two, my incredibly handy Husband installed TWO sump pumps. And three, the electricity is still on.

If the electricity goes, reasons one and two aren’t going to make much difference, and we will end up like our neighbors, just like last year – FUCKED.

As I stood in my kitchen yesterday, watching my neighbors carry buckets of water outside, watching Marion’s face as she simultaneously lived the current horror and re-lived last year’s horror, I racked my brain for something I could do.

They already had five people there cleaning up water. And really, once the toilet starts gushing, there’s only so much you can do before RUN!!! is the only viable option. Then the Lutheran inside of me spoke up and said:

Wenchie’s Inner Lutheran: They need a casserole.

PW: What.

WIL: A casserole! They need a casserole! STAT!

PW: A casserole isn’t going to plug up their toilet.

WIL: Lookit Marion. Does she look like she has the time and/or energy to fix her family the warm, balanced meal that they so desperately need after spending hours in cold, filthy water, trying to save their belongings?

PW: No.

WIL: Then get out the 9x13 pans, hon. It’s casserole time.

PW: I can’t do that. I’ll look retarded.

WIL: Why?

PW: Because they need soooooooo much more than a casserole right now!

WIL: But you don’t have super powers! You can’t make the water go away!

PW: I know.

WIL: But you can make a casserole.

PW: It just seems lame.

WIL: Don’t underestimate the power of comfort food! Where would you be without comfort food?!

PW: In size six jeans.

WIL: Don’t mock comfort food. The whole foundation of Lutheranism rests squarely on a good hot dish. You just can’t argue with chicken, rice and Miracle Whip.

Husband: You know, we should really bring some food to our neighbors.

PW: Really? That wouldn’t be weird?

H: No! It’s what neighbors do! Especially if they’re Lutheran.

PW: Okay!

H: Find a good casserole recipe and make me a shopping list – I’ll run to Jewel.

PW: I’ll make some chocolate chip cookies while you’re gone!

WIL: Oh, sure, you listen to him.

PW: Zip it, ya Garrison Keeler wannabe.

So I made four Kentucky Chicken & Wild Rice Casseroles.

And yes, they really did have Miracle Whip in them.

Posted at 01:08 PM | Comments (2)

August 08, 2008

Car Trouble

Last night, Husband and I had Sue, Heather, Spikette and Mr. Spikette over for dinner. (I really need a name for Mr. Spikette. He deserves better.) Sue cooked, and Heather brought salad and dressing. Homemade dressing and bagged salad, that is.

As you may recall, Heather lives in the city and doesn't have a car. The woman has three TiVos and seventy-four pairs of black shoes, but no car. Not that I'm judging! Oh, who am I kidding -- I'm totally judging! She's a FREAK!

So Heather took the train and walked across the street to get bagged salad at Dominick's, where I was to pick her up. It's literally five minutes from my house, so it's no big deal.

UNLESS, of course, you are having dinner with Husband, Mr. and Mrs. Spikette and Sue. Then it's a Big Fucking Cirque Du Soliel Grand Finale! Don't try to pick up Heather from the Dominick's without a net, people! I'm a trained professional!

Let me explain. And mind you, the following conversations took about 30 seconds. However, I will be obsessing about them for DAYS.

Heather texted me from the Dominick's that it was time for me to come get her because she had knocked down an elderly woman during the course of her Salad Emergency, and management wasn't buying her story. So I grabbed my keys, entered the garage and hit the garage door opener.

Behind my car were parked not one but TWO cars.

PW: You guys both drove here?

Mr. S: I have to go to rehersal right after dinner.

PW: You live two minutes away! You couldn't drive them home?!

Mr. S: Shut up.

PW: You are so on Al Gore's shit list. [to Husband] Honey, gimme your keys.

H: Why?

Was he asleep during the preceeding events? Funny, he looked conscious...

PW: BecauseIneedtopickupHeatherandSpikettesareparkedbehindme!

H: Both of them?

Oh. My. GOD.

PW: Yes. Where are your keys?

H: [HUGE eye roll and sigh] I have to clean off the seat first.

PW: I can do it.

H: Noooooooo, I'll do iiiiiiiiiiiiit. [slumps toward the door, dragging his feet, having suddenly turned into a thirteen-year old girl]

PW: Oh, for God's sake!

What could that man possibly have in his front seat that I couldn't clean it off myself? I mean, I know most people have, like, a couple CDs and maybe some directions scribbled on a Post-It. Did he think me incapable of tossing that crap into the back seat? Or did he have something...

Was there poo? Did he have something disgusting to clean? Was it going to be a long, involved process that he was hoping to put off for a few months?

Or perhaps there was something there that I was physically unable to lift, like a sofa bed? Or a china cabinet? Or a corpse?

PW: Heather's salad is going to wilt before I get to Dominick's! She can sit in the back seat!

H: I'd have to clean that out, too.

PW: Oh, for fuck's sake! Forget it! [to Spikette] Gimme your keys.

Sp: Um... whyyyyyyyyyy...?

At this point, I literally exploded into a thousand little, tiny shards of frustration and rage, causing a rift in the time-space continuum, which then allowed Captain Picard to reunite the particles of my body and make me whole again.

Sue: Just take my car! I think I have enough gas...

No sarcastic comment for Sue, as I often keep driving for days after my gas light goes on.

PW: Spikette, just gimme your keys.

Sp: I'll drive.

PW: No! We won't eat until midnight if you drive!

Sp: ... [clearly uneasy]

PW: I'm not going to crash your car. I'm a better driver than you!

For the love of all that is holy, it's not like she drives a Beemer or a vintage Mustang or something! It's a fucking Saturn station wagon!

PW: GIVE ME THE KEYS!!!!!!!!!

Sp: Fine.

And I was finally, blissfully out the door and off to get Heather. I didn't even move Spikette's seat or adjust any mirrors, lest she burst a blood vessel in her eye or something.

Heather hadn't even gotten her seatbelt buckled before I started in on The Impossible Odds I Had To Circumvent In Order To Obtain A Drivable Vehicle Jeebus H. Pole-Vaulting Christ! At the end of the story, I stopped to catch my breath.

H: Are you done?

PW: NO!

H: There's more to the story?

PW: No, I'm just going to repeat everything over and over until we get there! And then you can't mention it to anyone.

H: Because you're going to blog it.

PW: Of course.

By the time we pulled in my driveway, we were laughing that ugly-laugh where you're practically crying. I opened my front door, and Heather goes, "Aaaaaaaaand, scene."

Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (1)

May 19, 2008

Prescription: Lawsuit

Because he is the rock star of all doctors, Dr. Hottie is simultaneously fixing my forearm, helping me strengthen my core, and trying to figure out my gastro and roseacea issues. In this vein, he gave me a little survey to take about overall intestinal health.

Samples:

Circle the number that best describes the intensity of your symptoms with 0 being none and 3 being severe.

Bloating, belching and flatulence immediately after meals.
Itching around the rectum.
Undigested food in stool.
Chronic candida infections.

So you see my problem.

Dr.: Did you bring the digestive assessment I gave you?

PW: No.

Dr.: Why not?

PW: I've decided I'm not doing it.

Dr.: What?!

PW: Dude, you know my rule. I don't discuss internal distress with cute guys.

Dr.: Right. So just... do it and bring me the numeric scores for each section.

PW: Seriously? I don't have to give details?

Dr.: Not really.

PW: THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU GIVE ME THAT OPTION IN THE FIRST PLACE?! I wrestled with this for days! Jerk.

Then he showed me the next level of core-strengthening exercies.

Dr.: Okay, first, I want you on your hands and knees.

PW: Ohhhhhhhh, I've waited so long to hear you say those words to me.

That's right. Bringing inappropriate behavior to a professional setting since 1969.

Posted at 12:39 PM | Comments (3)

April 11, 2008

Cooper's Arrival

Daisy: Mom? We hate the new puppy.

Stella: Yeah. What she said.

PW: Well, that's fine because we're just baby-sitting for a few days.

Daisy: Riiiight. That's what you said about Stella.

Stella: Yea-- what???

PW: I never said that about Stella!

Daisy: Whatever, Mom. We're not happy.

Stella: Not. Happy.

PW: He's going home on Tuesday.

Daisy: HE??? It's a boy???

Stella: Ewwwwwwww!

Daisy: I hope you don't expect him to sleep with us!

Stella: I don't want boy germs on my Nylabone!

PW: He sleeps in a cage!

Stella: Not my cage.

Daisy: You don't sleep in a cage anymore.

Stella: I'm just sayin'.

PW: Hey, you don't have to play with him. Just don't bite him.

Daisy: I can't make any promises if he comes near my tail. You know how much I hate that.

Stella: She really does.

Daisy: Sooooooooo, what day is today?

PW: Friday.

Daisy: And he's going home when?

PW: Tuesday.

Daisy: So that's...

Stella: Three days?

PW: Four.

Daisy: Moron.

Stella: Hey! I didn't get fancy obedience class like you did!

Daisy: So he's house-trained, right?

PW: Not quite.

Daisy: Oh my God!

Stella: Jesus Christ, Mom!

Daisy: How could you?

PW: He's ten weeks old!

Daisy: Oh, for God's sake, Mom. I hope you don't expect me to nurse him because that's not how I roll.

PW: He eats regular food.

Stella: Not my food.

PW: Puppy food. This stuff, see? Cooper! C'mere, boy! Come and eat, Cooper!

Daisy: That is the gayest name ever.

Cooper: I have no idea what you just said, but you sounded really excited, so here I am!

Stella: Oh, my stars, look how cute he is!

Daisy: Yeah, he's rea-- what???

Stella: He's all fuzzy and tiny! And look how his little ears flop around! Can we keep him, Mom? Pleeeaaase?

Daisy: You traiterous bitch.

Posted at 08:49 AM | Comments (5)

April 09, 2008

It's the Little Things

At a lovely Italian restaurant...

Hostess: Would you like a table or a booth?

PW: Oooh, a booth! It's so much more romantic.

Sue: HA!

[they sit down at a corner booth, Sue slides around to sit next to PW]

PW: Don't mind me. Yes, I am totally brushing my hair at the dinner table. Well, not all my hair. Just my bangs.

Sue: Oh, I don't care. Mine went totally flat in the rain.

PW: Mine are the opposite. Moisture just makes them curl in retarded directions.

Sue: I need to cut mine. They're tickling my eyelashes.

PW: Hey, cute nail polish!

Sue: It's one of the ones you gave me!

PW: Well, it looks much better on you.

Sue: PINK!

PW: I didn't have time to do my nails today. I have naked nails.

Sue: Oh my God... Are you breaking up with me?

PW: What? NO!!! Not breaking up! Not breaking up! See? I wore jewelry for you! I BRUSHED MY BANGS AT THE TABLE FOR YOU!!!

Posted at 08:24 AM | Comments (1)

March 20, 2008

A Couple of Fine Christians

An IM conversation from a boring Lenten Friday:

PW: Check this out -- Bible Fight

Marty: Crap. Panera's firewall is blocking it.
Marty: I'll e-mail it to myself.

PW: it's a Bible Game. it's hilarious!

Marty: I'll try it out when I get out from under the draconian clutches of the Panera firewall.

PW: Panera is The Man

Marty: And the Man is repressing me.
Marty: And feeding me yummy baked goods.

PW: damn him!

Marty: I know!
Marty: Speaking of which, I wonder what I should get for lunch?

PW: mini pizza!

Marty: They don't make those any more.

PW: oh, that was quick

Marty: What?

PW: the pizza. here and gone.
PW: guess it didn't sell well

Marty: Or it was a summer thing
Marty: BUt I did like them
Marty: I went with a roast beef sandwich.
Marty: I'm a good catholic, aren't I?

PW: no, you're a Lutheran
PW: deal with it
PW: it's a much better religion -- we get to eat what we want

Marty: As long as its in a cassarole

PW: well, of course
PW: in FACT, we don't even make you give something up for Lent. that's considered an archaic idea.

Marty: I have nothing to give up for lent.
Marty: Except masturbation.

PW: that's not healthy

Marty: And you can take that from me when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

PW: Nice
PW: AND? In 1993, I believe, Lutherans officially came out in favor of masturbation

Marty: Wow.

PW: I KNOW!
PW: How much do we rock?!
PW: roast beef AND slapping the salami!

Marty: you've really upped your Lutheran skills

PW: I know just enough to be dangerous

Marty: Lutheranism: A Deli of delights.

PW: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
PW: we are the smogesborg of religions!

Marty: LOL

PW: and when we confess? it's SILENTLY in church, not out loud to some child-diddling douchebag

Marty: That was always creepy.

PW: because our leaders are allowed to be a.) sexually active, and b.) women!

Marty: I never confessed the masturbation part.

PW: I'm sure it was assumed
PW: so do I have you sold? are you a Lutheran?

Marty: I feel like I'm being sold a car.

PW: yeah -- a Mercedes!
PW: What will it take for me to put you in this pew?
PW: wanna take it for a test drive? have some roast beef and then go spank it in the Panera bathroom?

Marty: I almost choked on my sandwich here!
Marty: LMAO
Marty: Thank god I wasn't drinking. I would have ruined my laptop.

PW: and the lining of your sinuses
PW: oh, and the Lutheran church welcomes everyone, even gays and addicts, so you're all set!

Marty: Thats great, now I can...HEY!!!
Marty: Who you callin' gay?

PW: I'm just saying
PW: did I touch a nerve?
PW: you're not getting much work done

Marty: Yeah, well..
Marty: Its friday.
Marty: Fuck it.

PW: exactly.
PW: Okay, I totally call dibs on putting this in my blog.

Marty: ok but change my name
Marty: I don't want your mom knowing that I masturbate

PW: I'm pretty sure she assumes, dude.
PW: She's pretty astute.

So the cat's out of the bag now. Wenchie blasphemes, and Marty spanks it. The world is shocked.

Posted at 07:37 AM | Comments (2)

February 25, 2008

The $1,500 Check

I am currently staring down the barrell of a major flu bout. Considering what's been going around my floor at work, I expect to erupt in open, running sores any minute. I came home from work and spent the majority of the evening under the covers, in my sweatsuit, shivering.

So here's my post for the day. I was going to pretty it up, but I'm about to fall out of my chair. So here it is, in all its unpolished glory, a work-related rant that I IMed to Heather. Here's praying it's 80% coherent.

PW: so we got a check for $1500 here at Workplace. and I have no idea what it's for cuz there was no attached backup

Heather: it's for me!

PW: so I called the church where it came from, and the bitch is like, "We ALWAYS send $1500 to you. Every month."
and I can hear her talking to someone else in a snarky voice, and she's all, "She doesn't know what to do with our benevolence check."
Like I'm a fucking retard.
so I'm like, "Well, it says Attn: Hannah Peters, who hasn't worked here in 6 months, and who changed her last name to Stanford 2 years ago. So might it go to someone else?"
and she's all "Yeah, Sharon Reinhardt."
and I'm all, "There's no Sharon Reinhardt here. But I'll check it out and get back to you."

H: bwahahah

PW: mind you, she's all pissy and acting like I'M the idiot here

H: bitch! "our benevolence check"

PW: meanwhile, I find out that the check should have gone to Related Organization, where Sharon Reinhardt works
so even tho' I said, "I'm Wenchie and I work at the WORKPLACE IN CHICAGO" and she knows their Related Org. is in COLORADO, she STILL thought I was the idiot!
so now I get to call her back and tell her that she not only sent it to the wrong person, she sent it to the wrong ORGANIZATION in the wrong STATE
BITCH!
who's laughing derisively NOW, church secretary snotbag!
This will be the first phone call here I've ever enjoyed

H: bwahahaha I love that
AWESOME!

PW: I know!

H: did you call her?

PW: just got off the phone
she's all, "I don't know why that happened. we do this every month off Quickbooks."
and I'm thinking -- retard behind the wheel is why!

H: bwahahaha
like "I didn't screw up! it's the comp0uter!"

PW: exactly

Yup. That's all I got. Sorry so lame. Would have been funnier, if every inch of my skin didn't hurt.

Posted at 09:36 PM | Comments (1)

February 12, 2008

I Went There, but Sue Just Went

Last night, at chorale rehearsal, we were practicing this totally gay 16th century Elizabethan love lament madrigal thing. No wait! Keep reading! It gets better -- I promise.

So the sopranos -- that's me -- have this one spot where we come in a beat later than the rest of the parts, on the downbeat. It's kind of awkward because it's a note and a word that you wouldn't think would be on a downbeat (really, it does get better), so the director gave us a pep talk before making us sing that measure forty-seven times.

He told us, "The butt needs a big entrance!"

Okay, what he really said was, "The 'but' needs a big entrance."

As in, the word but, which started the phrase. But I don't need to tell you, my sweet flying monkeys, what a nose-picking degenerate I am. All I heard was some advice for great butt-sex.

"HA-HAAAAA!!!!!!!"

I looked around. I was the only female who had reacted. Outwardly, at least.

So I nodded resignedly at all the snippy bitches staring at me and said, "Yeah. I went there. ... I'm not proud."

Of course, my gay Husband and gay A were giggling like Japanese school girls on the other side of the room. They had gone there together. But I had gone there... alone.

Sue would have gone there with me! But nooooOOOOOOooooo, Sue isn't singing with us this season because she wants to... I don't know -- work on her career or some such shit? I wasn't listening, to be honest.

So I texted her:

PW: sigh. Another night without Sue.

S: Dude i'm in the coach outlet in napa. I'm buying stuff. A dog collar.

PW: Buy me something!

S: Shit i was still drunk from wine tasting. I bought two purses and a polka dot dog collar. Oh and i fell for an Irish bartender. Giving him my email if he works tonight.

Wine? Coach? Bartender? What else could I text back, except...

PW: Best! Vacation! EVER!

But I don't think she's going to buy me anything. If she's still coherent enough to text me, she's too sober to buy me a designer handbag.

Posted at 05:51 PM | Comments (1)

February 07, 2008

I'm Giving Up Bowling for Lent

The last third of an IM conversation between A and I yesterday afternoon (it being Ash Wednesday):

A: ok...I'm outy
A: will I see you at church tonight?

PW: HA!
PW: that's a good one
PW: America's Next Top Model is on!

A: jesus still loves you

PW: then how come he never writes?

A: he died for you so you could skip church

PW: tell him I say Hi!

A: will do
A: he's a little nailed up right now

PW: he's a trooper that Jesus
PW: oh, I have to change my nail polish, too

A: of course

PW: what color is Lent?

A: purple

PW: I'll do them purple, in honor of Jesus' 40 days without dessert

A: there you go

In my defense, it's not like I could go and get ashes on my forehead. We all know that grey on me looks teal!

Posted at 07:56 AM | Comments (3)

February 01, 2008

Wenchie vs. Nylons

As I watched the White Scourge of the Midwest fall outside my cubicle window yesterday afternoon, I had this conversation with Heather via I.M.:

[By the way, Meebo lets you chat without having to download software onto your work computer -- check it out!]

PW: It's a bitch outside.
PW: I'm really hoping they close the building early, and then just LEAVE it closed until Monday!

H: yeah. liek that'll happe.
H: n
H: sorry. trying to type and hold a pen at the same time...

PW: don't worry - I speak Heather
PW: last time it snowed 5 in., they closed early and didn't open until, like, 10:00 or so the next morning. which was awesome
PW: and tonight we're expecting EIGHT

H: damn. sweet.

PW: I know!
PW: The person who makes the decision must live far away or something

H: that is genious.
H: it takes me an hour to get home no matter what, and they don't seem to mind if I come in late, or early, or on time, or whatever.

PW: at my old work, the guy making that call lived 5 min. away, so he didn't give a crap

H: I hate that
H: my last job, at IEC, they NEVER EVER cared about weather.
H: because the guy lived walking distance away.
H: fucker.

PW: fucker

H: ha!

PW: oh, tomorrow, I have to attend a staff-only-plus-spouses/partners dinner for Husband's work at the Bumblefuck Country Club

H:

PW: 28 miles away
PW: and I have to be there by 6:30, in rush hour traffic, so if Google says it takes 42 min. I'm gonna have to leave at 5:00 or something
PW: and drive to fucking Bumblefuck in the snow, in rush hour traffic
PW: to have dinner with strangers
PW: in a skirt

H: wear pants. and a low-cut top, or no top, just a bra and jacket.

PW: and I'm not even sure I OWN nylons, and I'm not going shopping in this weather
PW: Husband said that one lady's partner hates these functions, too
PW: I'm like, "Partner as in lesbian?" He goes, "Yes." I said, "Awesome. We're sitting with the crabby lesbians."

H: nylons? in this century? what happened to good old fashioned tights?

PW: don't have any of those either
PW: Yeah, I may do pants
PW: with black sheer blouse and black shelf-bra tank
PW: and my sword necklace
PW: so everyone gets the right impression of me right off the bat
PW: "Yes, I'm a bitchy, pirate hooker who'd rather fall on her sword than be here. Nice to meet you. Where's the bar?"

H: the perfect dinner date!

PW: exactly

You know, I live my live in a specific manner that ensures that I never have to wear nylons/tights/pantyhose/whatever you want to call those demonic strangulation devices. So thank God that He intervened and dumped a Rhode-Island-sized load of snow on Chicago.

(Sure, the one prayer of mine that He answers is about snow. Figures.)

Since my conversation with Heather, my work building has announced its complete closure for the day, and Husband has decreed that it's too dangerous for his precious, delicate angel to be driving to Bumblefuck this evening.

Nylons: "You got away this time, Wenchie! But I will return! Mark my words! I WILL RETURN!!!"

Posted at 10:59 AM | Comments (4)

January 23, 2008

Again with the Eyeshadow

Instead of buying each other presents for birthdays and Christmas, Jerry's Mom K and I go do something with each other. Something like shopping or facials or pedicures -- you know, girlie crap. And that way, I'm guaranteed to see her at least three times a year. (She travels a lot.)

On Tuesday, for our belated Christmas (for which we made plans in November because that's how far in advance she has to plan), we went shopping at Woodfield and specifically, to Sephora for a "consultation," which is what you have to call it when you want them to do your make-up.

A little Sephora etiquette tip from me to you:

Sephora is not a salon, so if it's May or June, and you show up there with your hair in an up-do on a weekend and tell them you want someone to show you how to do your make-up, they're gonna tell you to go scratch.

But if you're an old lady in a hoodie and a ponytail on a Tuesday afternoon wanting to learn how to do a "smokey eye," well, they're bored and will show you. And then laugh at you.

So I sat down in the highchair, and the 20-year old Mascara Monster went to choose some eyeshadows for me.

PW: Um, I usually use brown or eggplant. I love the idea of grey, but I've never found a shade that looks good on me.

MM: Uh-huh.

PW: My eyes are a really weird color. They're like green-grey-blue. Grey eyeshadow tends to look blue on me.

MM: Well, I'm gonna use these. [brings over three shades of grey] They're a really true grey.

PW: You're the professional!

Five minutes and obscene amounts of eyeshadow later...

Other Sephora Chick: Oh, cool! Are you using teal?!

MM: What? NO! It's grey.

PW: Hand me the mirror.

You know, I've been the owner of my face for quite some time now, and I know what works. Grey doesn't work. Ever.

So I walked around the rest of the mall cleverly disguised as The Teal Whore Who Whore-ily Whored Her Way Through Teal Town. Thank God I didn't see anyone I knew.

Posted at 05:48 PM | Comments (2)

January 17, 2008

Fairness

This is what passes for coherent conversation in the Wenchie household.

Husband: What are you eating?

PW: [mumbling thru a full mouth] Nufeen.

H: Is that pudding?

PW: Y-- Noooooooooo.

H: Are you eating the last pudding???

PW: [sigh] Yes.

H: No fair!

PW: How is it not fair that I remembered there was one more pudding left and you didn't?

H: Your brain is younger than mine!

PW: Well,... you lose weight easier than me!

H: What does that have to do with anything?

PW: I don't know, but it really pisses me off!

H: Can I have the rest of your pudding?

PW: No.

Posted at 06:42 AM | Comments (0)

January 10, 2008

I Am, Apparently, ReMarried

So I've been playing Marry-Fuck-Kill with Smokey, who says, "It's the best game ever!" A ringing endorsement, indeed. I can't believe she lived to be 28 and has never heard of it. I have so much to teach her.

We've been playing with themes: "Asian Action Heros," "Dead Fat Guys," "Black Comedians," etc. So I gave her three "Religious Leaders." Here's her response:

kill the pope. if it were john paul that'd be one thing but i don't like this benedict guy. he seems like an asshole hard ass. fuck the dali lama. he's probably into some tantric shit and could teach me a thing or two. marry bishop hanson because he's adorable and looks like santa. and english is his first language.

Needless to say, Smokey is totally fucked in the afterlife.

She then gave me "World Leaders," where I ended up marrying Tony Blair, and she remarked that that would be like marrying a woman. Which led to a whole conversation about how it would be awesome to marry a woman because your jewelry and purse selection would double, and your housework would be cut in half.

But apparently, I can't marry Tony Blair or any other woman because I'm already married to one.

PW: Ohmigod, I have to blog that story. That's totally hilarious.

My Wife: Well, okay, but change my name.

PW: What should I change it to?

MW: Beatrix.

PW: Done.

TWO HOURS LATER

MW: So I have to ask you something.

PW: What.

MW: When I told you what name I wanted to be called in your blog, why didn't you ask me how I came up with it?

PW: Oh my God. Are we married now?

MW: I'm serious! I was thinking about it, and I'm like, Isn't she wondering where I got that name?

PW: You are so my wife!

MW: So you didn't wonder?

PW: Well, I figured it was probably from some book you like, right?

MW: Now I'm not going to tell you.

PW: Oh, for God's sake. Can I still write the blog?

I'm still not sure if she was serious or joking... but I'm still going to write about the story she told me.

Posted at 12:00 PM | Comments (0)

December 28, 2007

My Dinner with Kelly

First, let me clarify -- Kelly is a dude. Kelly Garrett is just his chosen commenter name because he's a big 'mo and loves Charlie's Angels.

Because Kelly is a tree-hugging, hippie socialist, we went to Hillary's home town and dined at the incomparable Pickwick Restaurant. Home of the "Hillary Burger." And no, that's not a euphemism for anything.

Surprisingly, he orderd the BBQ beef. I say surprisingly because he normally only eats smoothies and veggies and couscous that he makes for himself. Yes, he lives in L.A., which means that his smoothies don't include Hershey's syrup and Cool Whip. Freak.

Kelly is quite the cook, making all his own food, and soon we were talking about organic this and fresh that. Can you believe I had dinner with someone from L.A. and didn't once punch him in the face? Not once!

He had total sand in his vagina over the fact that his mom, K, had made a casserole for Christmas Eve dinner.

PW: So did I!

KG: That's just so wrong! I haven't eaten a casserole in twelve years!

PW: Why is that wrong? Turkeys are a pain in the ass.

KG: First of all, no one should ever, EVER cook with onion soup mix and store-bought French dressing.

PW: Did her casserole also have chicken and cranberry sauce?

KG: Yes.

PW: I made the same one!

KG: Oh, my God.

Fearing retribution from the L.A. Food Gods upon his return to The Land of Protruding Collar Bones, Kelly shopped for and cooked dinner on Christmas Day.

KG: I was walking around Jewel going, Where the fuck are the dried cranberries? Finally I found them when I realized that they were in a package labeled Craisins! They can't call them cranberries, or no one in the midwest would eat them!

PW: Dude, cranberries are waaaaaaaay too exotic. Unless, of course, they are jellied and canned, the way God intended.

You can bet your ass that God eats casseroles and jellied cranberries. Because God is Lutheran. And because, bananas aside, casseroles are nature's most perfect food. All the food groups in one pan, mixed with Miricle Whip and topped with crushed Ritz crackers! What could be better???

Next time you're in town, Kelly, c'mon over, and I'll prepare some nice homemade macaroni and cheese. It's fabulous. You do like Velveeta, right?

Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (2)

November 16, 2007

Belch, Clocks, Heather

Husband: Stella's belch sounds different than Daisy's.

PW: Um... I think you've been spending too much time with the dogs.

* * * * *

PW: [picks up her ringing phone] Hello?

Irene: Hi, this is Irene, calling from Dr. Angel's office. We have you down for a 9:30 appointment.

PW: Yep!

Irene: Well... are you coming in?

PW: It's only 10 to 9:00.

Irene: [*cricket* *cricket*]

PW: Did you forget to turn your clocks back?

Irene: Nooooo, that's tomorrow.

PW: Oh... Shit... I'll be there in 10 minutes.

* * * * *

Husband: You gonna be home for dinner?

PW: Well, yeah. I was gonna go out with Heather, but I have a headache. I think I'm gonna bow out.

H: You can't go out anyway -- it's Wednesday.

PW: Aaaaaaaand...?

H: "America's Next Top Model" is on!!!

PW: ... Why, yes, honey, I am disappointed that I won't be seeing Heather because I have a splitting headache. Thank you for your concern.

H: I'm just sayin'.

Posted at 01:35 PM | Comments (0)

August 01, 2007

Purses: The Fabric of My Life

Have you ever wondered where I get my amazing, gripping and socially relevent ideas for blogs? It goes a little something like this, via I.M...

Heather: so, what else is up, these days?

PW: I got a dooney purse and a coach purse off eBay for about $100 total!

H: ooh! sweet!

PW: I should really do a purse blog, like a bad catalogue

H: have barbies in each of them. in matching outfits.

PW: I love you.

H: and I ruv you!

PW: seriously, I have a lot of purses. I have to get started!

H: I have a bunch, most are boring. althoug I just found out that my favorite, a sort of bowlling ball looking bag, is just big enough to hold a bottle of champagne.

PW: you're a drunken whore

H: but I'm YOUR drunken whore.

And then Heather put down the crack pipe and went back to work, leaving me to scamper around my house, cackling maniacally, rounding up accessories and checking the light in each room.

I just... I'm such a huge gayrod, I don't even know how to verbalize it.

But aren't these little ladies the cutest? They're like twins whose mother had the good sense not to dress identically.

They're faux, of course. But I'm contemplating replacing them with the real things. I'll get 'round to it on eBay, but right now, I'm working on an eBay list that includes the following must-haves: a mousepad with a wrist rest, The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory, and a really cheap 2007 wall calendar to hang in my new work cubicle.

Is this not the quintessential summer purse? I ask you! Is it not?! This was the purse I used during July. (Yes, I rotate my purses monthly. Shut up. And I keep a list so I don't repeat too often. Shut up.)

It's vibrant! It's warm! It's... in the crook of a tree! You can't get more summery than green foliage!

I want to sleep with this Dooney & Bourke Quilted Sac.

Not only does it allow me to say "sac" in polite company, but it's blue, which is my favorite color.

I will use my sac in September. But for now, I'm toting this kicky little Fake Spade number I borrowed from Billi.

Swapped her for a faux-Prada. I totally got the better end of the deal.

Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (3)

July 04, 2007

A Heroic Tale for Independence Day

Stella got spayed last week. Oh, stop yer fussin' 'n' frettin' -- she's just fine. Doesn't even know she has stitches in. I guess sometimes it pays to be stupid.

So spaying was on my mind when Billi and I were playing "Marry, Kill, Fuck" on I.M.

We had a rule that the names of the people had to have something in common, like: Lisa Kudrow, Lisa Gibbons and Lisa Simpson. Or Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Philip Seymour Hoffman and James Earl Jones (three names).

PW: David Spade, James Spader and a spayed dog.

B: kill spade..... fuck the dog and marry spader

PW: You'd fuck a dog?

B: to rid the world of david spade, hell yea!!!!!!!!

PW: God bless you. You're an American hero.

B: i know

Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Don't blow your fingers off!

Posted at 02:25 PM | Comments (1)

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 05, 2007

Bar Slut Logic

As you may have noticed, my internet went down on Memorial Day and stayed down for a week. Fucking terrorists!

Lucky for me, I know an I.T. guy who'd rather do anything than be at work, even if it means working for me for free, amidst the stench of Stella's recent sphinctorial events. (More on that later.)

I was quickly reunited (and it feels so good) with Heather via AOL I.M., and we lost no time in sinking to our usual ass-hattery.

Heather: WENCHIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Pirate Wench: SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT!
PW:Marty fixed my internet! and I have 1,000 emails to catch up on! and I have to blog!

H: DUDE! I've MISSED YOU! WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS!!!!!!

PW: I'm a selfish, selfish wench

H: SERIOUSLY!

PW: and I have to find time to take a shit cuz I'm dying and I've been at the computer for 2 hours.

H: ???? turtle!

PW: god, it's been HELL

H: I'm SURE!
H: you need to blog about hte new pirate tv show! and the third pirates movie!
H: have you been ok, other than your stupid internets?

PW: oh, yeah, I'm groovy

H: what was wrong with it, btw?

PW: no idea what was wrong. ask marty
PW: he told me, but all I heard was "blah blah blah"

H: hee.
H: also? the internet SUCKS without you.

PW: awwwwwwwwww. and you?

H: doing pretty well. nothing earth-shattering excpet for me and Heather's Husband spending two hours last night lingering around a dying kitten on the cornerr, waiting for the animal control to come get her... and both of us being too chicken to pick her up for fear of getting rabies or something, and feeling like HUGE pussies for that.

PW: a feral cat? fuck that. i wouldn't even poke it with a stick

H: yeah. we didn't know anything about it, but she was pretty fucked up and staggery and we didnt' want to just let it die there, on teh corner, where kids and doggies walk every day....

PW: good call

H: anyway. 2 hours before animal control came. 2 hours of staggering and explaining to people who walk past asking "is that your cat?"

PW: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

H: like, dudes. if it was my cat, she'd be in a box in the backseat of a taxi with me crying hysterically and Heather's Husband giving frantic directions. IDIOTS

PW: HA!

H: thank god you know what i'm talking about when I say "can't pick her up, I don't know where she's been" - Bar Slut Logic, really.

PW: Bar Slut Logic is appropriate for so many, many occassions

H: you would know!

PW: I never touch myself without wearing gloves because I KNOW where I've been!

H: hahahahahaHAAA!!!
H: to his credit, Heather's Husband totally called 311 to report the cat before i could even suggest it - I nudged her away from the street when she tried to walk to the curb... it was so heart warming for Heather's Husband, seeing my sensitive side.

PW: kicking the cat to the curb

H: ha! yeah, that sounds less nice than it was at the time.

PW: I can't believe we had that whole kitten conversation with no pussy jokes. we're losing our touch

H: oh, Heather's Husband and I had a bevvy of them, on teh way home...

PW: I should hope so!

H: there was this older woman, like...halfway through menopause, in jean shorts and puffy white gymshoes, who stopped, asked us what was wrong with 'our' cat, then started crying and actually moaning outloud as she walked away.

PW: oh for fuck's sake

H: as soon as she got out of earshot, I cracked him up with one word. "lesbian"

PW: HA! "vegan"

H: SERIOUSLY

PW: which reminds me -- I'm hungry.

Posted at 04:18 PM | Comments (0)

May 08, 2007

Adam’s Barf Story, Part II: The Open Window

“So I was driving downtown," Adam continued. "And I TOTALLY felt like I was gonna barf. But then I felt like I just had to burp. So I burped but threw up in my mouth. While I was driving!”

“Oh my God!”

“I had to get off the expressway, so I was, like, holding my mouth shut with my fingers. But then I barfed again, and some it of started oozing through my fingers! And I could tell I wasn’t done, yet.”

“Gross!”

“But surprisingly, I only got one little dot on my shirt, and one on my pants and on the steering wheel. Which I thought was pretty good. Especially since I was on my way to a date.”

“Yeah, I guess it could’ve been worse...”

“Finally I found a place I could pull over, and I totally hurled my guts up. I mean, I seriously don’t think I ate that much! And I tend not to chew, so, like, everything was still mostly intact. It was like a casserole.”

“Well, guess what I’m not having for dinner tonight.”

“Exactly. So then I thought I was okay, and I started driving again. Besides, I didn’t have this guy’s cell phone number, so it’s not like I could call him up and make up a story about being sick or something.”

“You just threw up an entire casserole, and you’d have to make up a story about being sick?”

“Good point. But I was still nauseated, so I drove around looking for a place where I could just park my car, get out, sit on the curb and barf between my feet.”

“Classyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

“Well, it was either that, or barf in my mouth again. But you know how Chicago streets are? Where there’s cars parked on both sides and hardly enough room for one car to drive down the middle? That’s what all of the streets were like in this neighborhood! I just wanted some quiet spot to barf, and I couldn’t even pull over! It was ridiculous! And it was a nice day, so everyone was out with their kids and walking their dogs and stuff.”

“Bwaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Normally, I get a good two-minute warning before I’m gonna barf, but this time, I swear to God, it was, like, instant! I barely had time to turn my head. Thank God my window was open. I just leaned out my window and barfed up another casserole! And it was all down the side of my car and everything!”

At this point in the conversation, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t even stand, and I had gone blind in one eye. I love other people’s misery. As does Gary Coleman. (Name that musical! Anyone?)

“So I had to stop my car in the middle of the street and open my door and just barf right there. And I’m a very violent barfer, so it was really loud, and people were, like, coming out of their houses to see what was going on.”

“Please… stop… can’t… breathe…”

“When I finished, I was so embarrassed, I just closed my door and drove away real fast. By the time I got to the restaurant, the spots on my shirt and my pants were dry, so I just flicked the little dried chunks off, and I looked okay.”

“Oh sweet Jesus. I pulled a muscle in my stomach from laughing. I hope you didn’t kiss the guy.”

“No, we just hugged. And I just had a sloppy joe to eat.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You ate a sloppy joe?! After puking up several casseroles?! Dude! Sloppy joe totally looks like barf! How could you eat that?!”

“Well, it seemed bland.”

“Sloppy joe seemed bland?! It has peppers! Dude! Who eats a sloppy joe after blowing chunks in their mouth?!”

“Well, I had to get that taste outta my mouth. Besides, sloppy joes come pre-chewed, so if I barfed again, it wouldn’t hurt coming out of my nose.”

Well, folks, it took me quite a while to recover physically from that bout of laughing. And it’ll take me even longer to ever eat a sloppy joe again, just because of the association. Or eggs. Or a casserole.

Food for thought: Did it ever occur to you that the bowl your mom gave you to barf into was the same bowl you all ate popcorn out of on Sunday nights? Weird.

Posted at 01:01 PM | Comments (6)

May 06, 2007

Adam’s Barf Story, Part I: Prelude to a Spew

I met Adam at Starbuck’s the other day for frappies and to build a MySpace (because we’re 13), and with obvious excitement, he asked me, “Did I tell you my latest barf story?”

And you would be right to assume from that statement that, indeed, Adam has many barf stories, and that verily, I have been privy to most or all of them. Happy times.

If you'll remember, Adam is one of the Thursday Dinner crew, son of Garrance and K, and as gay as Karaoke Show Tunes Night down in Boys Town.

[Author’s note: I am putting Adam’s story in quotes, although there is no way I can accurately recount the entire thing verbatim. I remember the key phrases distinctly, and the rest I will paraphrase with what I hope resemble Adam’s innate eloquence. Also, all names have been changed to protect the innocent. Except Adam's]

“Okay, so you know how I had a blind date Saturday afternoon?” Adam began. “Well, Friday night, I was over at the Smiths’ house. Sally’s parents love me because I play piano for them, and we all sing show tunes and drink martinis.”

“You are so gay.”

“I know. And you know how, when someone else keeps filling your glass, and you haven’t really finished the first one, it doesn’t seem like you’re drinking that much?”

“All too well.”

“Well, I think I had about three martinis. Which wasn’t good because all I’d had to eat that day was a bowl of cereal. So Mrs. Smith made me sleep over, which was totally embarrassing, but friends don’t let friends drive drunk, so whatever.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“In Sarah’s room because she was sleeping over at her boyfriend’s.”

“Mrs. Smith lets Sarah sleep at her boyfriend’s?!”

“Well, she’s like, twenty-three.”

“Oh yeah. I keep forgetting she’s not in high school.”

“AAAAAAAANyway, the next morning, Mrs. Smith made us all these omelettey things, only you don’t use a pan. You put eggs and then whatever toppings you want in a plastic baggy and drop it in boiling water.”

“Weird.”

“I know. But she had, like, all these ingredients you could use! Like bacon and cheese and mushrooms! It was like being on a cooking show or something. She also had ham on the bone!”

“Who has ham on the bone, like, just handy for breakfast?! I wanna sleep over there!”

“So I had my eggs and two big slices of ham. Oh wait, sidetrack. My brother always thinks I’m a freak because, if I drink too much, I don’t barf until the next day, and he just barfs before he goes to sleep.”

“I always wake up in the middle of the night to barf. I don’t think there’s any universal time for the binge-drinking barf. You’re not a freak.”

“Okay, but it’s part of my story. You see where this is going. I left Smiths’ and went to my parents’ house because I didn’t want to drive all the way home because I felt totally sick. So I laid down on the couch for a while.”

“Did you barf on your parents’ couch?!”

“No. It’s much better than that. Finally, I was like, ‘Okay, I just have to get this over with because I have a date in three hours.’ So I went to the bathroom and couldn’t decide whether I should try to barf or poo. I opted for poo because then I could always lean over to the sink if I had to barf.”

“That’s what I would have done.”

“Besides, barf is easier to clean up than poo.”

“I don’t understand the rationale behind that statement, but go on.”

“So I took a really huge dump and felt much better.”

“How nice for you.”

“Delightful. So I had an hour and half before I was supposed to meet this guy downtown for lunch, and since I was still in my clothes from the night before, I went home and changed. But then I felt like I was gonna barf again. So I went in the bathroom and tried to make myself throw up, but it didn’t work.”

“Husband can make himself throw up whenever he wants, and then he’s totally fine and ready to eat. It’s completely bizarre.”

Okay, this is totally triggering my gag reflex. I have to go. The rest of the story in a day or two, I promise.

Posted at 12:02 PM | Comments (1)

February 27, 2007

Ankle Update

Two weeks ago:

PW: Well, it was feeling better, but now it's hurting again.

Dr. Hottie: Lemme guess. It was feeling better, so you decided you could walk around more.

PW: Um... Yeah.

Dr. H: Don't do that.

Last week:

Dr. H: [bending and poking my ankle] Does that hurt?

PW: Ow. Ow! OOOWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Dr. H: Does that really hurt?

PW: DUH!

Dr. H: It shouldn't still hurt that bad. You're doing too much.

PW: [thinks back to recently moving the couches in preparation for Husband's 50th birthday party] Probably...

Dr. H: [gives me the you're-a-grown-up-and-we-shouldn't-even-be-having-this-discussion look] If you don't cut it out, I'm going to have to put you on crutches.

PW: But! I'm having forty people at my house for Husband's birthday! I have to clean!

Dr. H: Well, you're just going to have to lower your standards of clean.

PW: [recoils in horror at the thought]

So, I had people over, and I didn't even vacuum the bedrooms. Jesus, why don't I just sprinkle cedar chips all over the floors.

Posted at 03:44 PM | Comments (5)

February 07, 2007

Zingers

As I've stated before, the people around me are often much funnier than I am.

The Scene: Billi's kitchen.

The Players: Wenchie, Brad and The Girl Child.

Girl Child: (making Valentines with Auntie) How do you spell Nana?

Brad: O - L - D.

Wenchie: Zing!

The Scene: Thursday dinner.

The Players: Wenchie, Mom, Dad, K, G, Husband.

K: I'm gonna be buried in my tiara.

Mom: Ooh! Can I be buried next to you? Then we can talk!

G: I wanna be stuffed and sat on the couch. You can decorate me for Christmas!

Husband: I'm gonna donate my body to science so they can use all my organs.

Dad: Not me! I'm gonna use up all my organs before I die.

Mom: Well, we already know your liver is gone.

Wenchie: Zing!

Posted at 02:10 PM | Comments (0)

November 30, 2006

Rift

Okay, five-second blog. In the middle of my work day. Yes! I'm blogging during my work day! Lookit me blog!

But technically, I consider this brief internet usage a continuation of my lunch break, since I didn't get a whole one because Ms. Thang at the switchboard didn't come back from her lunch on time, so my pizza was cold, and then I had to do mail and checks before 2:00, so I barely even chewed.

In short, I deserve this respite. On to nothing important:

Unless you live in a van down by the river, you've seen a lot of Britney Spears' vagina lately. You've also noticed that Paris Hilton appears to be her new husband, now that KFed has been filed back into the Kevin Who? file.

It's all extremely horrifying. So much so, that it has melted Heather's brain. It's all she can do to I.M. me now...

H: know what's sad? I am looking at this celeb photo for like 5 minutes, becuase I forgot her name. Britney Spears? is that how you spell it?

PW: ha!

H: yeah, it;s like when you say "dog" until it loses all meaning, this whole paris-n-brit thing.

PW: on the Superficial?

H: no, something for work - "battle of the sexiest" I seriously Forgot her name.

PW: it's just so surreal to see those 2 together. like, where the fuck did they meet?

H: obviously not at an underwear store.

PW: HAAAAAAA! were they like, "Well, no one's as fucked up as us, so let's hook up!"? it's like, it's completely bizzaree, and yet makes so much sense, at the same time. and now I just made a rift in the time-space continuum

Wait a minute? Who the hell is up against Britney in "Battle of the Sexiest?" Danny DiVito?

Posted at 02:26 PM | Comments (2)

September 27, 2006

I Hate What I'm Wearing. Can I Go Home?

I should really just have a blog category called "My Boobs," since I can't seem shut up about them.

In an attempt to answer that age-old question, "Why do my clothes always look better at home than they do at work?" Heather and I had the following innane and mostly irrelevent conversation via IM (edited for coherency):

PW: I'm so getting rid of this shirt. it's pretty, but it just doesn't hang right and looks so retarded. but how come I never notice these things until I'm already at work?

H: oh, I know. it's because we don't have indirect florescent lighting at home.
H: I am dressed like murphy brown - didn't realize it until I got here. and now my editor is laughing at me. if he had a blog, I'd be RIGHT UP in there.
H: what are YOU wearing?

PW: oh, it's a pink, v-neck shirt, but it just... doesn't hang right. and I feel stupid and frumpy.
PW: and I put my black cardigan over it cuz I"m cold, and now it looks even dumber cuz it has 3/4 length sleeves

H: so, both tops don't fit right? I hate THAT!

PW: well, the cardigan is awesome but looks stupid over the stupid shirt
PW: I think I"ll go take off the shirt and leave on just the black one

H: ohohoh. yeah. take it off, baby.

PW: I'm too sexy for my shirt.

H: does it hurt?

PW has changed status to Away: I am away from my computer right now.
PW has changed status to Available

PW: not really, but now that I've changed, my neckline is waaaaaaaaay plunging
PW: and I don't have a necklace on

H: you don't have backup jewelry? anything you could borrow from barbie?

PW: no, back-up sweater is an organized as I get

H: ah. I dont' even have that.

PW: and I need a safety pin for this sweater. my tits are bursting out

H: how is that a problem? wear it backwards!

PW: HA! I work at Conservative Insurance Co., not Playboy
PW: it's not porno, but I would still feel better if it were an inch more closed

H: scotch tape? paper clip it to your bra?

PW: it's Banana Republic! I would totally use double-sided tape, if it were Old Navy or something
PW: well, at least I can blog about my boobs today... which is pretty much my fav topic anyway, so I'm always happy for an excuse

H: yay! awesome!

PW: Female Co-Worker just offered to lend me a sweater, and it's totally cute, but she had, like, three lunches spilled on it.
PW: I'm like, "Take your sweater home and wash it!"
PW: I'd rather be a slut than a slob.

H: that is hilarious
H: I don't keep a sweater here, because I hate that whole sweater-on-the-chair look. I'd rather be cold than ugly.
H: becuas ei am weird.

PW: I keep it in my drawer, not on my chair! I'm not an animal!

H: I don't have drawer space - it's full of porn!

PW: you have way better priorities than me

H: obviously.

And then we started talking about porn, which is appropriate because I look like Chesty McMelon. In fact, this illustration is pretty accurate:

Ah, Captain Cleavage. You can always find her throwing back drinks at The Salty Nipple. She's the scourge o' the seven seas... as long as it's not too windy.

To make matters worse, I did this last week, too -- decided I hated my shirt and changed into my sweater. Of course, I had a pink tank on underneath, so it wasn't as risque. But still, people are going to think this is the only top I own!

I'm just going to start telling people that I gave all my worldly posessions to George Clooney so he can save Africa or whatever it is that he's doing. Oh, who cares what he's doing? It's George Clooney! Why wouldn't I give him my clothes?!

Posted at 11:26 AM | Comments (1)

July 27, 2006

Humid

I have to tell you about me weird dream about Fresh Pepper, but first, I have to complain about the weather.

It's hoooooooooooooooooooooooooot, you guuuuuuuys. Seriously, my deodorant has already given out by the time I arrive at work.

Last week, after work, I got into a car that was well above 100 degress inside. (My next car will be white!) And you know what happened? My usually supple, moist, youthful skin started to tighten. Right on my head! I could feel the heat wicking away my moist suppleness! It was insane!

And now, an IM conversation about the weather, between Billi and myself:

PW: don't go outside. it's a sauna

Billi: Ug.
Billi: I was gonna set up the pool for the kids.
Billi: I might die though.

PW: maybe it's less hot by you

Billi: It looks humid out.

PW: yeah, it's gross out
PW: I'm wearing a sweater cuz it's freezing at my desk

Billi: ha.
Billi: I'm wearing a tank top.

PW: wait -- you can SEE humid?

Billi: It's... like..... hazy.
Billi: and there was condensation on our windows this morning.
Billi: humid....
Billi: SHUT UP!

PW: HA!
PW: I'm blogging that. That was hilarious.

Billi: I'm so glad I can entertain all your readers.

PW: I'm also waiting for the right moment to blog, "I just had some underwear that I was going to put on, and now it's gone."

Billi: Who said that?!?!? about the underwear?

PW: YOU!

Billi: WHEN?

PW: several months ago
PW: I was dying! we were on the phone!

Billi: seroiusly? Why did I tell you that?

PW: I don't know -- you were probably muttering to yourself

Billi: I'm Mom.

PW: oh thanks for making me picture Mom without underwear

And since there's no graceful way to transition from that to Fresh Pepper, here's my dream about Fresh Pepper, even though he's "on hiatus," and I have no idea when/if he'll ever be back:

So Fresh and I apparently had a mutual friend, a guy. And Fresh had asked him to go make sure his apartment looked okay for some new girl he was bringing home. I happened to be visiting Mutual Friend at the time, so he brought me with.

What we found was that, in an effort to rid his apartment of all things that might keep him from getting a second date with the new girl, he had totally 40-Year-Old-Virgin-ed his apartment. It was bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

Mutual Friend was like, "Oh my God, she'll think he's a serial killer. We have to get some stuff back in here!"

So we went and got furniture and stuff from... somewhere. IKEA? That's what it looked like. And we totally feng-shuied his apartment and put it back together so it looked like a page out of the Pottery Barn catalogue. (Note to self: stop reading so many catalogues.)

As we were finishing up, I mused to Mutual Friend, "I suppose it would be tacky to take a picture of myself in Fresh's bed for my friend Nicholle. Cuz seriously, she'd DIE of jealously."

And Mutual Friend was like, "Yeah, that would be tacky."

Damn. But I was totally thinking of you, Nicky! Even in my dreams!

I think Mutual Friend and I are going to get those necklaces that say "MUT FRI" and "UAL END." Those are so bitchen.

Posted at 02:03 PM | Comments (0)

June 08, 2006

Products Already Delivered

So. I have a male friend -- well, actually, I have many, but this one shall remain nameless, for reasons that will become clear.

This friend recently celebrated twenty years of not getting fired. For this auspicious occasion, his company gave him a catalogue and told to pick out anything he wanted, which would be his anniversary gift.

The selection was nice. And by nice, I mean nice, in the blandest sense of the word. Quality merchandise, yet... nothing a normal person would actually want, you know? Binoculars, chess set, grandfather clock -- that sort of shit. Grown-up executive shit.

So he emailed me a link and asked me what I thought he should get, since he had no idea. See, this is where my shallow materialism comes in handy helping others. I'm practically Mother Theresa. Only taller.

I clicked through, nodding off, until -- what to mine eyes should appear but a BLACK, LEATHER COACH PURSE!

I'm like, "Dude, get the Coach purse and give it to me!" In jest, of course, because it's not my anniversary. And did I mention he's happily married?

And he's like, "Okay!" And I'm like, "I was kidding. You can't do that. Your wife will kill you." And he's like, "What's she going to do with it?"

He had a point there. His wife is a total hippie and couldn't care less about a Coach purse. Or any purse, really. Or bras. But whatever -- I was totally kidding (only a tiny bit kinda not), and he took me seriously when, really, he should know better.

The other day, a package arrived, prompting me to immediately spring onto IM, like Lindsay Lohan springing onto one of Paris' ex-boyfriends.

Wenchie: I HAVE COACH PURSE!

Male Friend: Yes, yes you do!

W: OMG, I saw the same one at Nordstrom's yesterday

MF: Did you make out OK? I have no idea what they are worth...

W: dude, they didn't even have a price tag on it, and it was behind locked glass cuz if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

MF: Yikes!

W: that size? leather? about $200, I'm sure

MF: Wow. I rock.

W: YOU TOTALLY DO! I think this is it

MF: Yeah, I think that's it. I didn't pay that close of attention. Kind of like you get when I start talking comics or computers.

W: I'm sorry, what?

MF: Brat.

W: oh, how I love this one, but I'd get it dirty in 2 seconds

MF: Um...OK.

W: and they have SHOES that MATCH!

MF: Seems like something that [my 6 year old daughter] would carry, but whatever floats your boat.

W: bitch, please, that purse is worth more than she is

MF: Well, I could see that for easter or something... Nice poofy dress. Pumps and white gloves. And a big easter bonnet.

W: in all seriousness, this is the one I would sleep with you for, in white. wow, I'm such a whore

MF: $450? Damn. Not sure you're worth it...

W: oh I'm totally not worth it, are you kidding?

MF: I think, $250 is more in my price range. Hey, how about a hand job for products already delivered?

W: you're hilarious

MF: (I don't think you should blog that last part...)

W: (Oh, I won't)

Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (3)

May 23, 2006

I Hate People

I really do. I hate them.

Just so you know, if I've ever had to share the road with you, or walked near you in a mall, I've sent glaring hate-rays your way.

People are basically rude and don't give a shit about anyone around them. I, on the other hand, was raised to use my "inside voice" and stay out of other peoples' way in public places. I don't tailgate, and I don't cut people off.

Does this make me a superior human being? Yes. Yes, it does.

Nicholle and I were shopping at Local Huge Upscale Mall, and hating on all the people while planning our All Pink Bachelorette Condo (for when our husbands have finally had it). I finally used the mongo gift certificate that my amazingly generous Head Boss gave me for Christmas and invested in $140 worth of grown-up skin care products from Sephora. (By God, they had better be good.)

[The gift certificate also bought him the privilege of me not not doing an entire blog about how he does all the homework for his 17 year old daughter, who does not, in fact, have Down's Syndrome.]

Then we went to Jimmy John's for a couple o' sammiches, and since JJ's is way popular and only has seating for eight, Nicholle and I went and sat on a nearby bench to snarf. When we got up to leave, I noticed that I was sans Sephora bag. NOT. GOOD.

We ran -- okay, we walked quickly, let's be honest -- to Jimmy John's, and I panted (hey, it was several yards away!) to the guys behind the corner, "Did anyone turn in a shopping bag?"

"A Sephora bag?"

"YES!"

Oh, my beloved toner pads! My cleanser! My exfolient! Don't scare Mommy like that!

PW: Wow, that was really nice of them. I guess this means I can't be hating people for at least a half an hour.

N: My faith in humanity has been momentarily restored.

PW: Hmmm... Mine may be compromised slightly by that pink velour jogging suit and, more specifically, the tanorexia it accentuates.

N: I love how her friend is wearing flats, as if the gauchos didn't make her legs look stubby enough.

PW: And what the fuck is with high schoolers carrying Coach purses?

N: Seriously. Who buys a $500 purse so their brat can carry around her driving permit and Bonnie Bell lip gloss? She's just gonna leave it in someone's back seat anyway.

PW: It's totally cute, too. I have no qualms about knocking her down, if you'll grab the purse and run.

N: So... I guess we're back to hating people.

PW: Yep.

N: That was quick.

Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (2)

May 17, 2006

Rodney Dangerfield, Move Over

This blog has a rating of NC-17

Inspired by my WBV post, a male friend of mine randomly IMed me with too much information on his wife's cooter, insisting that I'm going to have to take second place to her.

"It's like throwing a hotdog down a hallway," says he, ever the classy gent.

F: My wife's vagina is so large, once when she sneezed a watch I had lost two years earlier fell out.

PW: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

F: It's so large, it has it's own weather patterns.

PW: it's so large, it has other smaller vaginas orbiting it

F: When she opens her legs, I have to make sure that the door is open, otherwise the rush of air into it will pop my ears.

PW: OH MY: GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BWAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

F: She has yodlers hanging out, just for the echo effect.

PW: when she has an orgasm, she whistles

F: Bruce Springsteen once had five sold-out shows there.

PW: HAAA HA HA HA HA HA! you aren't making these up!

F: The Bears have contacted us about using it for a winter practice field.

PW: the pictures from the NASA probe haven't returned yet

F: LOL! Evel Knievel once wanted to jump it. (Only time someone wanted to jump it, matter of fact...)

PW: hee! the government wants to store nuclear waste there

F: Had a group of hobbits and elves come rushing out, crying, because someone got killed by a Balrog.

PW: HAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! you aren't making these up!

F: I am. Right of the top of my head. You've inspired me.

PW: Trump is trying to build a bigger one.

F: lol! FEMA is wanting to use it to house disaster refugees.

PW: man, I have to blog this

F: don't use my real name. Don't need your mom's opinion to drop on me.

PW: awww, but I gotta give you credit! besides, she's already numb to talk of vag

Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (4)

May 11, 2006

Deliver Me

Billi is currently pregnant with her third child, as you may have surmized from her comments recently. On Saturday, she goes in for the ultrasound where they find out the sex of the baby.

(The baby, by the way, is called Cashew because, when Billi told me she was pregnant, she said the baby was the size of a cashew. Cuuuuute!)

I'm all for this procedure because I want to start in with the Assigned Gender Roles as early as possible. If it's a girl, I'll help Billi paint the nursery pink, and I'll start buying frilly dresses. If it's a boy, green nursery and overalls.

I know I'm supposed to be all, "Oh, I don't care what sex it is. I just hope it's healthy with ten fingers and ten toes. Or eleven would be cool, too." But I am openly rooting for a girl. Girls are more fun to dress, and -- let's be honest -- the world just can't take another Boy Child.

PW: I'm so excited about Saturday! You have to call me on your way home from the ultrasound! Okay, you can call Mom and Brad's Mom first, but then you have to call ME!

B: Why don't you just come with us? It's really cool!

PW: What?! I can't come with to your ultrasound!

B: Why not? We're bringing the kids.

PW: Because that's, like, Sacred Beautiful Family Moment.

B: Oh, please. It's my third kid. You could be in the delivery room, for all I care.

PW: Okay, I'll come with!

B: Hey... do you wanna be in the delivery room?

PW: NO!!!

B: Why not?

PW: Again -- Sacred Beautiful Family Time.

B: No, it's not. I'm inviting the neighbors! Japanese tourists! Bring a picnic lunch!

PW: Dude. Seriously?

B: Yes!

PW: I don't think I could handle seeing you in all that pain.

B: I'm not in pain. I get an epidural!

PW: Yeah, but there must be some pain.

B: Nope. Don't feel a thing.

PW: You're just saying that to make me feel better.

B: I'm serious! I'm totally numb!

So I thought about it. I mean, since I refuse to reproduce myself, how many opportunities am I going to get to witness the miracle of birth? I would be pretty stupid to turn it down, right?

I decided to do a little research, so I went to www.YouTube.com and found a three minute video of a birth to watch.

By the two minute marker, I had to put my head down between my knees. I was praying, "Pleasedon'tletmefaint. Pleasedon'tletmefaint. Pleasedon'tletmefaint."

I quickly closed the YouTube window on my computer because I didn't want anyone discovering my prone body and looking up to see a placenta on my screen.

When I finally felt capable of standing up, I hurried to the bathroom, my face hot, the rest of my body shivering cold. I stayed there for about five minutes, pressing my forehead to the cool metal of the stall wall, until I was sure I wasn't gonna spew chunks.

I don't think I'm cut out for the miracle of birth. I'll just send a nice floral arrangement or something.

Posted at 01:26 PM | Comments (4)

May 08, 2006

Sibling Rivalry

This is the way it went down.

Nicholle's sister, Vicki, does these... voices. (Nicki and Vicki -- ain't that sweet? I'm pretty sure they did a banjo act together last year at the county fair.) She can achieve Robin-Williams-in-his-prime levels of funny voices without the aid of cocaine. Or an all-over body hair rug.

Nicki and Vicki were in the car (which, amazingly, was not a '56 Chevy with the muffler missing and a gunrack in the back), and Vicki had been doing her German Voice all day, when she decided to switch to her Retard Voice. (Blaire!)

N: Now combine the two!

V: What?

N: Do Retarded German!

V: I can't!

N: Why not? If you can do German and you can do Retarded, why can't you do Retarded German?

V: Why is nothing I do ever good enough for you?!

Posted at 02:15 PM | Comments (1)

May 05, 2006

A Post for Simpsons Nerds

Last October, I turned 36. This October, I'll turn 86. I take six different prescriptions a day. An oxygen tank and sensible hair-do can't be far off.

My friends, who are slightly younger than I, are also in rapid decline. (Well, as rapid as one can go with heel spurs.) Nicholle has some retinal tumor thing, and Heather may or may not have macular degeneration.

Today, Nicholle is getting her tumor ultrasounded to make sure it hasn't gotten any bigger, and Heather is going to see a specialist to get a definate answer on her potential white cane and Paris Hilton sunglasses (although I suspect she'll get an answer sooner or later anyway -- I'm just sayin').

Like a good friend, I was trying to cheer up Heather, via IM:

PW: hey, did I tell you that Nicholle has a retinal tumor?

H: you DIDN"T!

PW: you guys can learn braille together!

H: awesome!
H: or, we could just make you read outloud to us!

PW: HA!
PW: she's had it for a while. it doesn't get any bigger, it's tiny

H: is it a blind spot? how did the find it?

PW: it's a tiny spot, I guess
PW: no idea
PW: "And then I realized we were no longer little girls, we were Little Women."

H: HA!!!!!!!!!!

PW: "For she truly was. My. Friend. Flicka."

H: dude. peeing over here. with the laughing. you MUST cut-n-paste that for nicholle.

PW: it's from the Simpsons
PW: Moe reading to the homeless people

H: ha!
H: I'm impressed with teh converstaional relevance, more than the source, of course.
H: how Often do you get to use THAT quote in context?

PW: just this once!
PW: I'm so glad you're impressed
PW: I'll have to tell Ramone. He'll be impressed, too.

Ramone and I have this thing where we try to fit a Simpsons quote into every conversation. One time, I sang him the "Here come sammiches!" song that Flanders sang, and he didn't recognize it, so I totally won for, like, the whole month!

So I emailed it to him. This was his response:

"A perfectly cromulent reference. Well done!

Ramone

A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man."

Oh, dear Christ, we're losers.

And I just accidentally saw the wrinkled cleavage of one of my ancient, fat, bitchy co-workers. So now I'm going blind, too. Who will read to us? It'll have to be Joy the New Girl. She's the youngest person I know who knows how to read. Well, okay, besides Nephew, but it'd probably be inappropriate to have him reading V.C. Andrews.

Posted at 12:11 PM | Comments (5)

April 25, 2006

My Mom Is Gonna Crap

Did you know that the word cunt, which everyone thinks is so vulgar and heinous, is just an acronym? Calling a woman a cunt is a sure way to get your face slapped. And even niggas who will actually say the word nigga will call it "the C-word." And yet, it's as harmless as the word scuba.

Self-contained underwater breathing aparatus.

Can't understand normal thinking.

See? It's just a slang some guy thought he was clever to invent. Get it? 'Cuz women can't think normal? Get it? Oh, how clever!

Really, it's not a word to get upset about. It's a nonsense word. Except when Heather and I are together. Then, we are total cunts.

Seriously, we're completely intolerable when we're together. If I saw us, I would hate us and avoid us at all costs, but first I'd give us dirty looks. We regress and become like those really, really obnoxiously popular high school girls, except with bigger vocabularies for more biting insults. We're just awful.

It's like, normally, Heather and I are well-read, level-headed, diplomatic and witty. But for whatever reason (probably due to some karma from a past life), we try to out-do each other with who can crawl the farthest back into the primordial ooze. It's quite sad.

We went shopping on Saturday, for seven hours, in the swankiest shopping mall in the area. And after we finished one particularly scorching diatribe, during which we referenced Asians, the learning challenged, tan-orexics, dwarves, all foreigners, and anyone who wears tights, I had to call a spade a spade.

PW: Dude, we are total cunts.

H: No, we're not. We're Cuntacular!

PW: Hee! Cuntastic!

H: Cunterrific!

PW: Um... did we already say Cuntactular?

H: Yeah, we started with that one.

PW: Damn. ... Oh! Cunterful!!!

H: HA!

PW: I'm so blogging this.

H: Oh, man, your mom is gonna ground me!

Posted at 01:23 PM | Comments (2)

April 24, 2006

No One Is Safe!

Last night, I changed my Gene Marshall dolls into some warm-weather outfits. And whenever I do that, I call them to Husband's attention, and he humors me with a "very nice," and I'm happy.

But last night... last night was different.

"Yes, very nice," he said.

Then after a second glance, "Oh, those are nice!"

Then he fondled the white skirt of Picnic in the Country, "I love that texture!"

After a pause, he regained his composure and said, "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Posted at 02:39 PM | Comments (4)

April 14, 2006

A Good Day To Go To Hell

Marty and I had this conversation last week, via email:

M: Wanna do lunch next week? I'm free Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. Lemme know what works for you.

PW: Next Friday is good. Get it?

M: HAH! I wonder where we can go to get sour wine on a stick?

PW: Or ribs on a skewer?

M: Rack of Lamb of God?

PW: Or we can picnic -- I have a nice robe I can bring to sit on!

M: I'll bring the dice!

Posted at 01:12 PM | Comments (1)

March 30, 2006

Awkward!

Scene -- at the Walgreen's pharmacy, Wenchie is picking up a prescription for her allergies. A young man behind the counter is on the phone, looking at a computer screen.

Young Man: Says here, side effects include loss of sex drive, inability to get an erection, decreased interest in sex, and decrease in amount of ejaculate. ... No, the rest is just standard rash and itching, if you're allergic. ... Yeah, I would call you doctor about that. ... You're welcome. [hangs up the phone] Can I help you?

Wenchie: Well, I'm better off than that guy!

Posted at 07:48 AM | Comments (1)

March 06, 2006

Mom and Wenchie Review the Oscars

Lucky for you, we only watched the last fifteen minutes, so this review is very short. Like our attention spans. I've added links galore for those of you who live in a cave.

Mom: I didn't care for all the blond, pale girls in blond, pale gowns.

PW: Yeah, they need a trip to Old Navy, and a stop at the food court on the way.

Mom: I think Frances McDormand* looked hideous. I hope she did that for a coming-up role.

PW: Well, we can't all be Zandra Whatshername.

Mom: Felt sorry for Lauren Bacall. Shakey, but still a icon.

PW: Yeah, same with Stockard Channing. Oh, wait -- that was Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Mom: I have never seen Jon Stewart before, and he was MAVELOUS.

PW: Did you know that his news show is not really a serious news show?

Mom: Charlize's Black dress with Big Satin Bow was great.

PW: My Gene doll has a dress like that.

Mom: What the heck was "The Constant Gardener" about?

PW: No one knows. But I'm pretty sure it's not about gardening.

Mom: The best was Merle and Lili, doing their stand-up routine. They should put that on DVD.

PW: I think it's pronounced Meryl.

Mom: The Pimp song didn't do anything for me, but of course, I'm very mature.

PW: So is Laura Hutton. Damn. She's lookin' ridden hard and put away wet.

Mom: George Clooney is THE MAN.

PW: Are you transferring your obsession? Tom Cruise is going to be devastated!

Mom: I think Heath looked queer in his weird earring. Still loved the movie.

PW: Please tell me that lapel pin was a sword. And that's the end of my gay cowboy jokes. I promise.

[* I'd like to apologize for not finding a photo of Frances McDormand on the red carpet. You probably have no idea what my mother is talking about. Welcome to my world.]

Posted at 01:34 PM | Comments (3)

March 01, 2006

You Don't Sing Me Love Songs Anymore

I got flowers delivered to me today, which is always a big deal in an office, so I've had many people nosing around my desk.

Tom: Hey, what are the flowers for?

PW: 'Cuz I'm awesome in bed.

Tom: Oh. Who are they from?

* * * * *

Oh, and Minty Michelle My Belle, you were my 800th commenter a couple days ago -- ASK ME A QUESTION!

Posted at 02:05 PM | Comments (3)

February 16, 2006

I Hate Jack

There comes a time in everyone's life when they must decide who they are and what they stand for. When they stand at a crossroads and must decide to take the easy way, or the right way. When they must differentiate themselves from the rest of the pack.

I am Pirate Wench, and I hate Jack.

Jack from "LOST," that is.

Even if you don't watch the show, you may have heard of him. He's supposed to be the "dashing-yet-troubled hero," but really, he's just a smug, arrogant, narrow-minded FUCKTARD who thinks he's King of Craphole Island, and who doesn't share any information about himself or anything he's seen on the island with anyone, and yet he expects everyone to trust him and can't believe it when people don't want him to help them RUN THEIR LIVES!

*pant* *pant*

Sorry. I just really hate him.

Have I mentioned that I hate him? Cuz I really do. I yell at the screen whenever I watch "LOST." Husband can't even watch it with me anymore.

He's like, "Why do you watch this? It just makes you angry!"

And he does have a point. So last week, I watched "Bones" instead. Okay, "Bones" isn't exactly critically-acclaimed television. It hasn't won any awards. But it doesn't make me angry, and it has David Boreanaz who, I think I've mentioned, resembles my hot chiropractor.

It was a difficult decision, but I stand by it, and I know my real friends will understand and eventually come to accept my new lifestyle.

So I was IMing with Billi and trying to figure out when I would go visit Boy Child and Girl Child next.

Billi: You could come next Thursday and I could tape Lost the night before. If it's a new one that is. I still haven't watched last night's yet.

PW: Um, I'm giving up LOST
PW: it makes me too aggravated. seriously, I can't watch it
PW: altho' I'll still read the recaps
PW: but it's on the same time as "Bones" and that doesn't make me yell at the screen
PW: I know, I'm a freak and I"ll be the only person in America who doesn' twatch it
PW: I hope we can still be friends

Billi: .......oh...........my...........gosh.........

PW: I know
PW: I'm sorry!
PW: I just... I HATE JACK SO MUCH

Billi: you're............killing............me.....

PW: and seriously, no one talks to each other.
PW: it's drama based on non-communication, and it makes me mental

Billi: knife.....in...........my.........heart....

PW: ok, now you're scaring me
PW: I"M SO SORRY!

Billi: ....can't...........breath......

PW: oh, stop it!

Billi: .....i......hate.........you.........,you......traitor.......!

PW: serioulsy, Husband gets so mad at me, "Quit yelling at Jack! He can't hear you! Why do you watch this?!"

Billi: I'm going to go cry now.
Billi: Stop with the excuses.
Billi: You suck.

PW: I know. I KNOW!
PW: I'll watch it when Bones is a rerun!
PW: I just can't take it! I hate half the poeple on it!
PW: I only like, like, three people!
PW: Hurley, Sun and Claire!
PW: oh, and Eko

Billi: And Kim?

PW: don't hate me

Billi: and Locke?

PW: well, Locke was all outta character last week
PW: who's kim?

Billi: And Sawyer???
Billi: Isn't that Sun's husband's name?

PW: and sawyer is, apparently, a shithead this week (I read the recap)
PW: yeah, Kim is okay
PW: oh, and Rose

Billi: But Sawyer is yummy.

PW: but seriously, I had to make a decision, and I chose the show that doesn't make me enraged.

Billi: You still suck.

PW: I ttoally do. but I'll read the recaps so I still know what's going on. cuz the recaps don't enrage me
PW: if they didn't move Bones to the same time, I woudlnt/ have this problem!
PW: and they'l probably cancel it anyway, cuz I like it

Billi: GET FREAKIN' TIVO!!!!

PW: YOUR HUSBAND HAS TO COME OVER AND HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!
PW: you have to come early to Husband's party

Billi: Okay, I just heard Boy Child repeat a Larryboy video....
Billi: He said, "Fly my bushy minions, FLY!"

PW: OH MY GOD!
PW: THAT'S SO AWESOME!

Billi: I'm going to go watch Lost now, since I'm not a traitor.
Billi: Good-bye, Judas!
Billi: Are you guys home tonight?

PW: I'm home after 7:30.

Billi: okay. Bye!

PW: bye!

I just know she's planning an intervention.

Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (6)

January 27, 2006

I'm Old: Documented Proof

This morning's conversation:

Husband: I have two more meetings today. It's been all meetings, all week.

PW: That sucks. We have our annual off-site department planning meeting. We usually finish early, and Boss always sends me home instead of making me go back to the office.

H: Cool. I have a meeting at 1:00 in St. Charles, and I'm not going back into the city afterwards.

PW: Wait... We're both going to be home early on a Friday afternoon?

H: You know what that means!

PW: Yeah! Let's nap!!!

Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (3)

January 26, 2006

Power Down

This morning, I had to call the I.T. Help Desk.

ITHD: What.

PW: I can't get my Lotus Notes to open.

ITHD: Reboot.

PW: I did.

ITHD: Did you power down or just restart?

PW: Restart.

ITHD: Power down.

Moments later...

PW: It still won't open.

ITHD: You powered all the way down?

PW: Yes. Can you just send Doogie?

ITHD: He's out sick. Everybody's out today. I'll call Doogie at home.

PW: Tell him I changed my password yesterday, if that has anything to do with it.

ITHD: You changed your Lotus Notes password?!

PW: Yeah.

ITHD: I didn't know you could do that!

PW: Oh... Well, that's probably it then.

Posted at 02:01 PM | Comments (4)

January 23, 2006

F-E-E-D, F-E-E-D-I-N-G, F-E-D,

Husband arrived home the other night around 6:00, Daisy's usual dinner time, and I came up from the basement to greet him and chit-chat while he changed clothes.

H: So, how was your day?

PW: Enh. Boring.

Daisy: [sits at Husband's feet and bores holes through his skull with her stare]

H: Um, did you F-E-E-D Daisy?

Daisy: [freaks out and starts doing her pony-dance, which is where she keeps her back feet on the floor and hops on her front feet because I don't know it's just what she does]

PW: Dude! Does she know what you just said?

Daisy: [stops dancing and looks at me]

H: I don't know. Maybeeeeeee... we should F-E-E-D her?

Daisy: [runs into the kitchen where we keep her food]

PW: Did you teach the dog to spell? NO TEACHING THE DOG TO SPELL! If we don't keep her ignorant, how are we supposed to oppress her?!

The next night, similar setting.

H:: Has Daisy been F-E-D?

Daisy: [stares blankly at the blank wall]

PW: No. And thank God she hasn't learned to conjugate.

H: Yeah, she starts conjugating verbs, and we're gonna have to put her to sleep.

Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (3)

November 28, 2005

I Put the $ in Chri$tma$

Here's Husband and I, Christmas shopping for The Girl Child:

H: Ooooh, here's a kit where she can uncover bones and pretend she's an archeologist!

PW: Omigod, they have the CUTEST Hello Kitty! shirts!

H: What about this keyboard? It teaches them to read music!

PW: I wonder what size shoes she wears now...

H: Hey, she can design build her own rollercoaster!

PW: Look -- sparkley!

Husband is all about the teaching and crafting and nurturing, and I'm just all about the bling.

I think it's clear who is the better influence here.

...

I meant me, idiots.

Posted at 01:49 PM | Comments (2)

November 11, 2005

Two Conversations, One Smart Secretary

Head Boss: Could you make me a folder called Avian Bird Flu?

Pirate Wench: You know that's redundant, right?

HB: What?

PW: Avian bird.

HB: ...

PW: Avian means bird.

HB: No it doesn't. I once dated a girl who worked at a zoo.

PW: An aviary is where birds live. An aviator is someone who flies, like a bird.

HB: Oh. You're so smart!

So of COURSE, I had to relay this to Heather (via IM). My main motive being, to crack her up. My hidden motive being, to prove to her that, although I need her to proofread my blog every day, I still know stuff about things. THINGS!!!!!!!!!

H: i dated a girl who worked at a zoo?

PW: I know, that's like, "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on t.v."

H: i know!

PW: I'm married to a landscape architect, but I can't remember to water a fecking plant

H: I dated a cop, but that doesn't mean I know what to do at a traffic stop

PW: I dated a clown, but that doesn't mean I've killed people!

Posted at 10:51 AM | Comments (5)

November 08, 2005

It's a Small World After All

After five years of promising to do so, Head Boss FINALLY hired an assistant for Chick Boss. I guess I will call her Asst. Chick Boss.

Now the women outnumber the men in our department (one step closer to my World Domination Vision...), so we toasted our majority at a local eatery.

We talked about what we did over the weekend, and Asst. Chick Boss said that she went to hear her sister's husband's band play.

ACB: He grew up in P.R., so sometimes they play around here, and when they do, I like to go hear them.

PW: He grew up in P.R.? So did I! What's his name? I might know his family.

ACB: Kenneally.

PW: Holy crap. First name?

ACB: Matt.

PW: SHUT! UP!

ACB: Do you know him?

PW: Yeah, I only went to kingergarten through senior year with him!

Actually, Billi knew him better than I did, as she dated one of his friends and they hung-out. In fact, I seem to recall that Billi and I took Matt and a different friend to our cousin's wedding because e knew they'd actually dance with us (an endeavor most men won't even attempt), and neither of us had a boyfriend at the time anyway.

And I'm pretty sure I was wearing a tunic-length sweater over a mini-skirt and cream-colored tights. So yeah, that's how long ago THAT was.

So I asked how he's doing, and what he's doing, and she's all, "Yeah yeah yeah -- have your sister give me some dirt on him!"

Oh man. That's so mean. I knew him in high school. No one should have to answer for their high school crap when they're in their thirties. I know I wouldn't want to!

Instead, I think I'll just see if Billi wants to come with Asst. Chick Boss and I, next time they play around here. If you're in the area, check out 750 South State. I think Matt plays the banjo or something.

Posted at 01:38 PM | Comments (3)

September 28, 2005

Earning Myself More Weird Looks

So my Hott Boss comes up to my desk.

Hott Boss: Hey, do you have like... you know... some, um...

Me: Tampons? Condoms? What?

HB: No! Some, like... breath refreshment?

Me: You mean, like a stick of gum?

HB: Yeah! That'd be great! I have a meeting with [the president of the company].

Me: Aaaaaaaaand... you're going to make-out with him?

HB: No! Gross!

(pause)

HB: Hey, how come, when two chicks make-out, it's something everyone wants to see. But when two guys do it, it's gross?

Me: Because women were designed to be beautiful to look at, so when there's two, it's just twice as beautiful. Whereas men were designed to be utilitarian and practical, so more of them is just... blah.

HB: Leave it to you to have an answer like that.

Me: Hey! You asked!

HB: I know.

Me: And I'm totally right.

HB: You are.

Me: Actually, it depends on which two guys it is...

Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (3)

September 15, 2005

Much Ado About VAGINA

If you're squeamish, seriously, don't read this. Do us all a favor. Mom, this means you. You, too, Anne.

So, this is a conversation I had recently with my friend, whom I will refer to as X, for reasons that should be clear from the title:

PW: When do you wanna meet at the mall?

X: I have an appointment to see my gyne at 9:45, so I'll call you when I'm done.

PW: Oh, fun.

X: Yeah, I've been bleeding the past two nights after having sex. And it's not time for my period, so I'm kinda freaked out.

PW: You had sex two nights in a row?!

X: Yeah.

PW: What are you -- a machine?!

X: Well, we were on vacation with all our friends and didn't have sex for, like, a week.

PW: Gee, a whole week, huh? Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?!

X: We had to make up for lost time!

PW: Whatever.

X: The nurse on the phone said it's probably just a simple infection.

PW: Were you swimming? I swear, I get some kind of infection every damn time I go in a public pool. I don't care how much chlorine they use -- those things are like petrie dishes.

X: No, I wasn't swimming... I'm trying to think of where my cooter has been, but it's only been in my undies and with [X's husband].

PW: Well, that's good to hear. I thought maybe you were a hooker, what with all the HAVING SEX TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW!!!

(Disclaimer: X's cooter is now fine, so, although I may be disgusting and completely void of compassion, as least I'm not inviting bad karma by posting this.)

Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (6)

August 07, 2005

Wenchie Dispenses Sage Advice

So I'm at one of Husband's Ex's family's parties,...

[Which sounds weird, I know, but Husband is still really close with all of them, so I go.]

...and the Ex's 25 year old niece, who has looooooong manicured fingernails and has never before initiated a conversation with me, comes up to me and says, "Oh, Wenchie, you'll know what to do! I have a question."

And my little heart swells with joy and I think, Hey, she needs some advice, and she's turning to ME! This is my chance to really make a difference in the world!

And she goes, "I have this cut inside my nose, and it really hurts! What should I do?"

Mmm hmm.

So I asked, "Why would I know what to do?"

She goes, "Well... cuz... you know... you're old, and you've learned stuff."

Mmm hmm.

So I said, "Use a Q-tip and put some Vaseline up there."

I may be old, but at least I know not enough to cut my nails before I pick my nose, for Pete's sake!

Posted at 08:28 PM | Comments (1)

August 02, 2005

'Cause...!!!

It's my Hott Boss' birthday, so I made his favorite cookies for him -- Snickerdoodles. He was scarfing them down and offering one to everyone who walked by his cube. So I IMed him. (Yeah, I installed AOL IM on his computer specifically so I could annoy his cocky ass with as little effort as possible on my part.)

PW: Dude, you don't have to make sure they're all eaten TODAY.
HB: yes i do
PW: Um... why?
HB: cause
PW: You're like a petulant teenager with the monosyllabic answers.
HB: so

seriously... he should have a Xanga account cuz he types like a high school freshman!!!! ; P

Posted at 12:14 PM | Comments (2)

July 26, 2005

Pudding Pioneers

It rained for ten minutes in our little town last night. So, of course, there was a city-wide power outage.

But Husband and I were well-prepared. I, with my vast array of scented candles. And he, with his uncanny ability to avoid closing anything, ever, thereby letting all the cool air stampede out of the house before I noticed that the garage door was open and shredded his torso with my cutlass.

The tiny candle flames flickered warmly. We could see the stars through our kitchen skylight. Crickets chirped outside. We were naked and sweating.

I said, "I feel like the pioneers!"

"You're eating fat-free pudding-in-a-cup, and I'm reading the IKEA catalogue with a flashlight."

"What? You mean this isn't how the West was settled?"

Posted at 08:20 AM | Comments (4)

July 21, 2005

Ugh, There's That Word Again

PW: I can't believe I've had NO time to blog today!
PW: what the fuck is up with that?!
Heather: seriously, somethings' wrong!
H: in the world!
PW: I KNOW!
PW: and I have to leave at 3:30 to spread the vag for the gyne
H: I LOVE speculums! let's all sing a song to the pap smear!
PW: oh, open my vag with a torque wrench!
PW: and take a peek inside!
H: scrape my cervix with a sharp pointy phalanx!
PW: (that doesn't exactly go with my rhyme scheme, but it made me spit root beer, so I'll allow it)
H: (ok, that didn't make sense. what rhymes with cervix?)
PW: (no, we're rhyming "inside")
PW: I'll spread my legs real wiiiiiiiiiiiide!
H: ha!

And as I sat laughing my uterus off at my desk, Hot Boss comes up...

"You're laughing pretty loudly over here. What's so funny?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"It's dirty."
"Well, now you have to tell me."
"I can't. It involves The V Word, and I can't say The V Word to my boss."
"The V Word."
"Yup."
"THEE V Word?"
"Yup."
"You're right -- don't say it to me."

Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (3)

June 21, 2005

Recommended Reading

To those of you not reading the Television Without Pity recaps of the UPN vomit-fest Britney & Kevin: Chaotic -- you're missing out on some fabulous writing. For the love of all that's holy, don't actually watch the show, but Stee's recaps are SO worth a read. He takes lemons and makes lemonade, lemon bars, lemon merringue pie and lemon-pepper chicken. (I really shouldn't blog before breakfast.)

Actually, I'm kinda bummed that I missed the last episode, which featured the Spears/Federline "wedding" and the video to Britney's new song "Someday," which is, apparently, about her baby, even tho' she didn't know she was pregnant when she "wrote" it.

And I put "wedding" and "wrote" in quotes, not because I wish anything but unicorns and gumdrops for Britney, but because I doubt the validity of anyone's actions when they've been huffing on whipped cream cans for 37 hours straight.

Here's a quote from the recap:

K-Fed looks over to see that Boobney is crying and she tries to play it off, but it's sad because she's clearly embarrassed by DrunkDad and also, somewhere in the back of her brain is the thought -- which never makes it to consciousness, but it's still there -- that says, "Goddamn, we could not be more ghetto right now, discussing our wedding in front of TV cameras while chomping loudly on gum like cows. Or DMV employees."

See? Brilliant.

Nicholle is a fan, too. Of the recaps, not the show.

N: What do you think she's gonna name it?
PW: Something with two names, like Bobby Ray or Billi Jean or Tammy Sue
N: K-Fed
PW: J-Fed for Junior Federline
N: Meth Head
PW: M-Head
PW: Crystal Meth Spears Federline! It's perfect! Crystie-M for short!
N: I love it - Crystal is one of those fab low-income names like Misty
PW: sure to make her a lounge singer, porn star or pole dancer. Or all three!
PW: Like her mother!

Posted at 08:15 AM | Comments (2)

May 10, 2005

Grocery Shopping with Anne and her Mom

Anne: Why is there no Star Wars Cereal here?
Mom: What is that? [points to a box with R2D2]
Anne: Star Wars Crispix.
Mom: Well, what is that? [points to a box with Anakin Skywalker]
Anne: Star Wars Corn Flakes.
Mom: Then what is Star Wars Cereal?
Anne: It’s Star Wars Cereal!
Mom: Oooh! Look at this. [picks up a box of Star Wars Froot Loops cereal bars]
Anne: Mom. I couldn’t eat Froot Loops when I was five.
Mom: But you can send away for a Star Wars Darth Vader cookie jar!
Anne: Because we need a Star Wars cookie jar? We aren’t going to eat Froot Loops cereal bars!
Mom: [puts the box in the cart] If you don’t be quiet, I will give the cookie jar to your brother.
Anne: You were going to do that anyway.

Posted at 11:19 AM | Comments (1)

May 02, 2005

Table for Two in Hell

My friend Marty's brother was in the hospital briefly. And being the Boy Scout that he is, he spent lots of time there, even just sitting and reading while his brother slept. Awwwwwww, dear, sweet Marty. Right?

Think again.

We had this conversation via email/pager-mail:

Marty: I’m such a bad grandson. My grandmother came to visit my brother, and I’m mad because I can’t read my book.

Me: You’re going to burn in hell, so enjoy your book while you can.

Marty: I love your outlook on life. It's so refreshing. And to make matters worse, she gave me $20 when she left.

Me: Now you can buy another book.

Posted at 08:45 AM | Comments (1)

April 19, 2005

Cookies Are an Always Food

Me: I HAVE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DOUGH IN MY REFRIGERATOR RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT!!!

Anne: Cookies are a sometimes food.

Me: What’s a “sometimes food?”

Anne: Did you not hear that Sesame Street is making Cookie Monster eat healthy things? His new song (which is actually being protested by people) is "Cookies Are a Sometimes Food."

Me: THAT'S JUST SO WRONG! The whole POINT of Cookie Monster is his unabashed gluttony! Kids can relate to him, so they don't mind when he starts talking about the alphabet and shit! AAAAACK! They're messing with the icons of my childhood!

Anne: Yeah, I think that they are missing the point. Four-year old Anne did not think that Cookie Monster was correct, or even normal, to eat cookies all the time. She thought he was funny, so she paid attention. I didn’t develop bad eating habits until high school.

Me: Exactly. At FOUR, we were smart enough to know that Cookie Monster was NOT a role model. More of the dumbing-down of America. Also, for the record, I was never dumb enough to have Barbie for a role model, either. She had way too many clothes, didn't have a job, and slept around a lot. Wait... where was I going with this?

Anne: They get points for trying something. But if I were going to do nutrition, I’d use Bert and Ernie.

Me: Yeah, gay guys are WAY more into body fitness.

Posted at 01:03 PM | Comments (1)

March 22, 2005

An Intellectual Discussion

After my St. Patrick's Day post, Anne emailed me and started arguing about the validity of the claim that the Irish are special, citing historical blahbity bleeh blah bloh. And I played along for a bit, but mostly, I just wanted to be annoyed and leave it at that.

And Anne was like, "Oh. I thought you wanted to have an intellectual discussion."

And now you're wondering why the hell she would think that's even possible with me. And normally, I'd call you all asshats,... except that you're absolutely right. She's insane for thinking I'd rather have a well-thought-out discourse than just be pissy.

But that's why I love Anne. She continues to give me the benefit of the doubt, no matter how often I prove I'm an idiot.

So here's what we chose to debate at length instead: frosting.

Me: So. Sunday is [older sister's] birthday, and I'm making her cake. We always do angel food cake with chocolate frosting.

Anne: That's a really heavy frosting for angel food cake.

Me: I know. Most people do fruit or glaze, but we're freaks. Anyway, I'm excited because, instead of struggling to make one tub of frosting cover the whole cake, I just bought two tubs!

Anne: Yeah, I would imagine that would be hard. Can't you just buy one tub and thin it or something?

Me: Well, then it would be runny and not set up and bleh.

Anne: Hmm. I suppose you could whip it with some marshmallow fluff...

Me: Oooh! Then I'd have TWO jars to lick!

Anne: ... but that would alter the taste too much. What about the whipped frosting? It's more spreadable.

Me: I hate that whipped frosting. I mean, they're whipping air into the frosting, so you get less frosting, but you're still paying the same amount! It's a rip-off!

Anne: See, I have a whole other attitude about the whipped stuff. It's the same tub of frosting, but with less fat and calories.

Me: It's an interesting approach, but I just can't get behind it. It's the principle, dammit!

Anne: Well, you could always just buy one tub of the regular frosting, then whip it yourself.

And that's when it dawned on me -- Anne is a goddamn GENIUS.

Posted at 01:15 PM | Comments (0)

February 16, 2005

How Come You Never See P. Diddy and Puff Daddy Photographed Together?

Snippet of Wednesday morning conversation between Nicholle, S (the balding, bespectacled, 40-something, white accountant) and I, about a Mardi Gras party:

N: Neither of my sisters-in-law need to wear a bra. They're like 4 year olds. They're not getting on video.

Me: P. Diddy is not coming to see them.

N: No.

Me: Or is it Coolio? Who's the guy on the "Girls Gone Wild" videos?

N: I don't know.

Me: Is it Puff Daddy?

N: Um, P. Diddy and Puff Daddy are the same person.

Me: Really? Oh. Hey, S, who's the guy on the "Girls Gone Wild" videos?

S: Snoop Dog.

Me: See? I knew he would know. I get them all confused.

S: Geez, Snoop Dog and P. Diddy are, like, on total opposite sides of the spectrum!

Me: Hey, they both rap, and that's all I know.

S: Snoop is awesome. He's the shnizzle.

Oh, my God, he said shnizzle. Yeah, there was no more conversation after that because none of us could stop laughing. It's ironic how something so sad can be so funny.

Posted at 04:17 PM | Comments (1)

January 05, 2005

DORK ALERT!

I totally wore my snow boots today. Proof that I'm old and no longer cool (if I ever was). But you know what? I'm glad I have no delusions of coolness, because my feet are warm and dry, and that, my friends, is kewl. Especially since the rest of me is cold and moist from cleaning off my truck.

Now here's the part where I curse Husband for being such an unorganized packrat that we can barely walk in our one-and-a-half-car garage, let alone park a car in there!

You $*@& stoopid &~*#^@$ #%*! son of a %?#*^©< what the $&*% #@*¥% !&~%£+@ garage?!?!

Phew! Just had to get that off my chest. It's already pretty crowded there. Ha ha ha ha!

Anyhoo.

In honor of Chicago's first real snow-that-will-actually-stick of the season, I bring you this utterly pointless I.M. duet between me and a co-worker:

Tom: Oh the weather outside is frightful...
Me: But the fire is so delightful!
Tom: Ha ha ha ha!
Tom: Stop it!!!!!!!!!!
Me: And since we've no place to go!
Me: Let it snow!
Me: Let it snow!
Tom: Let it snow!
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Me: Oh, it doesn't show signs of stopping,
Tom: Oh, it doesn't show signs of stopping.
Tom: You beat me!
Me: Ach! I had to spit my water out!
Tom: HA!!!
Me: And I brought some corn for popping!
Me: And your wife is a total ho!
Me: Let it snow!
Tom: Ha ha ha ha ha!
Me: Let it snow
Me: Let it snow!
Tom: That's not right!
Me: I can't stop laughing!
Tom: It's something about turning the lights way down low!
Me: The lights are turned way down low!
Tom: Yeah!
Me: I got a visit from my Aunt Flo!
Me: Let it snow!
Tom: HA HA HA!
Me: When we finally say goodnight,
Me: How I'll hate going out in the storm!
Tom: But if you really hold me tight!
Tom: All the way home I'll be sweaty!
Me: Ewwwwwwww!
Me: That doesn't rhyme!
Tom: All the way home I will moan!
Me: QUIT IT!
Me: Oh, the fire is slowly dying,
Tom: blaaah, blah-blah, good-bying!
Me: You've had too much eggnog.
Tom: Woo hoo!
Me: And my dear, we're still good-bying.
Tom: As long as you love me so,...
Me: So I'll give you the ol' heave-ho!
Me: Let it snow!
Me: Let it snow!
Me: Big finish...
Me: Let it snoooooooooooowwwwwww!
Tom: Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Posted at 02:11 PM | Comments (0)

December 14, 2004

The Best Book Report EVER

I was totally swamped at work, and yet Heather taunted me, via AOL IM. By the way, if anyone from work happens upon this, Heather is 100% responsible for introducing me to blogging -- both writing and reading -- and basically for 99% of all my wasted time. So there.

I edited our spelling and grammar, so it doesn't read like chimps were pounding on the keyboard. Although, admittedly, chimps would be funnier.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Me: Crap. I totally forgot about an article I have to write for the company newsletter.

H: Ooh! Is it a gossip column? A who's who of the accounting dept? An expose on the bathroom bandits? I bet that means you don't have time to watch THIS MOVIE, then. Which is awesome and has pirates in.

[See? Heather may seem adorable, but she's really a crack pusher. And I'm her whore.]

Me: An article on the Brokers' Conf. in Sept. that I have since blocked from my memory as a defense mechanism.

H: Wise. Be sure to use the phrase "pure awesome" at least once, will you? Because, seriously.

Me: This movie is fucking awesome.

H: I thought you'd like it. It has renewed my joy in the word "awesome," too.

Me: Hey! Ninjas! Pirates AND ninjas!

H: I KNOW! And mysterious African women.

Me: "Yeah right!"

H: Hee. The delivery of that is awesome. See? I can't stop saying awesome.

Me: Ohmigod. Flight of the Valkaries.

H: Totally.

Me: Um, ninja with an uzi?

H: Well, it was ancient China, after all.

Me: This guy was so stoned.

H: Totally.

[She can't stop saying "totally," either, apparently.]

Me: And 7 years old.

H: LOVE that.

Me: I like the gay house music. Where are the disco guys from SNL?

H: Um, isn't all house music gay?

Me: No, like, house music you'd hear in a gay bar.

H: I know.

Me: Christ, this thing never ends.

H: I know, it's the longest book report ever.

Me: Nah, I've written longer. So smug that I actually read the whole book.

H: Got me. I hated writing book reports. I figure, if you haven't read it yourself, you don't deserve to know what it's about.

Me: Yeah, cuz I'm sure the teachers were like, "I wonder what this book is like? I'll have the kids read it, and based on their book reports, decide whether or not to read it myself."

H: Hee.

Me: Gregory Peck is hot, and I would totally read the book that this movie was based on.

H: Totally hot.

Me: "Chariots of Fire." Dig it.

[I'm pretty sure that I am the only one who finds all this funny. Because, you know, in the context of writing code and filing umbrella quotes, IMing like this is... totally awesome.]

Posted at 12:22 PM | Comments (0)

December 01, 2004

Heather & I Attempt a Movie Review... and Suck

"NATIONAL TREASURE" SPOILER ALERT! Don't read this if you have not yet seen the movie and would eventually like to.

Me: saw "National Treasure" last night! It was cool!

Heather: FINALLY! I liked it, too! but I confess, when they went to Urban Outfitters I'm all "that's $600 for two outfits, at least...did they buy shoes? how much did that old guy have in his bible, anyway?"

Me: I loved N. Cage's random in-case-we-die kiss.

Heather: that was sweet.

Me: I could totally see dropping $600 for two outfits, including the shoes

Heather: esp. there. but I'm just thinking, why not go to Gap and save the cash for their upcoming plane/train/automobiling? because I'm a nerd.

Me: or Target

Heather: exactly.

Me: product placement, that's why!

Heather: i KNOW. but still. LOVED the crypt

Me: dude, I would totally have been crying if that treasure was real

Heather: seriously.

Me: fuck the gold -- think of the LOST HISTORY AND KNOWLEDGE!!!

Heather: riight.

Me: I totally would have read every damn thing before turning it over to "the world." and maybe kept one little souvenir

Heather: well, me too. and: why can't you keep whatever you want? you FOUND it! and, every adolescent knows: finders keepers!

Me: well, yeah, but I totally have to agree that it belongs to the world. eventually. when I'm done rolling in it.

Heather: exactly. but still, it's presumptuous of the world to just EXPECT my booty. especially after the pirates worked so hard to hoard it FROM the world in the first place.

Me: the world is SO irrational. that's just SO like them. "It's our history! Give it back to us! Blah blah blah."

Heather: seriously.

Me: And dude could afford that car, but not stickshift lessons?

Heather: Mr. Nerdy McChinpubes is SO getting the pussy NOW!

Me: Are all White House staffers as hot as Ms. Chase, and the cast of West Wing?

Heather: um. who what where?

Me: the chick in the movie. too hot to be that smart. Cuz Claudia Shiffer is all "I collect antique campaign pins!"

Heather: oh. right! says the lady with the boobies and the pretty pretty hair.

Me: I couldn't have fit my THIGH in that dress.

Heather: me neither. but I hated her dress. thought it looked all ugly and stuff. and oh my god that campaign pin thing was awesome.

Me: Gates is totally sleeping with her just to get his pin back.

Heather: well obviously. that thing's Rare!

Me: Then he's all "See ya Little Miss Bigfoot Stole It!"

Heather: hee. I loved how they didn't know that lemon juice and warmth = invisible ink.

Me: I loved Gates' "Do you trust me?" homage to "Aladdin"

Heather: I don't remember aladdin..but I trust you on that quote.

Me: and I love how the Dad is like, "My FORTY year old son must need abortion money" or something. and she's all "Do I look pregnant?!" Which is EXACTLY any woman's reaction!

Heather: well, in that dress, she TOTALLY looked pregnant.

Me: saucer of milk?

Heather: but, yeah, you're right! but then again, ANY fiacial expresion after that statement would be interpreted as "I look pregnant?" hee. no, seriously. I hate empire waist/crinoline combinations.

Me: was it empire? I thought it looked drop-waist?

Heather: if it were drop waist, I'd totally Love the dress.

Me: by the way, we're the best movie reviewers EVER!!!

Heather: because we're gay?

Me: precisely

Heather: I swear, we should get a show. an online webcast of "puss in boots movie reviews"

Me: yeah. we're totally awesome.

Heather: oh, btw. could you just imagine the horror in the makeup lady's eyes when she gets to the part in the script where it reads "he runs to the edge of the boat, and jumps over the side into the bay"

Me: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Heather: I can just see the wheels turning "how do we get the toupee to stay on.... through that? I didn't sign on for this - someone call my agent!"

Me: I'm sure the stunt man had a lush head of hair, just for that reason

Posted at 10:37 AM | Comments (0)