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 (6)

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 |