September 29, 2008

A Sympathy Card

Dear Mom,

I was so surprised to hear of Paul Newman's untimely death last week, and I immediately thought of you. I know that your heart was always with him, even when he was far away (which was always), and that your love for him remains constant, even now.

I am so sorry for your loss. Remember that I am thinking of you and praying that God gives you the courage needed to face the coming years without him.

I know that you and Paul will find each other in heaven one day. Because Dad sure as hell won't be there.

Love Always,
Wenchie

Posted at 05:15 PM | Comments (1)

August 29, 2008

Dad's Pole

I haven't blogged about my Dad much, except in passing. Mainly because he rarely says anything funny. Well, it's funny to him, but... you know. He's Norwegian, plus he's been gradually going deaf for the past twenty years, so he doesn't say much at all, giving me very little material to work with.

I'm having a garage sale next weekend, and I have TONS of clothes to sell. Actually, they're Jerry's mom's clothes, but I have to find some way to display them. I figured -- two ladders, a pole. Simple.

Now where to find a pole? A standard broom just won't be long enough. I need, like, a ten foot pole. My Dad has every other unlikely item in the world stored in that house, much to my Mom's chagrin, so I emailed him.

(I'm sure it seems impersonal to email one's father, but really, why call a person who can't hear? It's like a Helen Keller joke. Like the talking Grandpa Simpson card that Billi got Dad for his birthday. There's Dad, holding it up to his ear, straining to make out what Grandpa is saying. So ironic. So hilarious on so many levels. That Billi is one sick puppy.)

Dad, Do you have a long pole, such as one might put between two ladders to hang clothes on? Wenchie

I got an email back.

Wenchie, Yes. It's a sixteen foot pole. Daddy

WHAT?! A sixteen foot pole? Who the hell has a pole that long just lying around?! And more than that -- where the hell is he storing the thing?! He's never had a garage sale, so what does he use it for???

So many questions. That will forever go unanswered. Because he can't hear them.

COOL! I'll come get it Saturday a.m.

Wait a minute. How am I going to transport a sixteen foot pole? My entire car isn't sixteen feet long. Thank God they only live six blocks away. I'll be driving with my flashers on, I'm sure.

And this pole is, by far, the most normal weird item my Dad has. When they moved, we had to do several carloads under cover of darkness because we moved:

1. an entire suit of armor

2. a rifle rack and rifles

3. a collection of various spears

4. same, of swords

5. a giant ax, such as one would use at a beheadding.

6. two cannons

Why two cannons, you ask? BECAUSE CLEARLY ONE ISN'T ENOUGH!!! DUH!!!

He didn't want the new neighbors thinking they were weird. Newflash, Dad. No one thinks that Mom is weird...

Posted at 08:13 AM | Comments (4)

August 11, 2008

Toe vs. Ass: The Age-Old Debate

To be a diva, one must know how to make a fabulous entrance. I, however, am a diva of a different sort. I enjoy a show-stopping exit. In short, I know how to clear a room, and I don't even need to use flatulance.

Some of my family were here Saturday night, saying their final farewells to my Norwegian cousins, who had been staying in the Chicago area for three weeks. They returned to Oslo yesterday evening. And you know, I'm quite disappointed that they didn't inspire any good blogs, but they're so cool, I just can't find anything to mock them about.

Anyhoo, we were sitting in the kitchen -- me, Husband, Mom, Dad, Spikette, Nephew, Ivar, Per and Mai. Stella and Daisy were underfoot, also, because Stella is madly in love with Per, and Daisy was hoping there'd be food.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Stella was licking my Dad's toes. He was wearing sandals. He was also wearing a short-sleeved, button-up shirt over his wife-beater. This proves that my cousins rate WAAAAAAAAAY higher than the rest of us because Dad's usual uniform is as follows: wife-beater, armpit hair, Levi's that somehow stay up desite his complete lack of buttocks, 25-year old loafers that are largely held together with duct tape.

When my Dad dresses up for holidays, he wears a polo shirt without a stain on it. When he dies, we're going to have to go shopping because nothing he currently owns is fit to wear in a coffin. My mother often complains because Dad doesn't like to go out and do things, but I can understand his reluctance. It hurts getting pelted with all that change.

So where were we? Ah, yes -- Stella was licking my Dad's toes. Have you ever seen 74-year old toenails? They're not pretty. Yellow, thick, ridged, UCK. And my sweet, adorable, angel-puppy was licking them!!! With enthusiasm!!!

You now know the meaning of the word: ABOMINATION.

I started freaking out, "Oh my God, Stella, what are you doing?! Don't lick Grandpa's toes! Lookit them! They can't possibly taste good! They're old-man-toes, for God's sake! What are you thinking?!"

Ever the annoyingly-calm foil to my great diva dramatics, Husband tried to give me some perspective, "Honey, she licks her butt."

I pointed to the black dog and loudly said, "I would rather lick Stella's butt," I pointed to Dad's feet, "Than that man's toes!"

The party broke-up immediately upon my announcement.

Can't think why.

Posted at 08:16 AM | Comments (1)

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)

July 22, 2008

Wallpaper of the Damned

We were going through old family photos the other day, when we came across these gems, and I knew I had to share them with you guys.

We're going way back in ancient history here, folks. The house I grew up in was a big, old, woodframe house built around the turn of the century. (The 1900 one, not the 2000 one.) High ceilings, hardwood floors, big windows, big closets, french doors, separate stairs for the maid -- fabulous.

The one drawback was that the walls were a little... well..., they were plaster walls, and there was settling, so painting them would only enhance the imperfections. The only option was to wallpaper each and every room in our two-story, four-bedroom, nine-foot-ceilinged house. I can't believe my parents' marriage withstood it.

I present to you now -- The Bedroom Wallpapers of My Childhood.

Let's start will Billi.

(How cute is she in those pigtails?!)

I don't know if you can tell, but that's green and yellow Holly Hobby wallpaper. Or as Billi said it, "Geen and lellow."

I don't know why she got a chairrail in her room. I didn't get a chairrail. Damn, spoiled youngest child. I also don't know what the hell that huge bookcase was doing in her room. I mean, she couldn't read. What was she going to put on it? Oh, that's right -- the thousands and thousands of stuffed animals that were showered upon the youngest child.

I am so sick of her. Let's move on.

Purple shag rug!

This is clearly the most tan that Spikette has ever been in her life. I love the knee socks -- hott! But mostly I'm glad that, by this age, Mom had stopped cutting Spikette's bangs herself. That poor girl has the most unfortunate collection of school pictures. "Oh, just let me trim your bangs so we can see your eyes in your picture!" Ruuuuuuuun, Forest! Ruuuuuuuuun!

That wallpaper is so truly disco. And yes, her bedspread is purple velvet. What -- you didn't know Spikette was a porn star in the late 70s?

Awwwwwwww, lookit that adorable, little imp. It's baby Wenchie! I remember that outfit. And that hair -- gah! I am rocking those Mickey Mouse sneakers. God, they're filthy. Must've been one of those articles of clothing that I developed an unhealthy attachment to and wore until they fell off me. Like the olive green, paisley pants.

Anyhoo, yes, those are pastel, gingham flowers on my bubble gum pink wallpaper. (Matching pink, gingham curtains not shown.) What I wouldn't give to still have that pink, chenille bedspread!

You will notice the railing attached to the side of the bed. That's so I wouldn't fall out of bed. Now, if you're thinking that I look a little old to still be falling out of bed, bear in mind that, to this day, I can trip on a bare floor and fall over while standing completely still. Grace, thy name is Wenchie.

Know where my incredibly-ornate-for-a-child's-room headboard came from? The dump on Washington Island, Wisconsin. It's brass and wrought iron, and it was painted some horrible color when my Dad found it. So he fixed it up and put it in the bedroom of a five-year old girl. Weird, huh? Well, I gotta cut him some slack -- Target and IKEA didn't exist back then.

What I really hated in that room was the radiator. See it dominating the background like a cast iron monster waiting to pounce? That damn thing was the bane of my childhood existance. For whatever reason, all the air that got into the system collected in that radiator, which means that the hot water was not in the radiator. We had to drain the air out of it several times a day, and it still got freezing cold! Thirty years later, I'm still not warm.

Not pictured is the sprawling Barbie commune that took up one half of my very big bedroom from age four to age fourteen. Ocassionally, the Barbies would load up the camper and drive over to Billi's room, but Holly Hobby hated those bitches, so the camping trips were often cut short.

Posted at 09:19 AM | Comments (3)

July 09, 2008

The Spare's New Kink

People say that I most closely resemble my father. The list of traits that I have inherited from him include:

1. My hair, both in color and texture.
2. My height.
3. My shoulders.
4. My uncanny ability to sweat through any set of clothes in under 3 minutes.

However, there are also many things about me that were passed down through my mother:

1. My ample bosom (God bless ya, Mom!).
2. My excellent hostessing capabilities.
3. My tendancy to laugh hysterically when most inappropriate.
4. My weird elf-toes.

That's right. Weird elf-toes.

My Mom and I (and I think, one or both of my sisters) have big toes that kind of... curl up. The toenail points up at about a 45 degree angle. It's bizarre.

In high school, in the 80s, when canvas Keds were all the rage, I would burn through mine with unnerving ease. No matter how short I kept my big toenail clipped, I always rubbed a hole through the top of my shoes.

And socks. That's always the first part of my socks to go, way before the heels.

I'm sure that my ugly-ass toes contributed to my hatred of toes in general. (But they look good on you, Mom!) Feet are grotesque and alien, and I don't like to acknowledge that they are actually part of my body. They're like the help. I know they're there, doing their job, but I'm certainly not going to have a relationship with them.

"But, Wenchie," you ponder. "What about all the luxurious slendor that you lavish upon your feet? Certainly you wouldn't do that for appendages that you don't like!"

Interesting train of logic, but you would be wrong. Pedicures are the only thing that make my feet even remotely tolerable. I consider going out in public in sandals and unpolished toenails to be THE HEIGHT OF SAVAGERY!

Needless to say, I don't understand foot fetishes, shoe fetishes, or what the hell is so erotic about having your big toe sucked. That's just gross.

Now, I've told you all that so I can tell you this.

I was at Billi's house last week, and we were watching "WIPEOUT" after dinner -- a show that I am ashamed to laugh hysterically at, but the Suckerpunch Wall really has to be seen to be fully appreciated.

The Boy Child was on my lap, so all I could see was the back of his head and most of the t.v. Suddenly, there was a strange and unpleasant sensation on my foot. I looked down to see The Spare with his chompers set into my big toe!

The Spare was biting my big toe! BITING! The same toe that was inside of my shoes all day!

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

He kisses my sister with that mouth!

I couldn't very well snatch my foot away without taking some of his teeth with me, so I just screamed until he released my toe from his treacherous maw of his own accord.

"That's weird," mused Billi, callously unphased by my torment. "He's never bitten anyone before."

WHAT?! So the boy who had never before set tooth to flesh, saw MY TOE as so succulent as to be irresistable???

In the inargueable words of Hank Hill -- That Boy Ain't Right.

Posted at 07:00 AM | Comments (0)

May 06, 2008

Psst! Look Over There!

We were at a wedding over the weekend. And by "we," I mean me, Husband, Snippy Bitch, Garrance, K, A, and my parents. I mean, there were others there, but who cares. This story isn't about them.

It was a small, intimate wedding, so the reception was in the fellowship hall of our church. My parents were sitting at the table next to the rest of us, with Spikette, her hubby and Nephew, who looked ADORABLE in his little shirt and tie!

In the middle of dinner, Mom stage-whispered, "Psst! Pass this to Wenchie!"

It was a note, and I thought maybe she wanted to know if I could come listen to records at her house after school. But when I opened it, it said this:

Look to your right to see the tattoos on the gal in red.

Oh my God! I LOVE it when my Mom is catty! It's hilarious because it doesn't happen very often. Especially at a formal event in a church!

Of course, K was like, "Secrets don't make friends!"

So I had to pass it around to the whole table. After which there was a flurry of obviousness -- the likes of which Mom was specifically trying to avoid with her discreet note -- as we all stared and speculated.

"What is that one above her boob?"
"Is it a sun?"
"A golf ball?"
"A pancreas?"
"Why would it be a pancreas?"
"I don't know! Don't you think it looks like a pancreas?"

And then we went and helped ourselves to cake because the people bringing it to the tables weren't fast enough for us.

Well, you know the saying: you can take the trash out of the trailer...

Posted at 06:37 AM | Comments (6)

January 13, 2008

Happy 40th, Brad

Billi's husband, Brad, turned 40 three days after Christmas. Which, as we all know, is the suckiest time of year to have a birthday because Jeebus really hogs the spotlight, so Billi had a big party for him on Saturday night.

It was an 80s theme party, so the music was totally bitchen and rad, and I was breathtaking in my Forenza sweater and legwarmers. I even grew a giant zit in my forehead, for that authentic Wenchie-circa-1985 feeling.

Brad was resplendant in pink shirt and tan Members Only jacket. Billi's hair was as big as... well, honestly, it was never as big in the 80s as it was on Saturday night because both Billi and I had short hair for most of the 80s. Try that mental picture on for size. Horrifying, no?

Madonna and the lead singer from Poison were the best costumes there,... but I digest. I'm here to talk about Brad and how incredibly, mind-blowingly wasted he was.

Now, Brad likes to enjoy an ocassional beer or two because he has three children in the single-digit age group. But because he has three small children, he very rarely over-indulges, and certainly never in their presence. Well, the kiddies were at Nana and Papa's house Saturday night. You know where this is going.

Or at least, you THINK you do...

But this post is going down a path much more dark than barfing or headaches or waking up in a bathtub full of your own bodily products. Lo, this post is about -- Drunken Affection.

Dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

We may have gifted Brad two classic Michael Jackson albums and a how-to book on taking care of his aging body, but he gave me the greatest gift of all.

When it came time for Husband and I skeedaddle outta there (they were about to start the wife-swapping, and I didn't want any fights to break out over who got me), I went to say good-night to the birthday boy.

Who promptly planted a BIG ol' smackaroo -- on my lips -- and told me HE LOVES ME!

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

[huge intake of breath]

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Oh, man, that was awkward. See, Brad's the kind of guy who shows his affection very rarely. If ever. And certainly not to me.

In fact, I'm not entirely sure he ever actually feels affection. I think he might have smiled once, but it also could have been gas.

Yes, I definately intend to rub his face in this for the rest of his life. Or at least until he sits on my head and farts.

Posted at 09:29 PM | Comments (2)

January 08, 2008

Wenchie's Dad Reads Her Blog for the First Time

I am continuously amazed that the content of my blog doesn't appear to phase my mother. Not only does she never mention my stubborn use of all words crude 'n' rude, but it is truly a testimony to the unconditional love of a mother that she hasn't written me out of her will. As far as I know.

The benevolence of my mother:

Mom: I made Daddy read your latest blog entry. He enjoyed it.

PW: Which one? Uh oh. Did I say Fuck or Vagina? Am I grounded?

Mom: It was the one about the Christmas rush. I haven't shown him any of your other blogs, but he thought that one was cute. I want him to keep being naive about his middle daughter. You're welcome.

Posted at 10:51 AM | Comments (0)

December 22, 2007

Stop the Frenzy

It has been established, ad nauseum, that I love presents. Getting them, giving them, buying them, wrapping and unwrapping them. I just love the idea of fun things hiding inside pretty paper.

Which is why Christmas drives me nuts.

People, do you know why I start shopping in August? Because I put thought and often research into each and every gift. I invest time and money, just like everyone else. Maybe more.

Which is why I don't want all of you opening my presents at once! I want to see if you really like what I got! I want to make sure that I made you happy!

I also enjoy seeing what everyone gets from people who aren't me, in case I need to step up my gift-giving next year.

And when I open my presents, I want to look you in the eye and sincerely (or insincerely but convincingly) thank you; not just catch your eye and nod while you open your next present.

I just like the whole experience, and I hate it when months of preparation are over in a frenzy of tissue and boxes. Would the three wisemen have stood for that?

Do you think that Mary haphazardly ripped open the myrrh and threw it aside to grab the frankinsense? The wisemen would have been horrified! They wouldn't have even given her the gold! The shepherds would have looked away awkwardly and made some excuse about, "Oh, we gotta go. The, uh... sheep need... sheering."

Slow down and enjoy your presents. Baby Jesus wants you to.

Posted at 02:30 PM | Comments (0)

September 24, 2007

Phone Ettiquette Lessons from the Girl Child

The Girl Child is currently six years old. In November, she'll be turning seventeen. This is a surprise to no one who has a daughter. However, being technically childless myself, it was a bit of a shock to actually witness it myself.

I'll explain.

Girl Child wanted to have a sleepover with her friend Grace. So Billi dialed the phone and handed it to Girl Child, assuming she'd takeover in a minute to hammer out the details with Grace's mom.

Fifteen minutes later, Billi's like, "Where's Girl Child? Does she still have the phone?"

Seeing as how Billi was, at the time, trying to stop the now-very-mobile Spare from pulling the refridgerator down on top of himself, I galantly stepped forward to quest for the phone.

So I looked around the living room and dining room, called down to the basement. No Girl Child. Then I noticed the light was on in the powder room, with the door standing wide open, of course. I peeked around the corner to see Girl Child standing in front of the toilet, valiantly trying to pull up her undies and pants with one hand, while still talking on the phone.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Girl Child peed while talking on the phone to her friend.

Like mother, like daughter.

Posted at 01:34 PM | Comments (4)

August 21, 2007

Whatever Happened To Molly?

Remember Molly? The sweet, sad-eyed dog with pneumonia that my parents got from the animal shelter? To refresh your memory, she looks like this:

And I keep meaning to tell you the rest of her story! I'm so freakin' flighty sometimes.

(And Marty goes, "Sometimes???")

When K found out about Molly's lung affliction, she goes, "Oh, man. When that dog gets better she's gonna eat your couch!"

Well, Molly didn't eat Mom's couch.

She ate some wall decorations. Right down off the wall. And part of my Dad's dinner. While Dad was sitting at the table! Stupid dog just came up and started eating off my Dad's plate like friggin' Helen Keller!

So, yeah, Molly wasn't so much "sweet" as she was "weak with fever." And once she was feeling her oats again, she proceeded to tear my parents' house apart.

Needless to say, my parents no longer have a dog. The gave Molly to a no-kill shelter, and I'm pretty damn sure that's the end of their dog-owning days for good.

Which reminds me -- when I was in grade school, we got a puppy that was a German Shepherd mix, I believe. His name was Oly. One day, we arrived home to find that Oly -- who was kept in the kitchen to keep him from ruining the rest of the house -- had jumped up and turned on all the burners on the gas stove.

I'm sure he was thinking, Won't let me in the rest of the house, eh? Fine! I'll just burn the whole thing down! How do you like them apples?!

I don't even know where Oly disappeared to after that. Probably some nice farm where he had lots of room to run around.

Posted at 03:17 PM | Comments (3)

July 26, 2007

Moms Say the Darnedest Things

I rarely remember to check my PirateWenchDotOrg email account. None of you ungrateful brats ever send me eCards anyway, so it's basically no biggie.

But today I checked it and found a bunch of emails from my Mom, regarding various posts from the past two months. Leading me to ascertain... I think that she thinks that she's leaving a comment when she hits the "Email the Pirate Wench" link.

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

It's probably bad form to laugh hysterically at one's mother for all the world to see, but as she has told me many times herself, "I'm just here to amuse you, Wenchie."

And she does a damn fine job of it!

From June 13, More Euphemisms for "Poop"

In the future, when I read your antics, adventures, maladies, etc. with the canine members of your family, I shall do so wayyyyyyyyyyy before or wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy after a meal. I'm just about to put dinner on the table (if you can call Tuna Salad, chips and a big glass of wine dinner, ) and I have to put your tale of Fecal Woe out of my mind. I shall try hard. Better luck tomorrow.

Love, Mommie Dearest

One more thing, doesn't that long "e" word that you typed have an "r" in it someplace? M. D. again

I have no idea what E word she's talking about.

From June 15, Where Has All the Fuck Gone?

Dearest Middle Daughter: f____ you. Oh my God, did I really write that for all the world to see??? I am SO Ssorry, but I hope I made you happy.

Love you, Mommie

I love how she's like, "F you! Love you!" What this woman won't do to ensure my happiness.

From June 23, Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm

I simply ADORED the photos of the doggies. You DO have room for a couple more canines at your place, you know. The garage, the shed, the ugly bathroom. Have I planted an idea in your head?

Love and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXs. Mommie Dearest

She writes this forgetting that she and Dad are our dog-sitters. Unless... the idea that she's trying to plant in my head is that she wants a puppy for Christmas?

From June 25, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I am soooooooooooooo proud of middle daughter. I may see her hair walking down Prospect Ave. someday and I'll bet I'd just know it, too. Congratulations.

Love, Mommie Dearest

Isn't she awesome? She once said that, "A day without Wenchie is like a morning without orange juice." Awwwwwwwwwwwww. She rocks.

Has anyone here not seen the movie about Joan Crawford's parenting skills, "Mommie Dearest"? Billi and I saw it on t.v. when we were younger. I see it came out in '81, which would make us 'tweens at the time, and about ripe to become the eye-rolling, melodramatic martyrs that we were throughout our teens.

I don't remember, but I'm going to assume that we saw this at a friend's house because there's no way Mom would have allowed us to sit through a movie that would give us so much ammunition.

Billi and I called her Mommie Dearest behind her back for a while, thinking ourselves oh-so-clever. I don't recall how Mom found out, but she soon embraced the moniker and made it her own, proving herself to be much more clever than her daughters.

Thus is the reason she signs her emails/"comments" as Mommie Dearest.

Hats off to you, Mom. No matter how we girls tried to crush your spirit, you always managed to retain your sense of humor.

Posted at 02:58 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 22, 2007

Ol' McWenchie Had a Farm

E-I-E-I-HO. Hee!

Last month, we went to Indiana to visit Husband’s folks for Mothers Day. [My gift to my Mom is that I wasn’t around. Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha!] While there, we stopped by Husband’s Sister’s ranch, where she trains dogs to herd sheep. Like Babe. Only with dogs.

This is Husband’s Sister’s champion sheepherder, Ally. She’s a Belgian Tervuren. She’s smarter than you.

This is Husband’s Sister’s Great Pyrenees, Soliel. She and her brother, Patu (lower right corner), protect the sheep. In this photo, they are protecting the sheep from Husband’s loving hand and scratching fingers. Good Soliel!

How many dogs does Husband’s Sister have? you’re wondering. She currently has six. And three cows. And a flock of ducks. And a herd of sheep. Including 43 baby lambies. And a partridge in a pear tree. She’s utterly insane but fun to visit!

This is Husband’s Sister’s cows, along with one of her sheep. She has waaaaaaay more sheep, and I do have a photograph of all of them together, but it totally creeps me out because they’re all looking into the camera. It’s like a zombie film.

Husband’s Sister’s Friend just had a litter of Shelties. Well, SHE didn’t but… oh, never mind. Sitting in the shade, under an umbrella, in a pen, on a colorful blanket, were five six-week old Shelties. Their faces are so tiny, Japanese schoolgirls are squealing with glee half a world away, and they don’t even know why. I’m telling you, I’ve eaten sandwiches bigger than these dogs. This one already promises to be an excellent sheepherder.

These are our nephews holding puppies. Don’t let them fool you –- they are evil and vicious and will eviscerate you as soon as look at you. The puppies and the boys.

I don’t know which I love more -– the puppy or my manicure. Yes, I got a manicure right before visiting a farm. What of it?

This puppy is so cute, I want to nurse it. Now good luck getting THAT mental image outta your head. HA! Happy nightmares!

This is Stella with Husband’s Mom. No, my mother-in-law is not a midget -– Stella really is that big.

And in case you doubt how big Stella has gotten, here she is about to eat a helpless puppy.

I just realized, I have no photos of Daisy from this trip. I guess she was forgotten among the carnival of puppies and lambies and baby moo-cows. Poor Daisy. I feel bad. I’m gonna go give her a Snausage.

Posted at 05:24 PM | Comments (1)

June 19, 2007

Family Reunion Rules of Engagement

Since my Dad is considerably younger than my uncle (and taller, with more hair), all my cousins are quite a bit older than I am. Respectively, all their kids -- I guess they would be my first cousins once removed? -- are in their late teens or early twenties.

The youngest of them graduated from high school this spring. He's going into the Marines, and I just couldn't be prouder. I'd also love to be a fly on the wall the first time he smarts off to a superior. He's got a bit of a mouth on him.

But I digress. The whole family was at his graduation party, and my only female first-cousin-once-removed was sporting a new tattoo. Just above her right boob. It's a peace sign with the word "Imagine." Nice little tribute to John Lennon there. Nothing wrong with that.

I'm like, "Hey, nice tattoo!"

And her mom, my cousin, is all, "Can you believe she got another one?! Can't you talk some sense into her?"

And I'm like, "Um, dude? I have three, remember?"

Three things to remember about Wenchie's family:

1. Don't let Uncle Ron touch you when he's been drinking.

2. Never, ever ask Grandma how she's feeling.

3. Cousin/Auntie Wenchie is NOT a role model.

Posted at 12:01 PM | Comments (1)

April 01, 2007

I Can't Escape It

Chit-chatting with Billi on the phone this evening.

Billi: Yeah, we just stayed home and -- Oh my GOD!

PW: What?!

B: The Boy Child just tooted! Boy Child, was that you?

PW: Holy crap, that was him?

B: Did you hear that?

PW: Dude, Marlee Matlin heard that!

B: Oh, my God, it reeks! Boy Child, do you have to poop? It smells like you have to poop. Go poop! Now!

PW: Like father, like son.

B: Well, go sit on the potty and try.

PW: So. You were saying?

B: What were we talking about? That toot erased my memory.

PW: I think, what you guys did this weekend.

B: Oh, yeah. Actually, we didn't do much. Brad went to... Did you flush? Do you need me to wipe you?

PW: What?

B: Boy Child.

PW: Oh. Did he poop?

B: He sure did!

PW: Excellent.

Never did find out what she did this weekend, but there was probably tooting involved. And poop.

Posted at 09:38 PM | Comments (1)

March 07, 2007

Billiweiss

I thought I'd share with you a few photos from Husband's 50th birthday party a couple weeks ago.

Surprisingly, this is not Britney Spears, but I can understand why you'd think so. Not every woman can juggle motherhood and alcoholism with such aplomb. This is actually Billi, after handing off her child to the caterer.

Remember the story of Lemonhead? The heartwrenching drama of one woman's attempt to garnish her child with fruit? (If not, you can start reading at the fifth paragraph down, "We ate in Mexico,...")

When Boy Child grows up, he'll he happy to find out that he's in good company. That is a Leinenkugel's Berryweiss on The Spare's head. As he sleeps. Dreaming, no doubt, of beer bongs and slutty co-eds.

Ah, the piece de resistance. Or something. I don't speak French.

The look for spring is fur, fur, fur! On the bottom, Husband sports a natty jockstrap made of real rabbit fur, compliments of K & G's recent Alaskan vacation! On top, The Boob Pillow -- a tradition of sorts in this crowd. The fur is faux, but the comfort it brings you is real!

Yes, that's The Spare in the photo. And yes, that's a beer next to him. I expect to hear from the Department for Child Services any moment now...

Posted at 08:46 AM | Comments (2)

January 03, 2007

A Star Wars Christmas

First, Redhead Silkstone had to get dressed for the party.

She's all, "What -- this old thing? Why, I only wear this when I don't care what I look like!"

Bitch, please.

Here's capitalism at it's finest. Ol' Dubya is so proud of us!

Yes, we have wood panelling in the basement. I'm not proud. It was there when we moved in, and now that it's become known as "The Brady Basement," we just don't have the heart to change it. Besides, it goes so well with the brown shag carpeting!

The Boy Child got some Star Wars action figures. And THANK GOD because the fourteen thousand he has at home barely keep him occupied.

Obi Wan is either going to deliver the smackdown WWF-style on the stormtrooper, or he's going to make sweet, intergalactic love to him. And with Boy Child calling the shots, it could go either way, really.

This photo of Darth Boy Child is kinda fuzzy because I had already taken two ping-pong balls to the head.

Later, Husband cauterized my gushing headwounds with a lightsaber, so I'm okay.

This is Darth Boy Child's mentor, Darth Sheldon, seen here donning his reading glasses because he can't see Yoda without them.

Yeah, he needs a haircut, but it's so difficult with the helmet and all.

Posted at 06:58 AM | Comments (0)

December 13, 2006

Fan, Meet Shit

God, I HATE not blogging every day! I'm really out of practice, so today's post will be sub-par and scatter-brained.

Here at Wenchie's Work, the shit has really hit the fan, which was on High at the time. It's also one of those oscillating fans on a tall stand, so the shit has coated everyone and everything.

The clever individuals in charge around here have put the second biggest asswipe in the company -- a man despised by everyone inside the company, as well as everyone we do business with -- in charge of "Business Development," i.e. "Having Close Contact with All Our Customers."

And next week, they're having me give lectures on "Proper Use of Company Time," "Professional Decorum" and "Business Attire."

I'm at the Reception Desk all day today, so I have sworn a solemn oath, written in chocolate smudges, to do absolutely nothing work-related today. If they're going to waste my skills on answering a phone and signing for packages, then I'm going to make it hurt!

So far, I have answered all those emails that have been sitting in my Yahoo! account, waiting for me to get to. A lot has happened since I last did that! My cousin's chemo is having excellent results; my friend had to put her beloved cat to sleep; and Billi asked me and Husband to be The Spare's godparents. I should probably do this more often.

So I wrote an email of encouragement and an email of empathy. The godparent thing, however, was not so easy to handle. And I know that sounds insensitive -- which is a huge shock coming from me -- but I didn't realize godparenting was so involved.

PW: Oh, I'm so touched and honored that you want me to be The Spare's godmother!

Billi: Great! [handing The Spare to me] He has a poopy diaper. I'm going up to take a shower!

PW: Dammit! Can't I just give him a saving bond and a "Baby's First Bible" or something?

Apparently, being a godparent means always wearing something washable and bringing a change of clothes when you visit. I think I'm going to crossstitch that on a pillow.

Posted at 11:38 AM | Comments (3)

October 23, 2006

Hey, Sarge, Can You Help Me With My Boot?

This is what my dad considers appropriate dinner conversation. At someone else's house. The hostess and I were discussing manicures.

"In the army, our sergeant had a finger where the tip had been cut off right at the base of the nail. The nail grew out of the end like a talon. He was really good at untying knots."

Mm-hm.

Lemonade from lemons, you see.

Posted at 01:23 PM | Comments (0)

October 03, 2006

The D Man

Just let me be That Person for one day, okay?

I have to think of a name for my latest, adorable, perfect newphew. I can't tell you his real name, but I will tell you that the obvious nickname is Double D. However, Billi won't let me use that one.

I was also thinking of Back-up. I mean, they have one boy and one girl, and now one boy in reserve. In case they have to sell The Boy Child to the gypsies. For his own good.

(It's a well-known fact that, as a child, my father sold me to the gypsies, but the gypsies brought me back.)

Then I was toying with the idea of making the new one The Boy Child, and changing the current Boy Child to The Unholy, or simply Spawn. But that would just get too confusing, I think.

Any good name ideas floating around in your brain cavities?

Some possibly helpful factoids:

* He was 8 lbs. 9 oz. at birth.
* His hair forms a natural mohawk.
* Dude has a sucking instinct that impressed even the longtime nurses who thought they've seen everything.

Yeah, he's a big boy. Size being relative, I'm always terrified of newborn infants. I have purses bigger than he is! On the other hand, I look at this big chunk and think, That came out of my sister! Oh my God! And then I buy her presents.

Posted at 02:29 PM | Comments (5)

September 29, 2006

You'll Be the First To Know... After I Find Out

So last night I had a dream that Billi was being induced today because yesterday was her due date, but when I woke up, I remembered -- oh yeah, she's not scheduled to be induced until Monday -- which I thought she'd find funny, and really I just wanted an excuse to call her, but when I did, her father-in-law answered the phone so HELLO! obviously he's there to watch The Children because Billi's in the hospital scrunching out Child the Third, but I didn't know that until after I got to work and after I had stopped for a grande frappuccino at Starbucks and sucked it down like the magical elixer it is so between the vast amounts of caffiene -- which, if you'll remember, I have 99% sworn off of due to my ability to stay awake for days at a time -- and the excitedness I'm feeling about the impending New Nephew, my hands are shaking and my heart is palpatating dangerously and THERE'S JUST NO FRIGGIN' WAY I HAVE THE WHEREWITHALL TO BLOG TODAY!!!

Posted at 12:46 PM | Comments (0)

September 28, 2006

My Biggest Fan

My favorite blog posts are the ones I don't have to write. Like yesterday's. And today's.

You guys just have to see how hilarious my Mom is. She just kills me, and I don't even know if she means to. And every time I laugh, she's like, "That's why I was put on this earth, Wenchie -- to entertain you." Which, of course, just makes me laugh harder.

So every once in a while, when I remember to check my email, I find an email from my Mom, which in and of itself is hilarious.

See, I have three email addresses. My work one, my Yahoo one for people who know who I am, and the one I created for this blog. My Mom has my other two email addresses and has been using them for years. And yet, she insists on using my blog one.

I suspect that she thinks she's leaving a comment when she does that because I don't think she knows how to work the Comments. Either that or she knows it's an email address, and she's just too lazy to go to her AOL homepage and use one of the ones that I actually check on a daily basis.

Come to think of it, she may be emailing me because she doesn't want her comments published. In which case, I guess I can kiss my Christmas presents good-bye this year because how can I NOT publish this stuff?!

So here's Mom's email regarding my post about shopping for new, ginormous bras with my Asst. Chick Boss:

I heartly enjoyed your novella about your bra. But with Blogs brought to us by the letter P and then the letter D (or versa-visa), what, indeed, is lurking between those 2 letters?

I will be sitting on the edge of my Lazy-Boy recliner, waiting to learn the answer, so I can clear my mind of such trivial annoyances.

Do not degrade your lovely "girls" - it runs in the family, so just live with it.

Love and Kisses, Mommie Dearest

Ha! Novella! Love it!

(Yes, Mom has sizable hogans, too. In fact, she's not bad, for an old broad.)

And here's what she wrote to me after Talk Like a Pirate Day:

Dear Darling Daughter:

Please don't beat yourself up because you forgot Talk Like a Pirate Day. I am here to let people know that you do, every day, talk like a Pirate, and have been doing so for many, many years. I could also tell them that you were, (it was a secret till now) indeed born wearing a pirate eye patch and swearing like the best of them.

I do not say this to condemn you, just to set matters straight and to let people know that your family (well, most of them) love you anyway.

Hope this helps your cause.

Mommie Dearest

Well, most of them?! It's riotously funny and frighteningly disturbing at the same time!

So now you see where I get it. Oh my God, she just cracks me up.

(I'm sure the "most of them" doesn't include my Dad. Eleven years ago, Mom had a lengthy illness. When I went to visit my folks one day, Dad excitedly told me, "I did my own laundry!" And I said, "What do you want -- a cookie?!" He's never forgiven me for that.)

Posted at 02:47 PM | Comments (0)

September 05, 2006

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

Billi is our guest blogger today because, when I read her email, I laughed my ass off and then merrily thanked God that I'm not her.

Her rant follows; my comments are in [brackets]...

Okay, Dee came over today with her kids. Right after lunch, C (the youngest one) complained of a headache. Ten minutes later, he was puking on my family room carpet [which is off-white].

Dee took him in the kitchen, and some more puke went all over the floor. Then she took him to the sink, where he puked on clean dishes on one side and dirty on the other. [What the hell is she feeding this kid?!]

So, he sat on the counter. Dee cleaned up the chunks, and I washed the floor [on her hands and knees, even tho' she's eleven months pregnant with vicious vericose veins] and put the dishes in the dish washer. She spot cleaned my carpeting.

C got off the counter, sat on the yellow chair and puked again. WORST PLAYDATE EVER!!!! If me or the kids get sick, I'm going to kill someone!

So, after she finally leaves, I wash the floor again [again, the preggo lady in pain] and call [500 lb.] Father-In-Law and ask him to bring over their carpet shampooer. To which he says No, but we can come get it. The fucker. [Personally, I feel that being eleven months pregnant and in constant pain trumps being 500 lbs. and too goddamn lazy to get your fat ass in the car, but that's just me.]

The Boy Child spills orange juice inside the fridge. I call Brad and start freaking out on him, and he says he'll come home and get the shampooer from his Dad. [Brad is, on occassion, a very smart man.] He ended up just buying one.

So, he moved all the furniture out of the family room and shampoos the carpet. Awesome new shampooer, but guess what was glowing on the clean carpets????? Hawian Punch!!!!!!! For the love of all things good in this world!!! Control your children, people!!!

Okay. I'm done.

Have a nice day.

At least My Nemesis, The Color Printer can't puke on me.

The letter "P" is for puke, preggo, playdate, punch and pissed. And now, Grover will sing a song about pancakes.

Posted at 03:24 PM | 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)

July 18, 2006

Ma Soeur Cadet

Guess what, kids! Today is Openly Mock Wenchie Day! Yay!

This is a poem I wrote about Billi in 1983, when I was thirteen. Mom found it when she was cleaning out their attic, in preparation for the move. She gave it to Billi, who promptly emailed it to me, with the appropriate amount of ridicule.

* * *

Billi is my little sister,
and although she's really a brat,
She's sort of pretty, with eyes of blue,
and a body that's anything but fat.

Billi est ma soeur cadet,
and although she's sorta pretty,
She's a selfish little buger-snot,
So it's really a great pity.

She's never had the sheer pleasure
of sharing things with me,
But I like her anyway,
as you can plainly see.

She's alot of fun to play with,
and she throws pillows on me,
And she jumps on me and tickles me,
Then I laugh so hard I could pee!

All and all she's really great,
If she left, I'd really miss her,
I've very glad that she is my
One and only little sister!

* * *

Oh, the shame! The shame!

Actually, I kinda like how I'm all passive-aggressive like "She's a selfish brat, but I really like playing with her. Even though she doesn't share."

And "est ma soeur cadet." **SNORT!** Boy, I just thought I was the shit! Yes, I was taking French in junior high. Intollerably pretentious even then. Barf.

Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (5)

June 30, 2006

Not Yer Run o' the Mill Clutter

I can't lift my arms over my head today, despite them being pumped-up to near-Schwartzenegger size. I had to bend over to wash my hair. My torso didn't get soaped at all. I apologize to all my co-workers, it was just too much to ask.

My father, the brilliant mechanical engineer, doesn't know how to pack a box.

No, I have to go back farther than that -- my parents are moving. Moving from their huge, 1900's farm house to a 1960's ranch. A decision it took my mother ten years, five temper tantrums, three nervous breakdowns, two death-threats and one chronically painful leg to convince my father that it's the right thing to do.

The farm house is almost 100 years old. As are my parents. It has four bedrooms upstairs, two staircases, a parlor, a maid's room, PLUS a full basement and attic. It's HUUUUUUUUUUGE. And it's on a double lot.

That's a lot of space to maintain, so this move is actually a really good thing. But, as to be expected, it's causing a lot of stress, drama and commotion. Three things they haven't had to deal with since Billi's last day as a teenager in 1991.

Recently, my parents' realtor told them to move some of their "clutter" to the new house because prospective buyers will want to picture their own clutter in the old house.

[Wenchie deadpans to the camera.] Dude, it's aaalllllll clutter.

My parents have lived in that house for -- what -- thirty-five years? That's thirty-five years of clutter, accumulated by a man who has been garbage-picking since he was tall enough to peek inside the cans. My mother was forced to burn down their old garage in order to acquire a new one that she could actually fit her car into. (True story.)

Now, my mom packed up the usual Clutter Suspects, per the realtors instructions: photos, knick-knacks, brick-a-brack, gagadills and tchatchke. Like a normal person. She carefully wrapped the fragile things and -- here's the key -- made sure a normal person could still lift the box.

Dad, on the other hand, packed his entire encylopedic set of Arms & Armor into one box. Weapons & Weaponry was also crammed into a single box, and -- you guessed it -- War & Warfare also got it's own, solitary box. No lids because the books are too big.

AND? He packed them on the floor. So I go into the basement to help him, and scattered all over the floor are boxes crammed full of the hugest, heaviest books you've ever seen.

I'm like, "Dad, how am I supposed to carry these? Let alone get them off the floor?!"

And he goes, "But you're my strongest daughter!"

I'm gonna assume he meant it as a compliment, but "strongest" treads close to my favorite word of his for me -- "sturdy." Yeah.

Thank Yahweh that Dad found a hand cart to move those things because I had forgotten to bring my Arc of the Covenant. You know, I had the Arc in my car for weeks and had just taken it out the day before to take Daisy to the vet. Figures!

Upstairs, mom continued to move things like small tables and the umbrella stand.

Down in the basement, Dad gave me more stuff to lug out to my car. And lemme just say, a Ford Explorer is the next best thing to the Arc of the Covenant because we loaded:

1) a cement statue of nude young women,
2) many guitar and banjo cases,
3) various nautical lanterns,
4) two three-foot tall, cast iron, French knights; and
5) a life-sized painting of my father, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword.

And why, you ask, does my father have a life-sized painting of himself, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword? Because he didn't want a life-sized painting of himself, from the feet up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword. So he cut off the bottom half.

And it still creeps the bejeezus outta me.

Finally, my car could hold no more, so we drove to the new place. Where my father proceeded to make himself a Manhattan.

My parents don't have food in the new place. No t.v. or radio. No towels. No kleenex. This carload of crap constitutes Thee First Official Posessions that have entered the new house. And yet? Somehow, there's whiskey, vermouth and bitters.

The second thing Dad did? Made ice.

Posted at 12:20 PM | Comments (4)

June 22, 2006

Catholic Guilt Is Not a Myth

You know all the stereotypes about Catholic Guilt? I am sure they all got their start in my friend, PJ. PJ makes the Pope proud. She's on his Christmas card list.

Every once in a while, I'll get a phone call from PJ, apologizing for something that, a) she never did; or b) I have absolutely no recollection of. In either case, she is often begging my forgiveness as I stare off into space and try to conjure up what in God's name she could possibly be talking about.

I received such a call this afternoon.

PJ's all, "I was walking down the hall, and all of a sudden, I saw your face in front of me, with your stern eyebrows and pursed lips, and I realized that you were mad at me!"

And I'm thinking, Oh, Lord, what did she imagine doing now?

As she continued to babble, it slowly became clear to me what she was talking about.

On our vacation, PJ, Egrau and I stopped at Kopp's in Milwaukee for the best damn frozen custard on the planet. And yes, I have tasted all the other frozen custard on the planet. I get around.

While eating, we noticed a young lady in line with such severe VPL, I thought she might be one of those circus freaks who was a twin that didn't really separate, so they have some weird, superfluous body part -- namely, an extra set of buttocks.

Egrau and I laughed, and PJ asked what VPL is, so we told her -- Visible Panty Lines.

"It's why I always wear a thong with jeans," I explained.

"But why wouldn't you just wear looser jeans?"

And this was the ghost in the form of Wenchie's pursed face that was haunting PJ. See, she meant the you as in y'all everybody in general. Whereas I thought she meant you as in you tight-jeans-wearin' whore Wenchie.

So I gave her a dirty look. And then promptly forgot about it because I am a tight-jeans-wearin' whore, so why quibble about it?

But no, Patti's guilt lay dormant and festered for twenty-four hours and then manifested itself in an apparition of my pursed face. And she did use the word pursed a lot.

She goes, "Please forgive me and make your face go away!"

Uh-huh. So now she has a whooooooooole new issue to feel guilty about. I'm expecting another phone call this evening.

Posted at 03:53 PM | Comments (3)

June 05, 2006

Honey, I Found a Pine Tree for Forty Bucks!

This weekend, Billi and I bolstered the Wisconsin economy to the tune of $400 each. On pottery, antiques and folk art. Yes, Heather, folk art. (I love making her cry.)

We also ate ice cream for lunch each day. Two scoops in a waffle cone, and dude, those ice cream monkeys don't skimp. It was a total buttload of ice cream for four bucks (just look at my ice-cream-inflated butt to know what a buttload is).

Oberweis can kiss my dairy-saturated butt. You can't lick the sprinkles they spilled on the floor for four bucks at Oberweis. Now it's lunch time and where's my ice cream, dammit?!

Within a fifteen minute period, the following four things occurred:

1. I spilled Birthday Cake ice cream on my new Coach wallet, while trying to spit out a gnat.

2. I bought a seven-foot faux pine tree (complete with pinecones) for $40. Oh, yes I did! And I drove all the way home with the trunk protruding into the front seat of my Explorer, to earn myself the title of Best Wife Ever.

3. I ripped part of the pocket off my cute, cute embroidered jeans. While getting into my car. I have no idea how. Not a word about my butt, dicksmacks.

4. I was photographed and interviewed for an article for some tourist periodical, along with Billi. I'm never gonna live this one down.

So, yeah, pretty much a typical vacation weekend for me.

Among the things I purchased:

1. Two antique child-sized chairs. GOD, how I love little chairs. I don't know why, since I pretty much can't stand child-sized people. Perhaps I just enjoy the idea of them sitting uncomfortably on straight-backed, wooden chairs? Sit still, or you'll get the ruler again!

2. Faux tree. Well, trees, actually. It's a cluster of three trees on one base. One four feet, one five and a half feet, one seven feet. See, Husband makes original wooden Christmas ornaments every year, and we've been wanting a place to display them year-round. Geez, that declaration is even gayer in writing than it is verbally.

3. Two bud vases -- one pottery, one wood (purple heart). Apparently, diminutive vases hold the same appeal as diminutive chairs, and I've acquired enough in the past couple years to now warrant calling it a collection.

4. Small, partitioned, antique fruit crate, which I will stand on end on my dresser, to display my bud vase collection. I hate myself so much right now.

5. A jar of Cherry Honey Mustard Sauce. So yummy with pretzels!

6. Zest soap. It's the only thing that will sort of rinse clean in the damn soft water they have up there. Stupid well water! I HHHHHHHHHATE soft water. Can't get clean! Can't get clean!

I'm going back up on the 19th with Egrau and PJ. And I have permission from Husband to buy a ten-piece folk art nativity set. Yay! Weirdly-stylized baby Jeebus with chicken and bunny!

Posted at 02:08 PM | Comments (2)

June 01, 2006

At First I Was Afraid, I Was Petrified

Oh, Lord, I'm turning into Fresh, with the song lyrics as blog titles. But who doesn't hear that song in their head when they hear the word survive?! Or is it just me?

Oh, suuuuure, and I suppose I'm the only one who puts on glitter eye shadow and rainbow leg warmers, whips her hair around and sings into her thumb. Whatever. You guys are such liars. You all do it -- you know you do.

Anyhoo, now included in the vast array of Ways That Wenchie Is a Crappy Blogger is Reason Number 37: Didn't answer the question that Queen of Ass' earned by being the 900th commenter until it was nearly time for the 1000th comment.

If you were moving, and had NO internet connection for 10 WHOLE DAMN DAYS, how would you survive?

I'm double-awful because this question bears a sense of personal need and desperation, like she's actually seeking an answer, and yet, I totally forgot about it. It's a wonder I have any friends, isn't it?

But luckily, Marty is stalwart enough to put up with me because Marty is how I'd survive without Internet for ten days. When I had my surgery -- what is it, three years ago now? -- and couldn't move around much and couldn't go to work for six weeks, Marty hooked me up with a laptop and remote access and the whole works. And several seasons of "Buffy" on DVD. Marty rocks.

But that doesn't help you because Marty is here, and he's mine, and you can't have him.

The surgery is a story for another day. Remind me. (Man, I keep thinking of good lines for other entries -- not this one, obviously -- so I have to keep stopping and writing in other entries before I forget. So annoying!)

My other answer is a long, boring story about my childhood. Excited?

My family owns a summer home, a.k.a. log cabin, a.k.a. dilapidated shack, in Wisconsin. Yeah, it's a shack. My tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin roof... rusted. But it definately has its good points, such as: BEACH FRONT PROPERTY, BAY-BEEEEEEEE! Oh yeah, private beach. Also? Upkeep is minimal because why clean a dilapidated shack? Which leaves more time for drinking. And swimming. And napping.

Of course, those are grown-up activities. When I was a kid, Billi and I did kid activities. Biking, hiking, building a tree house, shooting beer cans off a log with a slingshot and a BB gun. (Older Sister was a teenager at that point and was no doubt too busy feathering her hair to hang out with us kids.)

I grew up in a beautiful, huge, old woodframe house built in 1908. It has servants' quarters. The woodwork is to die for. The lack of air conditioning is to die from.

When the weather went above 80, the house became unbearable, so Mom would pack us kids into the faux-wood paneled Mercury station wagon and take us up to the cabin, where Dad would join us on weekends.

And here's the stuff that makes Heather the Wisconsin-Hater weep softly. We bathed and washed our clothes in the lake. There are bats and mice and raccoons. There are four churches, three taverns, one grocery store and no movie theatres. And? We have no phone, no television and no radio.

(Actually, I'm going up there this weekend, and I'm bringing back a corn husk doll for Heather. And she'll be obligated to keep it because it's a sentimental gift from her dear friend.)

And the weird part? I never missed those things. And when I go there as an adult? I still don't miss them. So, yeah, Wenchie secretly has no problem living without technology (for pre-determined spans of time). I'm kinda embarassed by it, actually. It seems not to fit my persona, along with Fear Of Flying and Makes Herself Eat Yogurt Once a Day. But it's those little anomylies on my personality that make it so rich and fascinating, right? Right?

Don't get me wrong. I love my blog. LOVE, in the purest, strongest, most spiritual sense of the word. And I love eBay. I hate the thought that auctions are ending without me bidding on them. But... I just so love peace and quiet and stillness and doing nothing, that I'm pretty much okay without the Internet for ten days.

God, this turned into some gay, zen-like Glimpse Into Wenchie's Childhood. I'm so sorry, Queenie.

Of course, if I didn't have the Internet at work, I would impale myself right now on a company pen. But that's hardly good advice.

Hmm. I'm gonna have to think of something really special to do for the 1000th commenter. It's a landmark number that deserves special recognition. Any suggestions?

Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (4)

May 12, 2006

Little Man Tate

Nephew will be seven this month, and he's reading at a college sophomore level, or something like that.

Each week in class, they have vocabulary words to do. Normally, he won't even deign to go over the one-syllable words with Older Sister (who really needs a real name here). However, he's at the age where he still likes his teacher, so when she asks, he will answer.

Recently, she asked him to say a sentence using the word been.

He said, "I've been around."

Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (2)

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)

April 10, 2006

My Speech, After My Award-Winning Solo at Saturday's Irish Concert

First, I'd like to thank The Big Man for blessing me with such a beautiful voice and the vanity that compells me to share it with the world.

I'd like to thank the chorale Director for giving me this solo, despite the fact that I didn't audition for it because it's right at my break and, therefore, shredded my chest voice.

I'd also like to thank K for assuring me that, although anyone can sing a "pretty" solo, it takes a special kind of personality to sing a "peasant-y" solo, with a slight Irish brogue.

Thank you, also, to my parents, for instilling in me, at an early age, a love of all kinds of music. And for supporting me by coming to see the concert (unlike any of my other family and friends, who all suck... except you, Snippy Bitch, you're the only one who loves me).

And I'd like to thank my dad, especially, for passing along the DNA that made possible a nervous flop-sweat so purile that I had to borrow some Old Spice deodorant from a male friend.

And lastly, thank you, A, for the deodorant. I'm sure all the other second sopranos are grateful, as well.

Thank you, and good night.

Posted at 02:44 PM | Comments (2)

March 27, 2006

Quick Pictoral of Wenchie's Disney Trip

At work, I was greeted by 59 emails, which really isn't too tough to tackle. No, what's going to eat up my entire day is all the catching up I have to do on my favorite sites! Not to mention all the drama with Nicholle. Thank God my bosses are out for a couple of days! Isn't that considerate of them? I love them so.

[For those of you who don't know, half the fun... okay, maybe not half. But maybe a ten to twenty percent portion of the fun of my photos is the captions. If you put your pointer on the photo (Mom, you don't have to click it, just leave it there for a second.), you'll see a caption pop up. I always do that with my photos. And granted, some are funnier than others, but if you've got some time to kill and this is your first introduction to the beauty of roll-over captions, go back and check out some of my past photo-laden posts. This has been a public service announcement. We now return you to your regularly scheduled crapfest.]

We stayed at the Caribbean Beach Resort, which was really nice, and blissfully void of all the snooty Floridian Resort people who are too good to give us their bus seats for TWO ELDERY PEOPLE AND A PREGNANT LADY!!! FUCKERS!!!

Oh, for God's sake, no. I'm not preggo. Billi is! Visibly! And yet? NO SEATS OFFERED! It's amazing how the "Happiest Place on Earth" can make you hate people so much.

Anyhoo, we were near the resort entrace, so our bus stop was always the first one -- nyah-nyah, selfish people! And we were right by the restaurant, so we didn't have to take a bus in order to eat. Again -- nyah.

The weather was PERFECT. Never went over 85 or under 60. Not that I got any hint of a tan, but at least I got to wear short sleeves.

Boy Child LOOOOOOOOOOOOOVED the characters. He would run up to any character -- in full-on costume or make-up -- and practically hump their leg with joy.

If I took a photo of every character he assaulted,... well, I'd just have too many damn photos. And we'd have two of them all. Here's Billi ruining my photo op.

Girl Child, on the other hand, would only wave from a distance or slap them five. But it wasn't so much a hey-brothah-slip-me-some-skin as it was a run-up-and-touch-the-creepy-old-house-without-the-creepy-old-lady-who-lives-there-seeing-you. She preferred the rides.

One night, we had dinner in Japan, at one of those places where your table is the grill, and the guy makes it right there for you. It was fantastic! Best dinner there! But kind of humbling that Boy Child is more adept with chopsticks than I am.

At Animal Kingdom, we went on the safari ride, which was really cool, and this giraffe came so close to our car, I could have reached out and touched it, I swear. But I didn't. With my luck, it would have been the only carniverous giraffe in recorded history.

And my husband. God bless 'im. He'll do anything I tell him to. He stuck his tongue to the lamppost in the Narnia display. Any stupid thing for a photo. Here he is fondling Triton in Epcot's Italy.

Of course, there will be much more Disney-esque rambling in the coming days, and a review of Dame Edna's show, and we have to catch up on all the America's Next Top Model we missed! So much to blog, so few work hours in the day!

Posted at 11:10 AM | Comments (3)

March 13, 2006

A Hallmark Moment

So I showed up at Thursday dinner, and Mom and Dad were sitting on the couch, about two feet apart. Now, it's a big couch, but I like my personal space.

So I stood on the other side of Dad and said, "Move over."

He looked at where I wanted to sit down and said, "Why? You're not that wide."

*sniff*

Sweetest thing he has said to me in years!

Posted at 01:44 PM | 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 03, 2006

Georgia On My Mind

Husband turned forty-nine a few days after he got out of the hospital. And as soon as I typed that, I thought Is he gonna get mad at me for telling the Internet his age? But I'm anticipating some nudity or catfighting or police involvment or something at his big fiftieth bash next year -- something blog-worthy -- so what's the dif if I mention he's forty-nine now or he's fifty next year?

Anyhoo, on his birthday, he got this card in the mail:

If you can't read it because I had to shrink it, the handwritten note says:

From your friends at [Local] Hospital: We enjoyed seeing you again, and are glad we helped you make it to this birthday. We're sure we'll see you again soon.

And it's signed by:

Nancy C.
Dr. Richards
Georgia
Hector Gonzalez
Dr. Patel
Souvanna

Needless to say, we laughed our asses off and showed it to everyone we know. When he was in the hospital, after his files were checked by a few key people, the staff was soon calling him Mr. Drillbit. I'm not even making that up. He's a legend.

So we figured that it was certainly plausible that, thinking themselves so damn funny, the staff would send him a card. His date of birth and list of ridiculous mishaps were right there in his file for all to see!

Besides, Georgia was one of the names of one of the nurses. They had his nurses' names up on a board by his bed, and they were Georgia and Gracie. I remember thinking -- Two G names. Huh. What are the odds?

Husband proudly showed his birthday card to Mom, and she goes, "This looks like Egrau's handwriting."

My Mom -- the woman who can't remember what year it is; the woman who still calls me by the dog's name, even 'though Annie has been chasing bunnies in heaven for several years now; the woman who talks to herself more than she talks to anyone else -- saw right through the ruse that we could not.

I am bowing my head in shame.

It totally WAS Egrau's handwriting! How did I not know that? Egrau has been writing me notes for YEARS!

SHE TOTALLY GOT US!

Oh, and she got us even worse than we thought.

"Didn't you guys notice that it was a twenty-three cent stamp, and it wasn't cancelled? I just put it it your mailbox! And I just made up a return address for the hospital. You guys didn't notice?"

NOOOOoooOO!!!

Dude! How did she know about Georgia and Dr. Patel?

"Every hospital has a Dr. Patel."

I guess Georgia was just a lucky guess. Man, she got us but good. Our revenge will be served cold..., with dill sauce..., and a side of grilled asparagus....

Posted at 03:13 PM | Comments (1)

February 21, 2006

My Dog Can Type

My parents have a HUGE 90-year old house and a HUGE yard on a double lot, and they like dogs who follow the command "Other room!" So whenever we go outta town, that's where Daisy stays. One time, Daisy was there for a week, and she literally got tendonitis in her leg from all the exercise she got running around their immense property. That ought to tell you something about our lifestyle right there.

Now, when Billi and Older Sister and I were little and my folks went outta town or had a party that necessitated police involvement (not exaggerating!), we'd often stay with Mom's folks. My grandparents took us, my folks take Daisy -- it's the Circle of Life right here in my blog, folks.

And my Gramma would always have us write down what we did each day to give to Mom and Dad when they picked us up. Stuff like "Blew bubbles in the yard," or "Played kickball with Grampa," or "Played Crazy 8's." Oh my God. I just realized. Gramma J. was my first blogging influence. That's... surreal.

Anyhoo, Husband and I went outta town for Valentine's last weekend, and Daisy, again, stayed with my folks. And Mom had Daisy keep a blog of what she did all weekend. This is the email I got from my dog:

Dear Mom and Daddy:

I am having a great time and no one here has dared give me "people " food. I gobble up my own food and drink lots of water and Grandpa has taken me out at least 35 times since Friday. I think Grammy will suffer a kiniption soon. I have fun with him. I just dance around him and he, quick, takes me out. What a sucker!! Grandma is kind and gentle with me, but doesn't spoil me, Phooey.

I really didn't like taking those pills, and after a while, Grandpa stuck it in a tiny bit of liver sausage -- he tricked me!

I don't play much with my squeeky squirrel, but Grammy loves it. She's wondering if it escaped from Cartwrights'.

Well, I shall now go down to Grandpa's secret hideout, a/k/a the basement, while Grammy tucks herself in.

They don't sing in choir tomorrow (Sun) but Gram will go to church and hear Kathie talk at the Adult Ed program and Grampy and I shall frolick around the house until she returns.

WOOF--WOOF-------BOW-----BOW. Daisy.

She and I are going to have a serious talk about grammar.

"No, no, Daisy! No run-on sentences! Where's your commas? Go get your commas! Good dog!"

Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (3)

January 24, 2006

I'm Stupid: Scientific Documentation

Well, great. Now I know who's been tutoring the dog. It's Nephew!

Got his report card. It's all E's and S's and S+'s. (That's Excellent, Satisfactory and Satisfactory Plus, for those of you out of grade school. Good God, I hope there's no grade schoolers reading this. I'm not talking about anime or basketball, kids! Move along! Nothing to see here! Go text message your friends -- I think they went to Starbucks without you!)

I hope Older Sister doesn't show those grades to Mom. He's totally showing-up all of her children. Pfeh. I'll bet he gets picked first for kickball, too. Show off! You think you're so cool!

Oh, and? He likes to keep sharp by spelling everything he says, like entire sentences. He'll be all, "C - A - N - W - E - P - L - A - Y - O - U - T - S - I - D - E - W - H - E - N - Y - O - U - A - R - E - D - O - N - E - C - L - E - A - N - I - N - G ?"

And O.S. is like, "Wait -- let Mommy catch up! ...Which yout's have redone what now?"

He's certainly come a long way from "He wanted a bigger sun and there was a bigger sun."

Then O.S. was giving him vocabulary words to spell, and she got to, "Spell as."

And he's all, "I'm not even gonna answer that one."

One time, Younger Step Daughter asked me to help her with her homework. Yes -- one time. She asked, "Can you help me with this math problem?"

I took a quick look. "Um, no."

She laughed cuz she thought I was giving her a hard time, "No, really!"

"No, really. I can't. I don't even know what those symbols mean. Wait -- I think I recognize one -- is that a seven?"

"I'll ask Dad."

She was eleven at the time.

No wonder the dog is gaining on me.

Posted at 02:22 PM | Comments (0)

November 02, 2005

Birthday Weekend Update: with your host, Wenchie McPirateson

Ah, a birthday with the McCabes. The free-flowing wine, the pink buttercream flowers, the laughter, the love... *sigh*

But I think my favorite part of my McCabe birthday party was when Heather's Dad told completely racist jokes, interspersed with the occassional abortion joke for good measure.

Heather bore the shame quite well -- face down on the table; long, flowing locks strewn across her frosting-smeared dessert plate -- in a manner both sexy and utterly despondant. I give her great credit for resisting what I'm sure was an overwhelming urge to impale herself on her dessert fork.

But, hey -- there was MORNINGFIELD'S CAKE! How bad could it have been?

The next night, at my next Italian restaurant birthday dinner, Boy Child and Girl Child were model children. No screaming, crying, fighting or trying to escape. And just when I was starting to feel bad about not going out to fight the Pod People and get the real Boy Child and Girl Child back, Jenga made me realize that that would not be necessary.

They were each building a tower out of the wooden Jenga blocks. Girl Child, being older and, therefore, more dexterious, built a taller tower. So Boy Child marched over and, rather matter-of-factly, smacked her tower onto the floor.

"Boy Child! That was mean! Tell Girl Child you're sorry!"

To which he replied, "I'm not."

And Girl Child said, "He's just jealous because my tower was bigger."

Well, well, well. Just five years old, and already she has a firm grasp of how the male psyche works.

Posted at 11:24 AM | Comments (3)

October 31, 2005

The First Official Photo of Pirate Wench!

Last Halloween, I wrote a post about when Halloween used to be cool and the amazing costumes my Dad made for us.

For those too high on fun-sized Milky Ways to click the link:

There was the huge paper maché clown head, which, looking back on, was pretty scary, but that was years before I was stalked by a Ringling Brothers graduate, so I liked it. And it came in handy when my bag alone could not contain all my candy. Oh, glorious candy-filled clown head!

But the piece de resistance was Joan of Arc. (Did you hear the heavenly choir singing when I said that? Cuz I did.) I didn't even really know anything about her, but I was a girl and I was wearing armor, for Pete's sake! How hardcore was I! There was a black cardboard horse that went around my waist, via suspenders under my aluminum armor. And this was no fem, merry-go-round horse, man. This stallion was fierce! With angry eyes and flairing nostrils! And it had a black curtain around the bottom so you couldn't see my real legs underneath, and there were fake, armored legs attached to the side so it looked like I was sitting astride my noble steed! It was so fucking kewl!

This photo was taken in 1977. I had just turned 8, and Billi had just turned 6. (I think I have to credit Older Sister with at least part of the clown head construction. She was also the first to wear it, but I don't have any photos of that.) It's me in the clown head and Billi in the Joan of Arc costume, which I had outgrown by '77. Prior to that, I was Joan of Arc, and Billi was my squire. Hee! Servant Billi!

This one was taken in 1975, according to Mom's notation on the back, so I was just 6 and Billi was just 4. That's a real metal shield Dad made for her. (He's a Mechanical Engineer with Silversmith training -- dude can make ANYTHING.)

I especially love Billi's shoes. This really provides some insight into the shoe-obsession that has plagued her adult life.

Happy Halloween, my pretties!

Posted at 01:05 PM | Comments (5)

October 13, 2005

1-800-GRR-WOOF

Daisy stayed at my parents' house while Husband and I were on vacation. She looooooooves it there! They have a HUGE back yard, and they're home a lot more than Husband and I are, so it's like a vacation for Daisy. Different crotches to sniff! New pizza crusts to beg for! Wheeeeeeeeee -- it's Christmas!

We got back in town last night around dinner time, and I called over there to let them know I'd be coming to get Daisy. Dad answered, which means Mom is either out or dead.

"Hello?"

"WHERE'S MOM???" I demanded, looking at the four un-listened-to messages on my answering machine and wondering if one of them was about Mom's funeral arrangements.

"She took Nephew to choir practice."

"Oh. Okay, well, I'll be there to get Daisy in about 20 minutes."

"Okay. You wanna talk to her?"

"Um... N-no..."

"Awwwwwww, she wants to talk to you."

"Dad, don't put the dog on the phone. Dad! Dad? Don't put the--Daisy! Hi! ... Yes, I'll be there in a little bit... No, you can't stay there... Because you're our dog! ... Because I said so... I will take you for more walks! ... Put your grandpa back on the phone."

HE PUT THE DOG ON THE PHONE.

This is going right into my Case for Having Dad Committed file.

Posted at 02:33 PM | Comments (2)

September 12, 2005

MY. MOM.

Older Sister (O.S., for the purpose of me being lazy and not wanting to type so many, many letters), owner of my trippy and talented Nephew, is one of those Moms that other Moms secretly resent.

This is her To Do List for a typical day:

1. Play computer learning games with Nephew.
2. Play board games with Nephew.
3. Hunt, capture and study disgusting bugs with Nephew.
4. Build Eiffel Tower out of popsicle sticks in living room.
5. Re-enact Civil War with Star Wars toys from Burger King.

Long story short -- this broad is a hands-on Mom. (Jesus, I'm getting tired just writing this.)

O.S.'s Husband (the O.S.H.) is hands-on, too, but to a somewhat lesser extent, since someone has to earn the money to pay for the field trip to visit the Colosseum.

In school on Friday, Nephew's class was told to draw pictures of their family members doing whatever it is that they do.

Nephew drew a very touching picture of he and O.S.H. holding hands and smiling. It was him and his Daddy playing and having fun, which is so adorable, I can't even make fun of it. (Remember this moment -- it doesn't happen often.)

And THIS is what he drew for O.S.:

Can you believe that?! First childbirth, now THIS?! God, it's like he's begging not to be allowed to taking Driver's Ed!

Nephew, for God's sake, she's building you a hang-glider in the garage so you can take arial photographs for your scrapbook! PUT DOWN THE CRAYONS AND BACK AWAY!

Although I kinda love how he uses blog-speak for the title:

MY. MOM. CAN. CLEAN.

And my sister, God bless her -- she just said, "Well, at least he thinks I clean the house!"

Posted at 06:44 PM | Comments (4)

August 19, 2005

Pneumonia Is Pnot Phunny

Adding to my intestinal distress lately, Molly has pneumonia. It started off as kennel cough, which reared it's phlegmy head the day after my parents brought her home, and has since turned into a potentially-fatal case of pneumonia.

Excuse me? How is pneumonia even an issue anymore? Didn't that go the way of consumption and ennui and vapors? It's not like Molly was living in a drafty, mildewy castle on a moor!

Yesterday, the vet gave her a mega-bionic-anti-pneumonia shot and told them, "If she doesn't get better, take her back to ACS, and they'll put her down for you."

HORRIFIED!

You don't give up on your new dog, just because she's costing you an average of $100 a day, and you are on your knees every 10 minutes cleaning up puke or mucus from your oriental rugs! I shudder to think what would happen if little Wenchie had taken sick 35 years ago.

"Oh, the new one? Well, she's got an ear infection, and she's not responding to the rum. Clearly, she's defective, so I think we're just gonna take her back to the hospital. And then I think we'll pick up a new kitchen table at IKEA on the way home."

Also, if Molly dies, it will scar Mom, who won't want to get another dog and risk going thru all this again. So I'll be forced to buy a dog and leave it in their yard in the middle of the night. Is that a felony? Leaving something instead of stealing it? I don't think so. I mean, it's anti-stealing, so logically, I should have one of the felonies erased from my record, no?

Luckily, the drugs have perked Molly up a bit, and she was actually walking about and wagging her tail when I visited her last night. I wanted to comfort Molly, and to talk Mom out of returning her, which was easy to do. (Mom's secretly a softie. Shhhhhhh!)

I also wanted to lecture my Dad on the virtues of taking his turn cleaning up the canine bodily fluids once in a while! Do we all understand now why Mom was reluctant to get another dog? It's because Ward Cleaver considers any kind of caretaking to be woman's work. No one will be surprised the day he doesn't wake up, due to the waffle iron imbedded in his skull.

I go, "Dad, you have to help Mom clean up the dog puke! You wanted a dog, too!"

He goes, "Hey! I shaved my moustache!"

Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (3)

July 07, 2005

Let It Mellow

So you know how there's that stereotype that all Jewish people are cheap? Well, aside from it not being true (my Lady Boss is Jewish and always brings me presents when she goes on trips -- have I mentioned that I love presents?), as it turns out, it's also not Politically Correct, or un-PC.

Un-PC means that, if you say something bad about someone different from you, you can be arrested for a Hate Crime, tarred, feathered, drawn, quartered, eviscerated, poked with a pointy stick, and made to wear polyester blend slacks in last season's colors.

But I have a solution. The Norwegians. As it turns out, the last time the Norwegians were victimized... well, no one remembers the last time the Norwegians were anyone's victims, and that's really the whole point. In fact, the only thing 99% of the U.S. population knows about us Norwegians is that, at one time, we raped and pilliaged just about everyone else out there.

Therefore, we remain -- along with fat people, sopranos and trailer trash -- one of the last groups of people you can safely make fun of. So, when you want to cleverly illustrate someone's extreme thriftiness, for example, instead of calling them Jewish and opening yourself up to the Spanish Inquisition, you can just point, laugh and call them Norwegian.

And no one will care.

Because it's totally true.

Take, for instance, my family. At our summer cabin, we have a holding tank. For those of you lucky enough not to have one, I'll explain. The whole town is just one, big slab of bedrock, which makes your typical sewer system impossible. So, we get our water from our own well, and when we shower, wash dishes, poop, pee, etc., it all goes into a big, underground tank, which then gets pumped out and... I don't know what happens to it. And that's the way I like it.

So, my family, in order to avoid paying for a lot of pump-outs, has a rule, in the form of a rhyme you've perhaps heard if you've been to camp:

If it's yellow, let it mellow.

If it's brown, flush it down.

How quaint.

As a result, there was lots of toilet paper in the bowl when I got up one morning and had to piss like a racehorse. Seeing such a full commode, I thought it wise to flush before I peed.

Imagine my horror when toilet paper and pee-water went cascading over the porcelin rim and onto the floor, soaking the bathroom rugs and edging ever nearer to my bare feet.

Husband woke out of a dead sleep (it was 6am) to my screams and, being a man of action -- and a man of wanting to shut me up, quickly grabbed a plunger and got to work.

The tsunami was over quickly, but the aftermath lingered, putting physical and emotional strain on the entire community. There was pee to be mopped up, rugs to drip-dry and family members to blame. People had to wait for the floor to dry before attending to their morning powder room needs. And I was mighty pissed off. And almost literally, pissed on.

So there are two morals to this story.

Moral the First: Norwegians are cheap and should be mocked.

Moral the Second: It's okay if you're a cheap Norwegian because someone else will mop up your pee.

Hmm. That second moral really sucked.

Posted at 01:33 PM | Comments (4)

July 06, 2005

Towels and Painting and Hangers -- Oh My!

So, the day before we were supposed to leave on my traditional 4th of July vacation at our summer-home-on-the-lake with my family, I get an answering machine message from Mom, who was already at the cabin with Dad.

"Can you go to our house and bring me a couple pairs of pants and a sweatshirt when you come up? It's chilly up here. Oh, and also grab a couple of big bath towels. I forgot to pack any."

Now, this woman has been packing to go to our cabin for FORTY-FIVE YEARS. She knows it's surrounded by Lake Michigan and forest and is, therefore, cold. She knows we swim a lot and, therefore, need lots of towels. She brought NO TOWELS!

I don't know which is more horrifying -- the thought of my parents not bathing until we arrived, or the thought of my parents... air-drying.

*shudder*

Then, I get a call from Dad. He's on his cell. The nearest cell tower being, of course, on the other side of the lake. (Mom was at least bright enough to go to a friend's house and use a landline phone. That's right -- no phone at the cabin. Primative, sure, but for the first several years they had NO indoor plumbing and NO electricity. So even though I'm writing this on a clay tablet with a sharp stick to be typed up upon my return, I consider myself lucky. At least I never had to beat cloth diapers on a rock at the water's edge. My mother is a saint.)

Where the hell was I? Ah, yes. I hear from Dad.

"Hi. It's ~ ~ crackle ~~ seventy-fifth ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ Laura ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ party ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ painting ~ ~ crackle ~ ~ Maureen."

And here's my end of the conversation.

"Dad? Dad! I can't hear you! Go in the back yard and stand on the big rock! Dad! Can you hear me?"

*click*

Hokay then. Luckily, I was able to use my enormous brain to decipher Dad's code. I figure he said something to the effect of:

"Hi. It's your Daddy. It's the seventy-fifth anniversary of when the cabin was built, so Laura and Carlene [my cousins] are throwing a party. Bring the painting of me that Maureen did."

Now, I didn't know what one had to do with the other, but I found out later that my cousins thought it would be funny to have Dad's portrait hanging over the fireplace for the party. Probably to remind us of what he looked like before he grew his patchy, grey beard and started scaring Boy Child with the Homeless Drunk look.

So, I went back to their house and got the painting. Then, I got a call from Billi's husband on his cell (he, Billi and the kids were up there already, too):

"Hey! Billi says to b