January 23, 2012

Hapless Prey

Owning a kitchen appliance is like having a spouse -- you ignore the things that you don't like because it's not worth the hassle and expense to get a new one. And when you do get a new one, you're like, I can't believe I put up with so much crap for so long!

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Billi's husband Brad has apparently gotten it into his head that they need **ALL*NEW*STAINLESS*STEEL*APPLIANCES** in their kitchen. And I thought that was hilarious for two reasons. One, their appliances are way newer -- and way better-looking -- than mine, so I can't imagine not loving them. Two, is this something that guys do? Get worked-up about kitchen appliances? Because, in an extraordinary act of table-turning, I think Husband may have to take away Brad's Man Card.

Anyhoo, when Billi told me about their impending purchases, I drooled over their current dishwasher because mine has so many things to hate about it, I can't even start. Don't put a nickel in me! My biggest problem is that it is old and filthy and impossible to clean. And you KNOW how badly that kind of shit sticks in my craw!

And Billi, having a heart of gold, offered me their old dishwasher, once their new one comes. *swoon* A quiet dishwasher without imbedded, 25-year old grime?! Sign me up! I texted Husband immediately with the proposal but never heard back from him because he was in day-long meetings or some blah-blah thing.

When I asked him about it that night, he said, "Well, if we need a new dishwasher, I'd rather just go buy a new one. Do we need a new one?"

"YES." Barely-contained joy!

"Then let's go to Abt this weekend and look for one."

Oh my God! That worked AWESOME! I totally unintentionally tricked him into thinking that getting a new dishwasher was his idea! I am unintentionally brilliant!

We arrived at Abt at 9:30 on Saturday morning, and an adorable older salesman named Will started talking with us. (Not in a pushy way -- Abt salespeople don't work on commission.) By 10:30, Husband and I had decided to get a new dishwasher, double-oven, stove top, microwave and fridge, but to space them out over the course of the next twelve to eighteen months.

By 11:00, we'd added a garbage disposal, new counter tops, new sink, and we're aiming to have to done by the end of February. Yeah, Will is good.

But also, the more we looked at the new, shiny appliances, the less we were able to ignore what's wrong with our current ones. Our fridge routinely freezes anything we put in the vegetable drawers. Of our double-oven, only one of them opens, and that one has a broken handle. Our stove top is rusting. And our microwave is probably giving me brain cancer. (I've already opined about the dishwasher.)

And NOW I understand why Brad is so jazzed about new appliances. He probably went into the store looking for a replacement handle for his oven and fell hapless prey to the shininess of it all.

So, yeah, [un-socially-acceptable overshare regarding our finances] after we pay off our credit cards with Husband's bonus, we're going to rack them up again with a new kitchen. I guess now that I've mentioned it, I'm obligated to do a Before 'n' After blog of my kitchen. Which means that I have to clean it in order to do the Before photos. Dammit. Me and my big mouth.

Posted at 09:42 AM | Comments (2)

December 27, 2011

Pants, Stuffers & Mugs

Pants

Had a small, intimate gathering at the Wenchie homestead on Christmas Eve. Mommie Dearest wore a lovely, black, velvet blazer with a sterling silver pin. Billi wore her knee-high, black, leather boots. The Boy Child and The Spare wore matching striped sweaters.

And then Dad showed up. In a light blue polo shirt, rust-colored fleece vest, black socks, and sandals.

Being the brat that I am, I said, "Dad! You dressed up!"

"I am the only one here wearing slacks!" he said, meaning that every other guy there was wearing jeans.

"Well, that's only because all of your jeans have holes in the crotch."

Awkward silence.

"Wow," said Billi. "Thanks for not wearing those."

Bonus Cut: Actual text from Heather on Christmas Eve -- My dad is wearing khakis that are too big for him, belted super high and the belt is totally outside the loops. Sweater tucked in.

Stuffers

When I first got married to Husband, I always made sure that he had stocking stuffers from "Santa" to open on Christmas morning (since we do our big presents* on Christmas Eve). He, however, took a while to catch on. And when he did, I got mostly office supplies.

*sigh* I know. Like, has he met me?! If I need any office supplies, I will steal them from work like a normal person!

And since the scene over at Billi's house was pretty much the same thing, she and I decided that we would do each other's stocking stuffers every year.

It was kind of funny, digging things out of my red, velvet stocking with my name embroidered on it. I'd be like, Pens from Husband. Mango body lotion from Billi. Magnets from Husband. Hello Kitty nail polish from Billi.

But you guys -- the weirdest thing happened. Husband WATCHED! And LEARNED! And it may have taken a decade, but this year, my stocking sutffers were so awesome, I had a hard time figuring out who gave me what! Dude gave me FOUR nail polishes!

I have to give him props. He paid attention and followed through. I wonder how Billi's stocking fared this year... (Care to guest-blog, Billi? I know you have good stories!)

Mugs

I got Billi a nice cashmere, wine-colored, V-neck sweater from Eddie Bauer, and a dove grey, ruffled tank to go underneath. I was quite pleased with myself, until, the Sunday before Christmas, I saw her wearing almost the exact same thing. And while it was gratifying to know that I had picked out something that obviously appealed to her, I was disappointed to have my awesome purchases diluted by an exact replica.

Anyhoo, I also got Billi a gravy boat, as I discovered on Thanksgiving that the woman doesn't own a gravy boat. Who doesn't have a gravy boat?!

I also bought her (back in August) two very tasteful coffee mugs from a restaurant that we frequent on our trips to Door County. (Julie's Cafe has the best breakfasts!) She is trying to replace her novelty coffee mugs with normal ones that don't have Dilbert or Garfield or Maxine on them, so every time I buy her a nice mug, she gets to throw out an old one.

So she opened the mugs I'd wrapped up for her, and... they were painted black and white like cow skin. They also had four little udders on the bottom that the mugs stand on.

I remember thinking, In what drunken stupor did I buy Billi COW MUGS? Why the hell did I think those would be a good idea?

Bless her heart, she did her best to look pleased.

I finally started laughing and broke the tension, "Where in God's name did those mugs come from? Those aren't for you!"

I don't remember what her response was, but she was visibly relieved. Brad was laughing hysterically and calling me by my mother's first name. I will admit -- it was a classic Mommie Dearest move. And I'm only forty-two!

Then Husband said, "I think I may have bought those for my mom when I was in Nebraska..."

"They say Missouri," Billi said.

"What?"

"On the inside of the rim. They say Missouri."

Puzzled pause.

"When the hell was I in Missouri?"

Proving that senility IS contagious.

"More importantly, where are the mugs I bought for Billi?"

Brad was beside himself and could hardly breathe from laughing. I did eventually find one of the Julie's Cafe mugs, but I have no idea where the other one went. Maybe it got shipped to his mother? Or to Nebraska?

Rest assured, I would NEVER -- and WILL never -- buy udder mugs for Billi.

* * * * * * *

* The Big Present: Although I always provide a very clear list of suitable gifts in my sidebar, Husband sometimes insists upon shopping "off the grid." So I was terrified to see that the package under our tree with my name on it wasn't even remotely shaped like anything from my list. But Husband was just being his usual -- air quotes -- hilarious -- end air quotes -- self, and there was a blue box from Tiffany inside the bigger box. Lucky for him! Silver key pendant means he gets to spend another year in my presence!

Posted at 02:04 PM | Comments (1)

December 12, 2011

I'm Taking My Ball and Going Home

People, I tried. I really did. I tried to go to Thanksgiving dinner with Billi's in-laws with a cheerful, gracious attitude. But when a couple of selfish loudmouths want to make everyone else as miserable as they are, there is little I can do to dissuade them.

As promised, we will take a look at the incidents leading up to my refusal to ever be at the same event with them again, and YOU be the judge as to whether I failed Jeebus horribly, or if I actually channeled Jeebus when he lost his shit at the temple and knocked over all those tables and stuff.

The Incident of the Uninvited Guests

First of all, none of us should have even been there. My immediate family and I should have been at my house for Thanksgiving, as that is the way the rotation had been going. Billi takes turns between our family and her in-laws, and this year was my turn to host a small, quiet Thanksgiving, where we stifle our personal miseries like normal people.

But Brad's sister apparently got an invitation from friends and couldn't be bothered to keep her parents company, as per a phone conversation between Billi and Brad's sister, so Billi had to host at her house again. Okay, she didn't HAVE to. There was no gun to her head. But Billi and Brad are good people and didn't want to leave his parents alone on Thanksgiving.

On the other hand, due to past experiences with them...

"Who unplugged the Nesco?! The ham is still in there!"
"I didn't do it! Stop accusing me!"
"I'm not accusing you! I'm just asking!"
"I WON'T BE ACCUSED OF SOMETHING I DIDN'T DO!"

...Husband and I were reluctant to go. But I like to provide Billi with some buffer, so I ignored my gut feeling.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Brad's sister called Billi and asked, "What should I bring to dinner on Thursday?"

AhjekamungaHUH?!

Since when was she invited to dinner?! And if she was free, why wasn't SHE hosting her miserable parents?!

Billi got off the phone without giving her an answer (I said S.I.L. should bring the mashed potatoes because those are such a pain-in-the-ass to make) and reported the brief conversation to Brad. Who couldn't dial his sister fast enough.

When he asked her about the invitation from friends, she said, "I don't remember having that conversation with Billi."

That's it, honey -- endear yourself to your brother by calling his wife a liar. Good plan!

The Incident on the Stairs

There was an accident Thanksgiving morning. Brad's Dad ("Papa" from a prior post) fell down the stairs... or something... and hurt his back... again. I don't know exactly what happened. No one could get any details from him besides, "I almost died!"

Which may be a legitimate claim, I will grant him that. Falling down the stairs is scary shit, even if it's just a little slip and you catch yourself -- I sprained my shoulder that way once. But when a person falls and almost dies, it kind of begs the question -- Shouldn't you go to the E.R.? Or at the very least, lay down for a couple days?

Sadly, no. Papa is a great cook, and he was in charge of bringing the turkey and the stuffing. And by God, no life-threatening fall was going to stop him! Papa is a trooper. BUT. Papa wouldn't stop moaning. Apparently, he was in so much pain, he couldn't help but continuously verbalize it.

Now, I've had a ruptured appendix, and I didn't even moan then. I can't imagine the kind of pain that is the prerequisite for moaning, but I'm pretty sure it should include an immediate trip to the hospital. No one would have been mad. Everyone would have understood.

It was like Haunted Thanksgiving (and if that movie hasn't been made, yet, I totally call dibs). I was like, Wrong holiday, dude. The Ghost of Christmas Past doesn't come for another month.

The Stuffing Incident

I don't know if this happened before or after The Incident on the Stairs, but it doesn't really matter. At 10:00 a.m., Billi got a very loud phone call from Papa.

"I have neither the time nor the room to make the stuffing!"

Well, you can pretty much just cancel Thanksgiving at that point because everything else is just garnish to the stuffing. Billi said nothing and, again, reported the call to Brad, who, again, rapidly dialed the phone.

His mom answered and, when he told her about the call from his dad, she said, "What? I don't know what he's talking about. There's no reason we can't make the stuffing."

Okay then. Tradegy diverted, right? NooooOOOOoooo! What followed was probably the worst stuffing ever served since the very first Thanksgiving. Papa went on and on about how he'd used his mother's recipe from 1940. Now, I know what was going on in the world at that time, but I don't think that World War II is an excuse to create sub-par stuffing.

It was... I'm trying to think of something to compare the stuffing to. Grey and grainy and runny, it was the color and consistancy of newly poured concrete, with no discernable chunks that could be identified as a piece of bread. Which, by the way, is stuffing's principal ingredient.

I don't know what you have to do to food to make it grey, and it makes me sad to ponder it. Moving on.

The Incident of the Passing of the Food

I don't know if there's anyone in Brad's family -- besides Brad -- who doesn't suffer from chronic back pain from an old injury gone horribly wrong. Even before The Incident on the Stairs, Papa had a bad back from an old sledding accident.

Apparently, the grey WWII stuffing was also the same density as concrete, making it difficult for people with chronic back pain to lift and pass. So we all had to hear about it, ad nauseum, from the far end of the table, where Billi had cleverly stashed Brad's father and sister.

The two of them had quite a time, father and daughter, screaming at each other about how they couldn't hold the stuffing -- or the turkey, or the mashed potatoes... the rolls were light enough -- and ordering the other to take it from them because they dropped it. Because they couldn't hold it. Because of their back.

Brad sat next to me with his head in his hands, eyes closed, shaking his head, while Billi whispered to him, "If you want to send them home, I will totally back you up."

Sadly, that didn't happen because Brad is THE KINDEST, MOST GRACIOUS HUMAN BEING EVER. But I did receive a couple of covert "WTF???" looks from The Boy Child and The Girl Child, which totally cracked me up.

The Incidents of General Ass-hattery

So there I was, desparately trying to save Thanksgiving, like some B List starlet in a Lifetime Channel Christmas movie. "Let's go around the table, and everyone say one day that they are thankful for in the past year!"

Dad said, "Every day that I wake up in the morning." Ha!

The Boy Child said, "Halloween!" Probably because he got to go trick-or-treating without The Girl Child, who was home with a leg injury.

Papa said, "Uh... come back to me." Yeah, guess what. We didn't go back to him. Because the whole time we were going around the table, he was trying to engage someone in a conversation about some politician who did something and is going to ruin the entire world.

Now, I like a good politician-hating conversation as much as the next person. But not at Thanksgiving! And not with such a doomsday attitude. It was just really inappropriate and offensive. I don't know how else to put it. The man has a son who is incredibly compassionate and forgiving, three beautiful grandchildren, a nice house, and a wife who hasn't left him. Dude should be BRIMMING with gratitude! I just want to smack him upside the head.

The Medical Advice Incident

My parents are old and have their fair share of odd-n-ends medical challenges, one of which is my father's hip and femur, which are partially robotic. And in the rebuilding, he is now half an inch shorter in one leg and has a very wobbly gait because of it.

He should probably get an orthotic insert or something, but his doctor is incompetent, and Dad won't go to a different one, so he wobbles. It's stupid, but he's an adult and is still legally allowed to make his own decisions (for now), so we just leave it alone.

But if you've learned anything by now, it's that Papa can leave nothing alone. Not if there's some quality crabbing to be done!

Know what's awesome? Lectures that begin with, "Look. Let me tell you something." You just rolled your eyes didn't you? You couldn't help it! No one can! Because everyone hates to be talked to like that, and everyone knows that an opener like that is going to be followed by a huge, steaming pile of shit!

Dad just kept shaking his head and saying, "I can't hear you. You're talking into my bad ear." Mommie Dearest was staring so hard at her plate, I thought she was going to bore laser-holes through it. Seriously, I thought she was going to lunge over the table at Papa. We left soon after that.

The Pie Incident

But not without having dessert. And this is where I awesomely bring the story full-circle, and that NEVER happens with me, so please pay close attention and be very impressed.

Remember when the sister-in-law asked what she could bring to dinner? When Brad told her, Nothing, she asked if she should bring a pie. No, do not bring a pie. Wenchie and Mommie Dearest have taken care of dessert. Don't bring anything.

You know how this ends. She brought a pie. A lemon meringue pie.

First of all, lemon is a summer dessert. Fall is about apples, pumpkins and pecans. NOT lemon meringue. And although it was certainly not a conspiratorial effort, no one ate the lemon meringue pie. There wasn't so much as a knife indentation in the crust.

And she had the nerve to get all indignant and angry about, "How come nobody ate my pie?"

Because no one told you to bring a fucking pie.

* * * * * * *

And THAT, my friends, is why I will not be setting foot into Billi's lovely home at Christmas while Brad's family is there. I really did try to be hospitable and charitable. I know that they are people just like me, and they have hardships in their lives, and I am sorry for all of it. I do not wish them ill. I only wish them temporary laryngitis.

Now tell me -- am I wrong?

Posted at 06:25 AM | Comments (6)

November 24, 2011

A New Leaf in Late Autumn

Although I still bemoan the fact that Americans, as a collective, continue to torture ourselves and each other by gathering around the Thanksgiving people with people we can't stand, in honor of some idealized tradition that probably never existed in the first place (and will continue to secretly hope that we give it all up and just go out for pizza with people we actually like one of these years), today, I am going to try a new approach.

Wow, that sentence was Dickens-ingly long.

Now, before I go ahead and tell you my approach, let me first give you the cast of characters that I am going to spend MY Thanksgiving dinner with:

Billi: My BFF and baby sis, the consummate benevolent hostess.

Brad: Billi's husband, a loud and often-exasperated yet good-hearted man.

The Girl Child: She has called "dibs" on sitting next to Aunt Wenchie.

The Boy Child: My little angel and fellow middle child.

The Spare: Eight hundred pounds of personality crammed into a 45 lb. body. If anyone has less of a brain-to-mouth filter than me, it's him.

Grampa: My Dad. Ninety percent hearing loss plus stereotypical Nordic stoicism equals not a chatty man. We sometimes forget he's there.

Gramma: My Mom. She tries hard to keep up the smiles and good-natured conversation but she is not a magician, people! She can't do this alone!

Papa: Brad's Dad. Wow, where to begin. A man who likes to start sentences with, "So I was in line at WalMart behind a family of towel-heads..." So charming. Luckily, his size makes him easy to escape because he doesn't move around much.

Nana: Brad's Mom. She'd rather be playing poker than with her family, ...and sometimes, I can't really blame her.

Brad's Sister: One word -- narcissist. Also has no qualms about dropping the F-bomb in front of the kids when her husband displeases her.

Brad's Brother-In-Law: Three words -- professional stand-up comedian.

Brad's B.I.L.'s Father: We call him Homer, although he's really exactly like Grandpa Simpson. Exactly.

Husband: The poor, loyal soul that I continue to drag into the most horrifying and awkward family situations.

My [airquotes] favorite [end airquotes] Christmas was the one where Brad's B.I.L. forgot to put the presents in the trunk, which opened him up to some very audible and trucker-like beratings from his wife. The poor, hen-pecked guy was going to drive home (an hour each way!) to get them -- AT HER INSISTANCE -- until we all stepped in and convinced them that Christmas is about being together, not presents, and we'd really rather he be with us for dinner than out driving around.

Looking back, I'm sure he probably would have relished the opportunity to flee that scene, but hell if I was going to let her win!

Even with my brief descriptions, you can see how this crowd posesses the potential for serious annoyance. Indeed, I have been anticipating this Thanksgiving with a mixture of hunger and dread. It is difficult when you never know what to expect. But I am determined to walk into the festivities with an attitude of gratitude and good will.

Of course, this will require a zen-like meditative state during the entire hour-long drive to Billi's abode, in order to prepare myself. But it's not like I'll have many distractions. Husband will be listenting to his Christian rock station. Mommie Dearest will be quietly talking to herself. Dad will be not hearing either of them. And it's not like any of them will be expecting me to chatter cheerfully to fill the void because I have cleverly avoided ever setting that presidence.

Yes, I am determined to greet my fellow feasters and see them -- not as one-dimensional cartoon characters -- but as people with quirks and foibles, but also with the potential for mirth and kindness and great tolerance for my quirks and foibles.

It's not going to be easy, and I'm not going to guarantee that I will be entirely successful. But I will keep reminding myself that a charitable attitude is, at the very least, good for one's digestion.

Posted at 11:33 AM | Comments (0)

November 15, 2011

Take Back Thanksgiving

Okay, people, I want to start a new protest movement here in America, called Occupy Thanksgiving.

Human microphone! Test! Test! Test!

What do we want?
Not to have to spend Thanksgiving with people we don't like!
When do we want it?
Now!
What do we want?
Not to have to spend Thanksgiving with people we don't like!
When do we want it?
Now!

My cousin-in-law is a cop, and has been for a long time. He said that Thanksgiving is the day with THEE HIGHEST NUMBER OF REPORTS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE out of the whole year! Thanksgiving! The day we're all supposed to be holding hands and being grateful for everyone at the table and smiling adoringly by candlelight!

And do you know why? Oh, don't look at me all quizzically -- you know damn well why. Because your father is a drunk, and your mother is hooked on painkillers, and your father-in-law is a racist, and your cousin is a socialist, and your uncle is a pervert, and your aunt is a born-again Christian, and your little brother is a vegan! THAT'S why! None of these assholes are going to get along with each other no matter WHAT the seating arrangement is, so why torture ourselves?!?!

Family is so over-rated. There. I said it. And I know I'm gonna take some flack for it (especially if Mommie Dearest figures out how to use the Comments section), but there it is. AND YOU KNOW I'M RIGHT! And you know that I know that -- deep in your heart -- you agree with me, and you are wishing that I would invite you over to my house for Thanksgiving, so we could sit around in our fat-pants and be TRULY THANKFUL for once -- thankful that we don't have to sit next to our mother-in-law because what is that smell?!

C'mon, I want a show of hands. How many of you are going to be sitting at a table of Thanksgiving, looking around and thinking, I am just so very grateful that my life has been touched by each and every person here?

If you raise your hand, you are either:

1) Liar, liar, pants on fire.

2) Spending Thanksgiving with just one other person.

3) The luckiest damn person in the country.

And I mean that. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, and you think you may stop reading my blog because I have taken it to new heights of bitchery, then please -- stop whatever you're doing, raise your hands to the sky, and bless His Almighty Name! And then go play the Lottery because you are clearly on a roll with the good fortune and such.

But if you do know what I'm talking about, then join me! Let's get our signs made and picket in front of our own houses!

"Thanksgiving is NOT too big to fail!"

"There was no Jack Daniels at the first Thanksgiving!"

"I'm a human being, not a blurb in your gratitude journal!"

"I'm part of a family, and I'm mad as hell!"

"Close corporate tax loopholes, tax religious groups, end the wars, legalize weed, and kick Aunt Tanya the fuck out of your house!"

"Make love, not stuffing!"

"I am part of the 99% of people who can't stand at least one member of my family!"

You get the picture.

Let's join together and get serious about not having to get together. And no tie-dyed shirts or face piercings, okay? If we don't have credibility, this movement will never get off the ground.

Posted at 05:30 PM | Comments (3)

September 20, 2011

September Photo Diary: Part I of II

God, I have weird stuff on my camera. I mean, usually, it's loaded with photos of Billi's brood and/or my dogs looking stupid and/or Wisconsin landscapes. And Barbies. Always Barbies.

But lately, I have had... just... well, you be the judge.

This is my new, little friend at work. And this is his story of origin. Which is probably not comic-book-worthy, but it's at least Wenchie's-crappy-blog-worthy, so here goes.

I had just touched a Dove dark chocolate square to my tongue when my phone rang, and I could see that it was not someone who would completely understand if I answered the phone with food in my mouth. So I took the chocolate off my tongue and placed it on the little pad of stickies nearby.

When I got off the phone and stuck the chocolate back -- successfully, this time -- into my gaping maw, I noticed that the shape it left looked like a friendly choco-smile. What else could I do but draw two eyes?

And now, he is my own Wilson, like Tom Hanks had when he was on that deserted island and lost all that weight. Only made out of chocolate and not blood. Isn't he adorable? And like Wilson, my Wilson Jr. is embued with his own special personality. And I will keep him around forever.

Or until I build a raft and leave my shithole cubicle, and Wilson Jr. accidentally gets washed away in the storm. Whereafter I will always remember him fondly as the one who kept me company during my darkest days.

Yeah, I get a little bored at work sometimes.

Okay, photo two. This is The Girl Child. And this is what a ten year old girl thinks is a really cool outfit. (And I know this because I took her shopping and let her pick out an outfit all by herself.)

I'm assuming that, at school, this will be worn with Ugg boots on her feet. In her defense, this is way cuter -- and decidedly more feminine -- than the stuff I was wearing at her age. I could only describe my grade school style as Whatever the Boys Were Wearing That Made My Mother Cringe and Wonder If I Had Any Estrogen Whatsoever.

And then I hit 35, and the pendulum swung waaaaaaaaaaaaay the hell over to the other side. Now it's all sparkly nails and Hello Kitty! hoodies and false eyelashes. There is just no Happy Medium in Wenchie's World!

Hey, remember when I blogged about cleaning out my father's basement after a horrible flood? This is what the garbage men were confronted with during their route on the following Tuesday.

It may not look like much on my teeny-tiny blog, but trust me -- it cast a shadow over our Jeep Grand Cherokee. And it's not like he was hoarding feathers and packing peanuts, people! The man keeps WROUGHT IRON! And MOLTEN LEAD! And ALLOYS ANDIGIONOUS TO OTHER PLANETS! Those mutha-fockin' bags were HEAVY!

And that's all I'm allowed to say about it here because of the conditions stated in the lawsuit brought by the Waste Removal Workers of Cook County.

So let's end on a happy note. Look what Lola made me!

Isn't she adorable?! And she totally matches my office, which I love. And she has all kinds of cool textures on her! I could rub her nubbiness for hours! But then I would get her dirty, and I don't want that. So I just ocassionally caress her as I walk by...

And now I've said too much.

Posted at 07:40 PM | Comments (0)

July 30, 2011

Insert Ark Joke Here, Part II of II

(Continued from Part I of II...)

When last we left our heros (i.e. me, Husband, Billi and Brad), they were standing in eight inches of rain water, watching on Oriental rug float by. (And it's okay to say the word Oriental, as long as you're talking about a thing and not a person. I checked.)

It's a depressing, daunting task, looking at all that water and knowing that, however much back-breaking, knee-aching work you anticipate it's going to take, it will take even more. It's the kind of work that makes anyone over 30 think, Shit, I am OLD.

Now, you long-time readers have read what we moved into Mom and Dad's house when they moved several years ago, so you can imagine what we had to clear out after we forced back the flood waters.

Here is a very incomplete list of what we found, but didn't necessarily throw away:

17 brass kerosene lamps
(When the hippies force us all to only be using those halogen, squiggly lightbulbs, Mom and Dad will apparently be going back to kerosene in protest.)

6 glass kerosene lamps
(Those are the fancy lamps. For when company comes over.)

36 glass chimneys for kerosene lamps
(Thank God we'll never run out!)

3 bankers boxes of walnut wood slabs
(He says "it's for projects." I don't know what he has planned for that much wood, but he'd better get a move on because he's 77, and the clock is ticking!)

2 barrels of misc pieces of wood
(You know how much wood you can fit in a barrel? That's a lot of damn wood. Again, "for projects." I'd better be getting a really kickass tree house for Christmas!)

2 executioners axes
(You know, for when you want to execute two people simultaneously.)

3 bankers boxes of 78s for a victrola
(These we threw away because I don't think he has a victrola. However, we kept the Spike Jones set, probably for the cover art.)

2 record turntables
(Oddly, we did not find any 33 LP records for the turntables. Did he think he was going to play the 78s on them? We'll never know. One we tossed, one he kept.)

2 cigar boxes of old keys
(This will result in the weirdest craft project imaginable. Well, maybe they can use them to decorate their Christmas tree, since most of their ornaments were ruined.)

one huge box of scrap brass
(I... just don't even know.)

one box too heavy to move so we left it and don't know what's in it

ebony & ivory
(Not the 45 record of the hit song from the 80s. I'm talking about ebony wood, and ivory from elephants. Gross, I know, but in his defense, I'm sure he bought it long before it was illegal. Probably to fix our old upright piano that had ivory keys. Which tells you how damn old our piano was.)

Dad's army jacket from the Korean war
(Pretty neat. The jacket, not the war.)

Grampa's army jacket from World War I
(Very cool. It got wet, but I don't think there's any damage done that a good dry-cleaning can't fix.)

Grampa's trunk that he brought over with him when he came to America
(Dad is trying to dry that out, but I'm not sure how successful he will be. It smelled pretty nasty BEFORE the flood.)

a box of brass knuckles, not all of them brass
(I don't know what he's planning. Just don't ever sneak up on the guy.)

And then, of course, we had to have this conversation: "How do we move the canons so we can mop?"

* * * * *

Side note -- Things Husband's Ex found in her late aunt's house:

1 lb. of mercury in a jar

40 bottles still full of Scotch with labels showing they were from Prohibition

(My hand to Jeebus, people. I couldn't make this up if I tried.)

Posted at 09:11 AM | Comments (2)

July 25, 2011

Insert Ark Joke Here, Part I of II

Jeebus H. Wind-surfing Christ, I'm talking about weather for the second blog in a row here. I might as well just put on some overalls, stick a sprig of hay in my mouth and go sit on the front porch. I'm fighting the urge to whittle something as I talk about...

The Big Rain!

I hate myself so much right now. But that's not going to stop me from trying to produce a blog for you, my beloved readers.

So. I don't know when the thunderstorm started because I had my earplugs in. But when the power went off at 2:00 a.m., Husband and I were both immediately and simultaneously awake, like two migrant workers in a coffee bean field. Years of conditioning have taught us that No Power = BAD BAD BAD THINGS HAPPENING.

By 2:15, Husband had the generator hooked up to the sump pump, which, alas, could not keep up with the amount of rain falling... directly into our basement. We stood there watching the waterfull pour into our laundry room. And I don't mean some rivulets were cascading down the wall. I mean there was PROJECTILE FLOODING coming from our window well and shooting into the middle of the room! Seriously, we just stood there. What else could we do?!

Okay, there was one thing we could do. We triaged the basement, in anticipation of the rain never, ever stopping. We moved couches and carried tables. We rolled rugs and put smaller furniture on top of larger furniture.

Long story short -- we didn't lose one Barbie! All that got soaked was a crappy rug from IKEA that we didn't really need anyway. There was much sopping and mopping to do, but all in all, we were very lucky.

My parents, on the other hand, were not so lucky. After deciding at 3:00 a.m. that I probably shouldn't call them, I waited until 8:30 and called them then.

To my inquiries about their basement, my mom replied, "Oh, I don't know. I haven't even looked in the basement."

They live, by the way, four blocks away from us. On the same flood plain we live on! One summer, when I was in high school, the neighborhood we all now live in was accessible only by canoe. Saint Peter at the Gate, why the hell do we live here?!

Rhetorical dramatics aside, since Husband and I were otherwise occupied re-enacting a scene from Last of the Mohicans,...

Stay alive, no matter what occurs... I will find you!

I called Billi and asked her to check on Mom and Dad. Dad said that they would just "wait for the water to go down" and didn't need help. Luckily, we have learned from experience to ignore what he says. And Mom was more than a little happy that Billi and Brad showed up with a new generator and tons of cleaning supplies.

Know what will make an antique Oriental rug float? Eight inches of water!

To be continued...

Posted at 08:48 PM | Comments (0)

July 20, 2011

My Sleeping Disease

I don't think I'm shocking anyone with the bold statement that Chicago weather can kind of suck. We had a thousand feet of snow this winter (secretly awesome), and our Julys and Augusts often include air that you can drink with a straw. Kinda like now. It's not weather for sissies, but I've lived here all my life, so the weirdness and extremes are something that I hardly take notice of. I'm neither farmer nor meteorologist, so I do not -- and WILL NOT -- engage in discussions about the weather, other than The sky sure is pretty today.

That being said, this spring was particularly dark and dreary, even by Chicago standards. And I'm not saying this as a complaint because I do not discuss weather; I'm merely informing my non-Chicago-dwelling readers. Both of them. And I found myself thinking, I hope that was what spring was like in 1986. You see, in 1986, I slept through spring.

Yeah, I forgot to set my alarm.

No, not really. I had mono.

Wait, back up. My boyfriend at the time had mono the prior winter. But I visited him, thinking that, since mono is known as "the kissing disease," if I didn't kiss him, I'd be fine.

Wrong! Despite his mother wiping down everything he touched with Lysol, I caught it. And let the record show that he did not visit me while I had mono. Douche.

Anyhoo, shortly after my blood test showed positive for mono in March and I took to bed (much like Beth in "Little Women" -- My sewing needle has become so very heavy, Marmee), Mommie Dearest was gone for a few hours to attend a Circle meeting.

[For those of you who don't worship Mommie Dearest's particular flavor of deity, "Circle" is a group of women meeting for snacks, Bible study, and probably lots of kabitzing. It may be solely a Midwestern-Reformist thing, but I'm not sure.]

She was probably a little worried about leaving her deathly ill teenager alone for several hours, so she had our pastor call me to check-in, oh, about midway through her meeting. And she warned me to listen for the phone because, if I didn't answer, the pastor would assume something was amiss and send a S.W.A.T. team over.

So there I was, coccooned in my blue and white bedroom, the beatific faces of Duran Duran watching over me. By the way, mono "the kissing disease" is also known as "the sleeping disease" because that's all you do all day is sleep. Literally, for twenty or so hours a day. It's creepy.

Imagine -- I was feverish, pumped full of drugs, and the blood had pooled in the right side of my body from sleeping in one position for so long. The phone rang, and this was in the days before cordless phones, so I actually had to get up to answer it. Get up and go to another room. Unthinkable, now!

And as you might expect, I fainted on the way to the phone. Dropped right to the hallway floor, like the rabid dog shot dead in the street by Atticus Finch. Well, I don't remember much after that, except I'm pretty sure Mom came home early from her Circle meeting.

Two weeks into my affliction, Mommie Dearest and Dad went to Norway. I'm not making this up. They left the country to go galavanting around Scandihoovia, riding reindeer, buying wool sweaters and cruising through fjords. It's not like I had the sniffles, people!

Their excuse was that "it had already been planned" before I got sick. Besides, they had my older sister and her husband to pawn me off to! And they lived right next door! It was the perfect plan! I often wonder exactly how thrilled Spikette was about having to babysit her sick, undoubtedly crabby sister while our parents were living it up among the herring and akvavit for two weeks. Probably not very.

But for me, staying with them had perks that I undoubtedly would have had to do without, had it turned out that my parents were home.

One, I didn't have to climb any stairs. My brother-in-law carried my sorry ass up and down the stairs. (That was back before my metabolism died, so I was much more carriable.) In the morning, before they went to work, he carried me up to their bedroom so I could sleep the day away in their waterbed. Sweet! And in the evening, he carried me back downstairs to the couch so I could eat my one food item for the day, watch a little t.v., and fall asleep for the night.

Two, my one food item for the day was, for two weeks straight, an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Now, I'm not going to say that it was a completely selfless act for them to run to Dairy Queen every night. After all, they undoubtedly got something for themselves. Still, it was pretty cool of them not to lecture me about nutrition or anything. Indulge the sick person -- Yay!

Eventually, my folks returned from their globetrotting, and I was returned to my own bed, but I hardly noticed. I basically fell asleep in March and woke up in May. Completely missed spring! Snow on the ground; eyes close. Eyes open; tulips blooming. Crazy sauce!

All in all, I missed six weeks of school. Technically, I shouldn't have passed a lot of my classes, since I didn't even do any of the homework. But that's the beauty of being a middle-of-the-road student. No one had such high expectations of me that I disappointed them, and I wasn't in any advanced classes that require a ridiculous amount of work just to pass. Other the other hand, I had at least set precedence that I'm not a total slacker, so all my teachers gave me a pass.

"Meh, she would have done the work," they said. "So we'll just pretend that she did."

I was well-liked enough that no one wanted to fail me. Personality counts, people! You never knew when you're going to need a pass, so try not to piss anyone off! (Wow, how was I not validictorian?)

Posted at 06:09 AM | Comments (3)

January 24, 2011

The Bushas & the Beasts

Now, maybe it's because I have a weird sense of humor, or maybe it's because my Mother was born with a wicked streak that was just never properly cultivated, but My Mother has always been the most unintentionally hilarious person I know.

Growing up, she'd say something that would crack me up, and then she would roll her eyes and say, completely deadpan, "Wenchie, I was put on this earth to amuse you."

Hence this missive from her earlier this month, as I neared my final day of enslavement:

I was thrilled to hear that you'd be among the "retired" people in a very short time. I am having a glorious time planning things for us to do.

First, we will have to brave the frigid temperatures and take leisurely stroll through the park and see how much"nature" we can see. Birds, bugs, etc. and we can make a list to talk about later.

I'm sure we'll also run into some Bushas with their cute, little grandbabies, wrapped in 6 blankets and with 4 scarves around their skinny necks. We can't converse with them, but we shall all smile weirdly. If it is above freezing, we can bring a picnic lunch and knock the ice off the tables and sit back and watch the wonders around us.

Maybe there will be some interesting movies playing in town, but nothing with swear words -- cause you know how I feel about that.

I have to lots spare time lately, still convalescing from having a section of my body replaced. If I don't hear from you before the spring, I shall conclude that this is not quite up-your-alley.

Love to the Husband and the Beasts, Mommie Dearest

Yeah, nothing with swear words because you know how she feels about that! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! And yet, she reads my blog!

My favorite part is about the Bushas, which is perhaps Polish for grandma, or maybe she just made it up. "We shall all smile weirdly." BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

(By the way, the section of Mom's body that was replaced was her shoulder. She's got a six-inch scar, so she is a total badass now. Also? She's a CYBORG! Husband's ex-mother-in-law, whom he remains close to, recently broke her femur and had a metal plate put in to reinforce the break. This is in addition to the metal rod she already had in her arm. I pitched a reality t.v. show to Husband called "Battling Bionic Bushas," starring Mom and his former M.I.L., but he thought it might be in poor taste.)

Anyhoo, I wrote back to her:

Oh my gosh! I almost peed myself reading this! You are hilarious! You KNOW this is going in my blog, Mom! I can't stop laughing! Can we also go to the Pancake House and sit in a booth for three hours, drinking coffee and complaining about the government, and then leave a crappy tip?

Her reply:

I was so glad to hear from you. You do remember that I always told you girls that I was put on this earth to make you laugh, so I hope I can continue to do that for many years to come.

I don't think we can go to the Pancake House and talk about government cause I'm not exactly sure what that is. But a raspberry scone and some flavored coffee will do just fine.

Love to All. Mommie Dearest

By "Love to All," I can only assume she meant YOU, beloved readers. Mark this date on the calendar: Mom addresses her public for the first time!

Posted at 08:19 AM | Comments (1)

August 24, 2010

A Summer Retrospective

With a title like that, I'll bet you're expecting some wistful recounting of a romantic fling, or a retelling of some exotic vacation adventure. Wrong. Life only takes the summer off when you're in grade school. This is just stuff that happened while I was trying not to sweat. (Yes, I did more this summer than just obsess about my job. But not much more.)

Pedophilia
Jesus H. Glistening Christ, when did the neighbor's son get so damn hawt? Last summer, he was a scrawny twig who looked ridiculous in his hockey and football uniforms. But I caught a glimpse of him exiting their pool one July afternoon, and all of a sudden, the world went all slo-motion. He hoisted himself out of the pool with one arm, using chest and back muscles I didn't know existed. It was very Phoebe-Cates-In-Fast-Times-At-Ridgemont-High, only reversed. And then I snapped out of it and felt like a dirty, old lady. Now I can't even look him in the eye. I don't want to look at him because I don't want to get caught looking at him. *sigh*

The Date Is Set
Older Step Daugther will be getting married in a three-hour, Orthodox ceremony, to which I will be bringing a book. The date is set for July 3, 2011, which is kind of ironic -- giving up one's independence the day before we celebrate our country's independence. But then, I'm a bitter, cynical bitch. So I'll just shut-up, wear something conservative, sit in the back, and bring a really good present. Assuming I'm invited.

Frontierville
This little nightmare started on a Friday that I stayed home with a migraine. Once lying in bed groaning lost its magic, I got on the computer. Because what's better for a migraine than staring at a computer screen? Billi was on FB and, via FB Chat, pressured me to join Frontierville so she'd have more neighbors because neighbors = benefits. I didn't stop playing Frontierville until late that Sunday night. In case you're lucky enough to be unfamiliar, here's what it looks like:

Should be called Why-Wenchie's-House-Is-Messy-Ville. I haven't had one productive hour all summer. Thanks, Billi! Hope your laundry never gets done!

...

And now I'm thinking about what else I want to write about, but really, I just want to get back on Frontierville. I don't like where I have my windmill and want to move it. Perhaps over by the shed...?

Posted at 09:12 AM | Comments (3)

May 27, 2010

Farmer Wenchie

On Wednesday, we had a bunch of out-of-town guests at work for some super-important meeting of highfalutin brainiacs who will change the world and bring about universal peace and prosperity. Which means that I got to use my 146 I.Q. and other mad skillz to play hostess, waitress, maid and chauffer. My fav.

Luckily, my friend K pulled me back from the brink of mass murder by inviting me to attend a gala charity event that evening in the heart of our hometown. Imagine -- peon Wenchie rubbing shoulders with the rich and philanthropic! Plus, free cocktails! We ate our way through the community's finer establishments, picking up complimentary coupons and margaritas on the way.

A lovely ending to a craptacular day, but in total, I spent thirteen hours on my feet in painful grown-up shoes. My hips, knees and ankles let me know exactly how much they didn't appreciate that kind of abuse, and I woke up the next morning nearly crippled.

(Can I still say "crippled?" Because saying that "I woke up the next morning nearly differently-abled" just doesn't sound as funny. Or does it? Well, just pick whichever one sounds funnier to you. Wenchie's Multiple-Choice-Humor Blog! Next week: Paint-By-Number Porn!)

Getting to my point, I was already pretty stiff and achey and aged by Saturday morning, when it was time to do our annual Mom's-Birthday-Plus-Mother's-Day spring planting over at Mommie Dearest's palatial homestead.

Husband and I went to Home Depot early, where it took him an hour to pick out seven plants. Seven. That's about 8.6 minutes per plant. Plus, we had to pick up several bags of mulch and some fertilizer. Otherwise known as POO. I had to drive with poo in my car.

Reason Number Twelve Why I Hate Gardening: There is poo involved. On purpose.

And in case you're wondering:

Reasons One through Eleven Why I Hate Gardening

1. Dirt.

2. Sun.

3. Sweating.

4. Kneeling.

5. Digging.

6. Bending over.

7. Bugs.

8. Worms.

9. Squatting.

10. Weeds.

11. Sun hats.

This is why my house is so clean, especially in the summer. I'd rather be doing ANYTHING than gardening.

Moving on.

By the time we arrived at Mom and Dad's, Dad was awake and in the mood to take advantage of a kindness. Tears are forming in my eyes as I think of how I can break this to you. My darlings. Your queen, your goddess, your beloved Wenchie... had to dig bushes out of the ground.

I know. I know! Try to be strong, kittens. Be strong for Mommy! I'm still having heart palpatations. I need you to be the wind beneath my wings right now.

I had to dig dirt. With a shovel. Do you know how to get a root ball out of the ground? You have to, like, put the shovel in the ground near it and then jump on the shovel. With the neighbors watching! It was humiliating.

Once the ground was prepped for planting, Husband made me help him put the plants in the ground. You know what that means? I had to dig in the dirt with my hands. LIKE AN ANIMAL.

*sob* It was horrible. Horrible!

Now I know why people used to die at age 30. Because they couldn't stand up straight! So if they fell over, while plowing or weeding or harvesting, they'd just have to lie there. Like a turtle. Limbs flailing. Unable to get back up because their center of gravity was all screwed up with the hunching.

Clearly, it is a testament to my love for my Mother that I would garden for her, uncomplaining, in quiet dignity and grace.

Posted at 06:31 AM | Comments (0)

May 13, 2010

Am I Not Merciful?!

At 4:00 today, my vacation weekend officially begins. (Or earlier, if I can passive-aggressively talk PhD Boss into working from home today and make it seem like his idea. Yes, I am that good.)

Going up to Door Co. with Billi to stay a posh hotel, swoon over the cherry blossoms, and shop all the new inventory at our favorite boutiques and galleries. Yes, AGAIN. It just doesn't get old for me, people! I don't know why! It's probably my inability to form short-term memories...

So Billi called me on Monday. She always asks if I'm at work -- despite me being on 40-hours-per-week for quite some time now -- and then I say Yes, and then she talks for ten minutes anyway. I don't know why she even asks. She's just toying with me.

B: I'm on my way to the doctor.

PW: Oh, my God! Who's hurt?

B: I have a sore throat.

PW: Oh, thank God.

B: Hey!

PW: It's not one of the kids!

B: I think it's strep.

PW: WHAT?!

B: I've had it twice before, and this is what it feels like.

PW: Are you sure it's not H1N1?

B: It's not H1N1!

PW: Oh, my God, I HUGGED you yesterday! You were in my HOME! Touching my THINGS!

B: Shut up.

She's very cranky when she's sick.

Anyhoo, she's been on antibiotics for 48 hours now, so she's fine. She's FINE, I tell you! We are NOT cancelling our vacation! If I have to go to all the shops by myself and check back on her at the hotel room occassionally to make sure she hasn't swallowed her tongue, then that's what I'm doing. She's going.

I am not staying home just because she doesn't practice good hygiene in a house full of filthy rugrats.

[Extra points for correctly identifying the movie quote that is this post's title!]

Posted at 07:54 AM | Comments (1)

April 12, 2010

A Tale of Two Planters

Billi! Look what you made me do!

Recognize this? It's the damn plant you bought me because the little owl pot it was in was so cute.

Now, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but couldn't you have just replanted the plant into one of the many pots of plants at your house, filled the owl pot with M&Ms and given it to me that way?

When I got the owl pot, I was like, "Oh, cute! The plant will die soon, and then I can put whatever I want in the owl -- like acorns or Barbie shoes or Q-tips. Awesome!"

You see, plants hate me. My Grandma had a fern for seventeer years, and when she died, my Dad gave it to me. No idea why. It was dead inside a month. Can you imagine the guilt?! Emotionally scarred by a plant!

I can kill cactuses. (Cacti?) I can kill air ferns. I can kill any plant simply by being in close proximity to it. That's my super-power.

So I set Billi's plant on the windowsill in my kitchen, and Husband said, "Oh, that's a begonia!"

Jeebus, don't tell me it's NAME! I don't want to know it's name! It's harder for me to passively and unemotionally anticipate its imminant demise if it has a NAME!

Of course, Husband doesn't understand this because he grew up in a world where they named their animals and then ate them. So he can't comprehend why I don't want to be on a first-name basis with a plant.

And I am now, of course, bonding with the damn begonia. Even had to make Husband find a bigger planter and replant it. It's THRIVING. Can you believe it? A plant! Thriving! Around ME!

I am beholden unto a plant. Obligated to water it. To worry about its leaves. To express pride at seeing new growth. I have yet another living thing dependent on me, and it's ALL YOUR FAULT, BILLI!

Stupid plant.

Posted at 08:40 AM | Comments (1)

March 22, 2010

And THEN She Said...

BILLI, on the phone with me:

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

PhD BOSS, about mid-way through Friday afternoon:

I have been so uncool as a boss today.

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 06:44 AM | Comments (1)

January 12, 2010

Over State Lines

Husband's sister ML is a professional Herding Dog Trainer. Like in the movie "Babe," but with dogs instead of a pig. You didn't know that was even a real job, did you? Yes, yes, it is. There are, apparently, enough professional shepherds in the world to necessitate a professional herding dog trainer. It's a world so far outside my own that I barely comprehend it.

Anyway, ML owns a ranch, complete with sheep and geese. (Geese are what they use to train the very small puppies who might be intimidated by big-ass sheep. See how much you're learning? My blog is educational!) And all my jokes about rural life aside (and there are puh-LENTY) -- she is the SHIZZLE. If you owned a dog that actually herded and didn't sleep in your bed and eat homemade, organic food and wear little sweaters, you would know who ML is. She is The Dog Yeller.

She owns eight dogs, all working dogs. Two Great Pyrenees, five Belgian Tervurens, and one Border Collie. The Collie and one of the Tervurens are CHAMPIONS in their field (pun intended). The Great Pyreanees are employed to protect the sheep. They live with the sheep and keep the coyotes and wolves and eagles away.

(Sadly, there are no protective dogs living with the geese, and last summer, a couple of eagles made off with the entire flock. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Oh my God, rural life just never gets un-funny! I shouldn't be laughing, as it is expensive to replace a flock of geese, but that is one thing that us suburbanites and city slickers never have to worry about -- finding our goose's entrails hanging from a tree. See? FUNNY!)

Meanwhile, back in civilization, The Boy Child and The Spare continue their tormenting of their own dog, as well as my dogs. These boys luuuuuuuv dogs. So what better field trip to take them on than to a RANCH with EIGHT DOGS! It's every little boy's dream, right? Dogs big enough for them to ride! Woo-hoo!

And if we go in the beginning of April? In addition to wonderful doggies and barnyard animals? There will be BABY LAMBIES!!! ML is mating 40 of her sheep this month, and is therefore expecting 40 baby lambies the first few weeks of April! And don't even think of correcting me and telling me that a baby sheep is a kid. I don't care. It's a BABY LAMBIE!!!

So, being the awesome aunt that I am, I wrote an email to Billi outlining my idea for an outing to the wilds of Indiana. I included a lovely description of the scenery, the wilderness to explore, the dogs, the sheep, the baby lambies. But I made sure that she knew it would also involve a trip across state lines, a sleepover at a ranch, a gorge on the property big enough to hide bodies in, and various and sundry carnivores.

I mean, these are her babies I'm potentially absconding with, and I'd understand completely if she was apprehensive about letting me take her blessed treasures three hours away into coyote country.

Here is my sister's reply, verbatim:

Please. Take my children.

Their spring break is that week of March 29 - April 2.

Go! Take them! Spend the night! Have fun!

Wow. I don't even think she talked to Brad first. She just hit reply and started doing her happy dance.

Why do I get the feeling that I'll be ending some future blog post with the words "...and she left no forwarding address"?

Posted at 02:55 PM | Comments (2)

August 28, 2009

The Call

Last week, I agreed to do the reading of the lesson in chapel here at work. And then, because no one else in my department was around all week, I forgot about chapel and dressed like a total slob.

Normally, if all you have to do is get up and read a lesson during the service, you don't have to wear a robe. Only the presiding and assisting ministers wears robes. Lots of robing rules in the church.

But I didn't want Jeebus to see me dressed like a slob, so I robed. And you know who was the presiding minister? (That's the pastor who does most of the talking during the service.) The pastor of my home church. Guest pastor-ing. Which was cool, I mean, at least I knew the sermon would be good!

The next day, I got this email from my Mom:

Spoke with Pastor Homechurch this morning and he told me he had seen you at chapel today at the Wed. Morning service - and ----------------- you had a robe on and were reading things and behaving in a heavenly way. My prayers have been answered!! One of my daughters is being coming a nun - or a deaconess - or a rabbiette, or whatever. I am SO proud. Let me know if I can be of any spiritual help to you.

Love, Mother Superior Dearest

Hmm. The only explanation I can find for this is that, when God called me to be a pastor, I wasn't home, so Mom took the message. This would explain why I have no knowledge of my calling to join the pastorhood.

People, if ever there was a time to start praying, it's now.

P.S. Let me know if you need any spiritual guidance. I'm happy to pass your questions on to my Mother.

Posted at 03:10 PM | Comments (3)

June 22, 2009

Happy Day After Father's Day

10 Things You Probably Don't Know About My Dad

1. He got his appendix out when he was in grade school, and the first thing he asked his doctor when he woke up from surgery was, "Can I sleep on my tummy now?"

2. Whenever his mother couldn't find him, she would always check the alley first, where he would undoubtedly be garbage picking.

3. He can play most stringed instuments, including guitar, banjo, ukelalee and violin.

4. He fixed Jeeps in the U.S. Army during the Korean War.

5. He can build anything. ANYTHING.

6. He used to build his own firearms as a child, and once shot a whole clean through his parents' garage -- in one side, out the other.

7. Homemade firearms is mainly responsible for his hearing loss. Kids, don't try this at home!

8. Within my lifetime, he was able to do a handspring. I shit you not. I've seen it, when he was in a production of Oklahoma.

9. He has sung the romantic tenor lead in many Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, including The Gondoliers, H.M.S. Pinafore and Patience.

10. When he calls me his "lump," he swears it's short for "lump-of-sugar."

Posted at 08:03 AM | Comments (1)

May 13, 2009

A Portrait

In honor of Mother's Day, Husband and I planted some flowers in the big, brick planter in front of my parents' house. You guys, I had dirt under my fingernails. That's like one tiny step from sticking a piece of hay in my mouth and hooking my thumbs in the straps of my overalls.

"You need directions to the next town? Well, Cowsudderton is just up the road a piece. You just follow the fence 'til it ends and take a right. Where the road forks, take a left and drive until you see the sign for Jeb's Roadkill Taxedermy and take another left. If you see a dead pig on the side of the road, you've gone too far."

Anyhoo, poor Mommie Dearest had to suffer through my pubescent, eye-rolling years, and did so without punching me in the face, so she's definitely worth some dirty fingernails. Because I totally deserved many, many face-punches.

Also in honor of Mother's Day, I'd like to present to the world -- for the first time ever -- this portrait of Mommie Dearest, circa 1975, lovingly rendered in crayon on tablet paper.

Takes your breath away, doesn't it?

I'm not sure what this maternal portrait says about me, so I'm not even going to delve into it. I was just shy of six at the time and not a master of... proportional relationships. So to speak.

And now you know where I get mine.

Posted at 07:44 AM | Comments (4)

April 29, 2009

The Request

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

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

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

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

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

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

PW: [This does not bode well.]

MD: My toenails are pretty bad.

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

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

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

MD: So I was wondering...

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

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

PW: [THANK YOU, JEEBUS! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!]

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

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

Seriously, his toenails are like tree bark. Uck.

Posted at 08:20 AM | Comments (1)

April 24, 2009

Existentialism at the Second Grade Level

Remember when I saved Spikette's immortal soul by helping her plan a lesson for her Sunday School class? I think I was a bit vague in the backstory, so let me break down for you the Sunday School system at our church.

A topic is selected by someone in Plotzville, Alabama, who has never interacted with an actual human child in his/her life. Our Sunday School system spends SIX WEEKS pounding said topic into impressionable young minds using various techniques. The topic may be a concept like "stewardship," a person like Mary of Magdelene, or a Bible story like Joshua at Jericho.

The age groups rotate through different stations each Sunday, with each station presenting the current lesson or subject in a specific way. I.e., they watch a DVD about it in the AV Room, they read about it in the Library, or they re-enact it on the Drama Stage.

Spikette volunteered to run the Drama Stage all year. When she asked for my help with a lesson, she was teaching third graders. This time, writes Spikette...

I forgot to let you know how last week went with the 2nd graders. Veeeeeery strange. The premise was the same: make a short play on how you can be a good shepard and help others.

Group One, 4 kids: One girls stood in the center of the gym hypnotizing 2 kids by calling out types of candies in a dreamy voice. The two kids fall off the stage (literally) in a hypnotic state. Then one says, "I want some candy." And the girl says, "I don't have any." The kid runs after her, and she finally throws him a piece of candy. The fourth kid never did anything (that I recall). The lesson? Giving people candy (apparently reluctantly).

Group Two, 3 kids: One girl stands up and recites the 10 commandments (she got to 3 on her own, we helped with a few more and left it at that). One boy acted out the commandments and the other girl just stood there.

I'm so glad I have a real lesson to teach this week, although I better look it over because there's still not enough material for a whole class. The lesson is Mary, Jesus's Mother. There are two scripts I can use. Both short and one just has two kids. Only 3 weeks left of Sunday School. Then, I'm never doing Drama again!!!!!!!

... I don't even know what to say. Hypnotic candy? Was the first girl shepherding her flock by enabling their candy addiction? Was the candy symbolic of something else, or open to everyone's own interpretation?

Frankly, I'm surprised that a seven year old could recite three of the Ten Commandments. Although unrelated to the day's topic, I think that's pretty good. Let's see how far Wenchie can get...

1. Thou shalt not have any other gods, I don't care how awesome "Guitar Hero II" is.

2. Thou shalt not commit adultery, and this includes any sex outside of your own marriage, so yeah, it sucks.

3. Thou shalt not steal.

4. Thou shalt remember the sabbath and keep it holy. Does anyone even know what this means anymore?

5. Thou shalt not kill. Unless it's war sanctioned by your government. Then it's perfectly fine and, indeed, encouraged!

6. Thou shalt not covet anything that belongs to your neighbor, so basically, just stay indoors and pull down all your shades.

7. Hmmm...

Yeah, I'm going to take this opportunity to reiterate: Not. Pastor. Material.

Hypnotic candy. Hee!

Posted at 11:32 AM | Comments (1)

April 13, 2009

The Gospel According to Wenchie

This is not good. I am getting a reputation. The reputation of being The Churchy Person. I KNOW! The irony is killing me! But apparently, I am now the go-to person for all of my family's gospel-related needs. There goes all my street cred!

Spikette teaches Sunday School. Yes, a woman who wants to do lurid things with the bleach-blonde undead is leading America's youth to spiritual salvation. Glory hallelujah!

So Spikette called me and was like, "You work at that churchy place. I have a question about a Bible passage."

For her Sunday School class, made up of 3rd graders, the cirriculum called for Spikette to somehow tie together Abraham's near-slaughter of his son Isaac (my least-fav Bible story), shepherds and lost sheep, and some sort of dramatic puppet show. And make it all relatable to eight-year olds.

No, really. And she's not even getting paid!

Clearly, she was at a loss, so she turned to me -- Your Helpful Neighborhood Theologin. Who doesn't really like children. Or teaching. Or puppets. Shepherds I like. But I digress.

Yes, I've read the Bible. It bored the shit outta me, but I read it because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. My favorite story, which doesn't get told very often, is the one about Balaam and his talking donkey, but there I go, digressing again.

Inspired by the talking donkey, I pulled a Sunday School sacrifice-shepherd-drama lesson right outta my ass. Pun intended.

I told her to forget the Bible lesson because it's creepy and disturbing to small children; instead, focus on the shepherd-protecting-his-sheep aspect of the day; have the kids break into small groups and come up with a three-minute skit about how they can be a "shepherd" to a lost sheep in their daily lives; discuss amongst the class.

Am I not brilliant? Perhaps I should rethink this whole seminary thing...

Yeah, RIGHT.

I made Spikette promise to tell me how it went and got this response:

Thank you for your great Sunday School suggestion. We had 2 groups of 3rd graders making up a skit on a) either how to be kind to others or b) how to help those who are "lost".

One group of three had a girl asking her friend for money for breakfast, since she didn't eat yet. The boy said no. Then Jesus came and told him to give the girl money. She gave a dollar, Jesus said more. She gave another one, Jesus said more. She threw in another dollar, so the girl had a whole $3 for breakfast!!!

The other group of 4 had a girl who kept stealing. The devil was on one shoulder telling her to do it; an angel was on the other shoulder telling her not to. Then God would come out after each theft and say "You should not steal. Just for that, you have to go to church". In the end, she gave everything back.

For 5-10 minutes of prep time, it wasn't bad. We had lots of time for discussing how to help those who are lost and how to be a good Christian with ways to help others.

HA! Two things that I love. Okay, three -- the first being that I am awesome.

I love that Jesus resorted to peer pressure. And I love that church is a punishment. A little peek into the spiritual minds of 3rd graders.

What the hell kind of breakfast is she supposed to get for three bucks?!

Posted at 10:20 AM | Comments (2)

April 07, 2009

I'm Regular

I'm quite proud of myself. After a less-than-stellar beginning to 2009, I have been darn good at blogging three times a week lately. And what with my pending unemployment, it can only get better, right?

Even my Mom has noticed the change. And it's nice to get an email from her that isn't all, "Your lack of blogging is ruining my life!"

When I was little, I seriously suspected that she and my father procreated for the sole purpose of having little slaves to order around. Because, you know, we were oh-so obedient. Number of Old Styles fetched from the downstairs fridge circa 1975 to 1988: 1,375,002.

Lately, I've started to suspect that she had three daughters in the hopes that at least one of them would be able to keep her entertained in her golden years. And I am. That Daugther.

Anyhoo, here is Mom's email:

I am SO glad you are back to blogging regularly. It brightens my day (when it doesn't cause me to gasp). But you're pretty and I still love you. Love, Mommie Dearest

This woman slays me! I swear to God! I laughed embarassingly loud at work the first time I read it.

Now, is it just me, or is there some hidden subtext in this email? Something along the lines of, "Your blogging makes life worth living, and since you will soon be jobless, I will pay you to blog every day."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure.

Posted at 08:56 AM | Comments (1)

March 20, 2009

You Can't Choose Your Family

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

So here's our celebratory table conversation:

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

Husband: Do you dust them now?

PW: No.

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

Billi: Holy crap! Why was it so long?

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

PW: Good Lord. That's just awkward.

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

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

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

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

Brad: Tube top.

Mom: What?!

Billi: HA!

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

Mom: Thank you.

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

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

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

PW: Not a problem, Dad.

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

PW: Is this chocolate-mocha frosting?

Mom: No, just regular chocolate.

PW: Huh. I taste coffee.

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

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

Posted at 05:00 PM | Comments (3)

January 27, 2009

In Lieu of Me Actually Writing Something

Ladies and gentlemen, I present... my mother.

These are actual emails from my biggest fan. The titles are her subject lines.

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT , Oh Shit. Who am I kidding?
January 9

Just a note to let you know that the old guy and I are keeping up with the snow. He yields a mean snow-thrower when the mood strikes him. We may ask your help if we get 8 inches.

Love, Mommie Dearest

P. S. Do they fine you if you use obscenities online? OOOOOOOps

"The old guy" is my father. She probably even calls him this to his face. Doesn't matter -- he's deaf.

I love the P.S. Does she really think I'd still have a house if there were fines for online obscenities?!

Wha Happened?
January 13

I just got 3 e-mails from Garrance that were meant to be on my FaceBook place. How did that happen? You know it doesn't take much to confuse me.

Love, Mommie

I have three words -- "my FaceBook place." BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 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!

from your MOTHER
January 26

If you aren't going to blog on a regular basis, will you please let me know? I get so disappointed when I search for your ramblings and find nothing. This is a big letdown for me.

Did we regular readers do something to annoy you? Do you think we are not intelligent enough to comprehend all your writings? Please let me know if there's anything I can do to get you going again.

Love, You-Know-Who

Yep, my biggest fan.

See, Mom? This is what happens when you complain to the blogger -- YOU get to be the Guest Blogger!!! Mwah ha haaaaaa!

Posted at 05:37 PM | Comments (1)

December 22, 2008

My So-Called Blizzard

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad: Who is this?

PW: Your middle daughter.

Dad: Oh! My favorite!

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

Dad: Oh. Why?

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

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

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

Dad: What's "blog?"

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

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

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

Dad: What time do you get up?

PW: Five-thirty!

Dad: Oh.

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

Dad: Okay! Thanks!

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

Posted at 08:35 AM | Comments (1)

November 28, 2008

To the Poor Doggies

After posting photos of the vintage light-up Santa (that I got from Garrance), my dear, sweet, elderly mother sent me the following threatening email:

Please tell Stella and Daisy that if I could (and believe me, I REALLY can't), I would come over and toss that ugly, plastic red person out on its tush. It is an abomination to subject those cute, innocent pups to that hideous fake person.

Is your love and respect for them fading? Has your love gone to other animals we don't yet know about? Please, in God's name, put that thing in the basement or the shed, or at the curb before it does something to their psyche.

Tell them Gramma still loves them and hopes you will get your mind back and let them be happy dogs again. If you don't fix this, I'll have to take this up with MR. Wenchie, and you know what a hard-ass he can be.

All my Love, Mommie Dearest

My favorite part is that she thinks I ever had any respect for my dogs.

Posted at 10:18 AM | Comments (1)

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 (0)

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 (3)

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 (3)

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 bring up some hangers!"

"GO TO THE HARDWARE STORE, YA IDIOT!" I yelled too late. He had already hung up. Idiot.

My car was so full of other peoples' stuff, is it any wonder I forgot to bring up bath towels for me and Husband?

Posted at 02:35 PM | Comments (2)

June 23, 2005

I Can't Believe I Passed Up the Pink Trucker Hat

Well, Sunday was Father's Day, so I took my Dad to the flea market because I didn't want to go to the bar. Or the library. Or the Art Institute because, every time we're there, he makes a scene in the middle of the armor wing.

"Where's the rest of the armor and weapons? I know you have tons of it in storage! Why don't you ever change the display?! I'm not renewing my membership until I see more armor!"

And then the guards come, and he's all contrite -- "Well, can I just get a behind-the-scenes tour?" -- but it's too late. And they kick us out without even letting us puruse the gift shop, so you know they're serious about getting the weapons-obsessed crazy man outta there.

So, flea market it was, causing me to get up at the crack of crack. Shower? Ha ha ha ha ha ha! I'm just going to smell like musty WWII paraphenalia and cheap tube socks when I get home anyway.

My first find was a table strewn with vintage Barbie stuff. Just scattered about like Barbie'd had a hissy and left it all for Ken to clean up. I found a brunette Scooter and started piecing together some outfits, tipping off the seller that I, indeed, know what the hell I'm looking at (much more so than he) and will probably pay more than the average person.

And when he said $35 for the Scooter, it was obvious that he'd had experience with INSANE doll collectors before -- of the Too Many Cats and Ferns set who sleep with creepy Marie Osmond dwarf-baby dolls -- because no Barbie collector in their right mind would pay more than $20 for Skipper's homely friend.

I talked the guy into $40 for the doll and a bunch of clothes. The lot was worth $100, so I made out, but I have to remember to be less eager next time and not drool on the clothes. I could've probably gotten it all for $20, had I not been prone on the table, foaming and growling at all who approached.

There were many great finds that day. Dad got a hand grenade he plans to use as a paper weight (I don't know what's wrong with the pistol he's currently using to hold down his unruly papers). Husband found 10 past issues of a magazine he already has A HUNDRED ISSUES OF. InnocentBystander got a bunch of Star Wars toys for his son, including a piggy bank in the shape of Jar Jar's head. *shudder*

Then InnocentBystander is like, "Hey, try this on!"

I made a face, "Yeah, cuz I need a pink trucker hat that says Princess on it."

"Well, they're all outta the Queen of the Fucking Universe ones."

Ha ha.

Dad has this habit of just taking off and not bothering to see where the rest of the group is -- and, dudes, this place is HUGE -- so I made sure to stop scanning for Barbies every once in a while and take stock of my entourage.

One time, I looked up to see Dad, Husband and InnocentBystander all lined up behind me, shoulder to shoulder. Which was weird because, for starters, they weren't looking at tools. And also because we're Scandinavian and like to keep a good three-foot radius of Personal Space around us at all times. Especially the men.

Clearly, they were hiding something. Something good. And something expensive. I plowed through them to find TABLES AND TABLES OF NEW BARBIES STILL IN THEIR BOXES! The gods were smiling on me that day, my friends.

Accepting his fate, Husband handed me $100 and sighed, "We'll come back around for you when we're done."

But I barely heard him. There was Clara Barton Barbie! And Product Placement Barbie! And Barbie as Forrest's Girlfriend! And Barbie Has Amazingly Huge Breasts for a Ballerina... oh, I could go on and on and on. Don't worry -- I won't. And I limited myself to Calvin Klein Barbie. I like her. She's not an insipid, blue-eyed blonde. And how cute is that jean jacket!

On the way home, my Dad said something to the effect of, "Did you notice that the flea market seemed to be filled with fat, ugly white trash?"

I glanced around the car. At our collective girth, not improved by the Homade Danish Coffee Cake table. At the way Dad's belt (with enormous belt buckle) was struggling to keep his pants up just under his beer belly and over his non-existant ass. At the way my unshowered hair was slicked back into a ponytail, without any use of product. At the goofy gardening hat I made my skin-cancer-candidate husband wear.

And I thought, Hmm. There, but for the grace of God, go us. I don't wanna wake up one morning to find my uncle in my bed, a banjo in the corner, and my car up on cement blocks in the front yard with fourteen dogs underneath it, so I didn't say anything to anger the Gods of Poetic Justice.

Posted at 09:59 AM | Comments (3)

June 22, 2005

But Is It Art?

My just-turned-6 nephew drew this. Can you guess what it's a picture of? Hint: My nephew ROCKS!

UPDATE: Anne got it right; I knew she would. It's Darth Vader and Yoda fighting! See?! What's hilarious is that both InnocentBystander and Lola seem to find Yoda a bit femm, what with his platform shoes and girlish figure.

BTW: It's the same nephew who wrote this.

Posted at 07:17 AM | Comments (7)

June 09, 2005

Meeting the Whole Famn Damily

Know what’s always a good story? How people met their spouse.

My parents met in high school, and Dad used to ride Mom around on the back of his bike, until his mother finally said, “When are you gonna marry that girl?!”

I met Husband in the percussion section of the musical-comedy group we’re both in. I joined it in 1990, a mere (and hott) 20 years old, so Husband was still a 32 year old Ned Flanders look-alike married to The Ex. I played cymbals, he played bass drum. Neither of us are percussionists, by the way.

But even funnier, I think, are the stories of meeting your Significant Other’s parents/family, as was discussed over dinner one night with my cousins and their S.O.s.

Egrau met J when she was dancing on the bar at a biker bar downtown. The bartender said that, if he got eight women to dance on the bar, he’d give everyone in the place a free watermelon shot. And Egrau was all, “I get to dance on the bar AND get a free shot?! Sign me up!” She looked down while dancing, and there was Mr. Fabulous.

They’d been dating a while when J picked up Egrau, who was all decked out in fuck-me boots and hooker earrings, ready to go out clubbing. It wasn’t until after they were on the road that J broke the news that he needed to “stop by” his mom’s house and take her two air conditioners out of the windows.

Egrau was, of course, horrified. And with good reason. But when they arrived, J’s mom and aunt were equally horrified, but for a very different reason. They were in their house dresses and hair curlers. Mortification all around! Wheeeee! And the “stop by” turned out to be two hours. Two hours of Tassle McPoledance drinking tea at the kitchen table with Patty and Selma.

Ramone met PJ’s mom when he drove PJ beyond the Cheddar Curtain to pick up a gun cabinet from her parents. Then he drove back there to get her mom and all her things, so she could live with PJ during the divorce. Then Ramone moved in with the two ladies. To live in sin. That’s one cool mom.

However, that was waaaaaaaaaay before any of us even knew that Ramone had a girlfriend. He kinda keeps to himself. Like the Unibomber. There were rumors flying around the family that Ramone had been spotted with a cute brunette, but none of us even knew her name.

And you know how Ramone chose to indoctrinate PJ to the family? AT MY WEDDING. She met the whole damn family at once and was forced to spend all day with us. SOBER even, lest she give a bad, drunken (albeit correct) first impression.

Yeah, she wins.

Posted at 10:54 AM | Comments (1)

April 14, 2005

Trippy

Oh. My. God.

I just read something that the Nephew (of psychedelic hermit crab shell fame) wrote for his Grampa when he was four. Dude, it is so... I can't even describe it. You have to read it for yourself. Here it is, as dictated verbatim to Older Sister.

Grandpa was looking for an apple at the beach. The apple was under the sand. The arrows led him to the beach. There was a dinosaur. He wanted a bigger sun and there was a bigger sun. And his head was turning bigger and he was happier.

There was feathers that fell from the birds. The biggest apple was the one that fell. The medium ones are still on the tree. The tiny ones were still on the tree. And there were stars. And also at the beach, Grandpa saw some trees – and it was not night time yet, but the moon was just a little bit coming out.

Now it’s a medium bit coming out. But now it’s night time and he knew it was night time, but he was just going to stay there for five more minutes.

The End.

Is that not totally trippy? I love it! Especially the part about his head getting bigger, which would freak me out to no end, but apparently, Grampa was happy about it. Good for him.

Posted at 01:50 PM | Comments (0)

April 04, 2005

And Speaking of Nephews...

Older Sister's son is almost six. He has, quite literally, grown up at Brookfield Zoo, as O.S. and her husband are docents (trained, educated volunteers) there. He loves animals and knows more about them than I do,... except how to get his dog to stop annoying him.

As an Easter present, Nephew got to pick out two hermit crabs at the pet store. But hermit crabs have come a long way since I was a kid. They now come with man-made designer shells! It's so kewl! Hermit crabs as home decor! Nephew picked a Blue's Clues one, and one with a psychedelic, purple design on it.

So my brother-in-law comes home from work one day and has the following conversation with Nephew:

B.I.L.: So, did you take out the hermit crabs and play with them today?

Nephew: Yeah! And I built them a corral!

B.I.L.: Cool! Did you race them?

Nephew: No. (pause) I would win, anyway.

I can just hear the thoughts in his head, like, "Gosh, Dad is so stupid. My legs are way longer than theirs!"

Posted at 12:28 PM | Comments (0)

March 31, 2005

Pimpin' In My Hooptie

I spilled two pints of milk in the front seat of my car. Like, on the actual seat. It makes Husband gag just thinking about it. So I took it in to get detailed, and, like everyone who needs a car, we don't turn to friends or siblings, we turn to our parents. And why is this? Because our parents don't go anywhere.

My folks have His & Hers Lincoln Continentals. They are old people, they live in the suburbs, and yes, they own the road. Dad's is a 2000. Mom's is a 1988. I posed my request, hoping for the former, and got the latter. But not without some thinking aloud from Dad.

"Enh... well... yeah... there's a crack in the windshield..."

Wait, what? Crack in the windshield? Has Mom been off-roading in the Lincoln?

"But it should be okay."

Am I in some sort of peril here? Okay, tell me what's more likely to happen, just so I can brace myself. Breaking down in the middle of a busy intersection during rush hour? Or the car disintegrating around me so that I scooch to a halt on my smoking buttocks, legs splayed out in front of me, still holding the steering wheel, a la Wile E. Coyote?

"Maybe you should take my car. Yeah. No... Mom's car still runs pretty well. It's not that old."

Not that old? Dude, they melted down the Colossus of Rhodes to make this thing!

It's really unbelievable. It's like driving a living room, with a ping-pong table strapped to the front. The rust spots can no longer be ignored. The inside of the driver's side door has been repaired with brown electrical tape -- dark brown, so as to blend better with the deep burgundy leather interior. Classy.

Driving it is a real trip. I mean, for all it's ridiculousness, it's damn comfy (PERFECT for car $ex!!!), and seriously, I shouldn't be trusted with something that has this much horsepower. The only handling drawback is that I have to spin the wheel fourteen times to turn a corner.

But the crack in the windshield -- you can't see it in the picture, what with the morning sun glinting off the front acreage -- it's horizontal and travels the entire expanse of the glass. Ooooh, attractive and safe!

God, I never realized how ghetto this car is until I was forced to drive it. I gotta buy Mom a new car. Then I can pour a forty on the curb for this car cuz, dawg, it is whack.

Posted at 01:39 PM | Comments (3)

January 18, 2005

Update On the Big Blog Debate

Well, Mom read the "Selections From" that I printed off for her all in one sitting and thought they were hysterical. As predicted, she especially liked the ones where I threw Dad under the bus. And she's gonna read it again because, apparently, it's hard to fit all that funny into her brain at once. So, yeah, she liked it!

And now, I'm seriously considering doing The Mature Thing -- giving Mom the link, warning her and letting her decide whether or not to make my freaky, smarmy, curmudgeony blog part of her daily life.

Unless someone talks me out of it.

Okay, this "daily life" thing just made me think of something. Along with step-daughters and E.R. frequent flyer miles, I also inherited a few aging aunts when I married Husband. Technically, they belong to his ex, but they're my family now, too -- just go with it.

Well, apparently, one of them thinks I need more churchin'. (A shock to no one.) For Christmas, she got me a subscription to the "Daily Word" magazine, which is, like, daily Jesus-Loves-You and What-Would-Jesus-Do affirmations. I would totally mock her, if she weren't so darned sincere and well-meaning. And rich.

Anyhoo, now I totally want to publish a book like "Daily Word FOR THE DAMNED" or something. And I totally call dibbies on this concept, if it isn't already out there, which I'm sure it is, but you still can't take my title.

Posted at 03:05 PM | Comments (0)

January 17, 2005

The Pirate Wench Blog: Corrupting America's Youth and Elderly Since Late 2004

So I was at our weekly Thursday Night Supper, and as it always does, the conversation digressed to bodily functions. Usually it's Adam who starts it, with some story about how his brother called from California to tell him about a foot-long turd. Or we talk about how Husband couldn't even say "fart" in front of his ex -- let alone do it -- and now he's taking farting and burping to Olympic heights, and we admire his progress.

Regardless, we somehow got onto bathroom habits, and I proudly announced that that's exactly what I had blogged about that very day!

~cricket~ ~cricket~

"You have a blog?"

Oh shit. I should mention that both my parents are part of this Thursday Night Supper group, and despite the reading devotion of many other (read: younger) family members, I have kept my dirty little secret from the parentals. So it's ironic that I'm the fucking retard who beefed all over it.

Now, my mother thinks I'm a great writer. Always has. I can pen a heart-warming thank-you note, I brought down the house with a eulogy for my grandmother, and don't get Mom started on all the poetry and short stories I wrote as a child. [nerd alert!] I guess I'm not curing cancer or anything, so the woman has to funnel her maternal pride where she can.

(I should also mention that my mother is Martha Stewart and Edith Bunker's love child.)

"Can I read it?!"
"Mom, you don't want to read it. Even Husband doesn't read it."
"Just let me read it."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Mom! It's completely inappropriate!"
"I don't care!"
"I use swear words!"
"It's not like I've never heard them before."

And for a nanosecond, I actually considered being a grown-up, giving my mother the benefit of the doubt, and letting her read some and decide for herself if she wanted to continue.

And then my brain started functioning properly again, and I remembered the one entitled "Masturbation", where I mention my Hello Kitty! vibrator in the first paragraph. And then there's my "List of Five", or even worse, "The Crossover Edition". And what isn't obscene or freaky contains pop-culture references that, frankly, she just ain't gonna get.

Plus, looking back, I realize that I make fun of my father more than I probably should, considering all the money he invested in my upbringing. Not that it would annoy Mom -- those would probably be her favorite entries -- but if she knows about them, then I can't guarantee Dad won't eventually come across them.

So, the question is: Do I make my mother (albeit probably temporarily) happy and just give her the damn link? Or do I spare her the agony of learning that her daughter is a bitter, vengeful, crude, bi-curious freak? (This is, of course, assuming she doesn't already know or at least suspect these things.)

In the end, I printed out the posts that I feel are okay for her to read. She may or may not get considered for full access, depending on her reaction to them.

Of course, I gave my 17-year old cousin the link without batting an eye.

Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (0)

December 16, 2004

Why I Adore My Little Sister

So we're IMing back and forth about stocking stuffers and Target and earrings, and then, apropos of nothing, she does this:

Sister: ok, I'm going, bye!
Sister: P.S. I love Billy Boyd
Sister: Billy Boyd rocks my world!
Sister signed off at 2:47:02 P.M.

Leaving me to wonder, what the hell else was she doing while IMing with me?

Posted at 12:58 PM | Comments (0)

November 11, 2004

Thank You

Okay, this is a "shout out" (I am sooooooo white) to my brother-in-law, who is the most supportive person in my family (besides Husband, but he's clearly motivated by sex) about the whole weight-loss thing.

It's not like the paramedics are going to need a crane to get my lifeless, couch-fused body to the morgue, but I'm... Rubenesque. In an era when, sadly, it's no longer sexy. Bottom line, I'm still hot, but I ain't happy.

Now, Mommy Dearest, altho' she clearly lives in a glass house, likes to throw stones in the shape of commenting disapprovingly on what I eat. Father Dearest is even more senile, and therefore, less subtle.

Older Sister recently dropped a lot of weight and looks fabulous, but she likes to offer me the clothes she's too small for now, and frankly, I find that offensive. First of all, she dresses like our mother. Secondly, I steered waaaaaay clear of the weight issue when she was heavy, so you'd think she could at least return the favor.

Younger Sister, like me, has struggled with the yo-yo-ing weight since having kids. She understands, so it's a non-issue between us, which is totally cool.

But brother-in-law went the extra mile.

He actually said to me, as I was screaming, "No! No! I won't sign up for the health club! I don't care if the company pays for it! You can't make me! You're not the boss of me!"

And I quote, "Well, I love you and just want you to get in shape so you're happy."

Stunned silence.

Best. Brother-in-law. Ever.

Posted at 03:38 PM | Comments (0)

October 29, 2004

Remember When Halloween Was Cool?

I'm gonna go totally Grandma on all yer asses today and indulge in some blatant, unapologetic reminiscing. Because I'm old enough (I'll be 35 tomorrow) to remember the days before The Tylenol Scare, when we could take candy from complete strangers -- and sometimes homemade goodies even -- without having to have it all x-rayed.

And because my birthday falls on Devil's Night, I always had costume birthday parties and got to wear my costume twice, and I just have the best memories of Halloween. I always had the best costumes, too. Dad is a mechanical engineer, with hobbies like metalsmithing and carpentry and do-it-yourself firearms, so Halloween was an event.

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!

There was the table lamp costume, with actual working lightbulb, swear to God. Table around my waist via suspenders, lampshade on my head, and the man wired his child for electricity. Thank God it didn't rain that year.

But the piece de resistance was Joan of Arc. (Did you hear the 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 punk rock 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!

And the jack o' lanterns he made! They were so angry! They terrified me! I was in grade school and literally just scared to death of Dad's pumpkins. (And no, that's not a euphemism for anything, you sick bastards.)

But it was the trick-or-treating I came here to talk about.

Remember the good old days, when if Halloween was on a weekend, there was no facist "official start time", so you could just trick-or-treat ALL DAY LONG? And there was never any official end time, so you could just go until exposure set in, or people ran outta candy. Or the cops yelled at you to "Go the hell home already!"

I grew up in a fairly affluent neighborhood, which sucked when I got ostracized for wearing Lee jeans instead of Jordache (I'll never forgive you, Mother!), but it was disco when it came to trick-or-treating. If we were willing to put forth a little effort and hike to the country club neighborhood, the people there gave away whole candy bars! Not those little "fun-sized" ones (what's fun about less chocolate, I'd like to know). No -- I'm talkin' the normal-sized candy bars.

The rich people also gave out quarters, which was cool because back then (and I'm really dating myself here), it didn't cost much more than that for us to buy a normal-sized candy bar.

Pillowcases were definitely the sack of choice (heh-heh, she said "sack) for the serious trick-or-treater, as they were huge and not prone to rippage. I remember one particularly bountiful year where I actually had to stop home to empty said huge sack. (I'm giggling like a grade schooler now. God, how pathetic.) Good times, man. Good times.

I remember one year, we rang a doorbell, and this nice lady had just pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven. So we actually went into her house to wait for them to cool, and for her to wrap them up for us. And she didn't butcher, poison or molest us! Imagine that!

Nowadays, kids often go to parties instead of -- not in addition to -- trick-or-treating. Or they're accompanied by their parents and go only to the houses of people they know. Being new in our neighborhood (and obviously scary, evil people), we have yet to hear our doorbell ring more than a handful of times on Halloween night, and never after sundown. It's just so lame! My heart breaks for the kids who have never known the thrill of braving the strange house with the scary music playing, or getting egg in their hair, or walking home 2 miles in the rain.

I feel so, so lucky to have grown up during the glory days of trick-or-treating.

So what's the coolest costume you ever wore?

Posted at 11:49 AM | Comments (0)

October 21, 2004

Birthday Gifties, Part I

Cousin Egrau and I both have birthdays in October, so our usual group of six, which we call League of Extraordinary Porn Stars (LXPS)*, went to Buca's for dinner -- me, Husband, Egrau, J, R and PJ.

* (The LXPS thing started with R calling me "Hootie McBoob" and escalated from there. And if you can tell me where he got "Hootie McBoob" from, then you're totally sacrilicious.)

Now I'll confess right here, I love birthdays. Especially mine. I love presents, I love having a fuss made over me, and I love that, in 34 years, there's only one birthday that didn't burst with fabulousness. (I was in the middle of a divorce, 'nuff said.)

Well, Egrau is a flight attendant for United, so basically, she's been fucked royally and had all her money taken away. Again, and again, and again. In consideration of this, I assumed that she wouldn't be throwing money away on a present for her lame-o cousin, and I got her a couple small gifties, so that she wouldn't feel bad.

The bitch got me $110 shoes! And then a shirt, to boot! I feel like the biggest cheap-ass EVER. Because I love buying presents for people and totally would have spent a butt-load on her if I knew she was going to spend a butt-load on me!!!

Fortunately, one of the gifties I got her was a book she'd already read. So. I can now get her something from her favorite store in the world, and tell her that I'm making up for the duplicate book, while really soothing my conscience and redeeming myself, if only in my own eyes.

I wonder if she reads this blog...

Anyhoo, the shirt has a picture of Barbie on it that says "My Barbie swallows." I almost pissed myself laughing. And now I'm trying to think of some place where it wouldn't be completely inappropriate to wear it. Cuz I am so wearing it in public!

You know, I could wear it over to Sister's house, considering The Children can't read yet. The Girl Child will just think I'm wearing a cool Barbie shirt! Oh, Sister would so kick my ass when she stopped laughing.

Gifties from PJ include: a really nice, brown Woolrich sweater. Which I picked out. Went like this.

"PJ, that sweater is so cute!"
"I know! I'm totally buying it!"
"Ooooh, they have it in brown."
"Get it!"
"No, I already made Husband buy me a sweater."
"So?"
"Well, I don't wanna be greedy."
"Oh, just do it. You know he'll buy it."
"Why don't you buy it for me for my birthday?"
"Okay! Don't look!"

And some Godiva chocolates, and a pumpkin-spice-scented candle. Cuz I love that shit.

(Disclaimer: I realize that, altho' Egrau & J, and R & PJ are couples, I didn't mention the men in the gift-buying. Their names were on the cards, but c'mon, we all know that men don't shop for birthday gifts if they have a woman to do it for them.)

I'm wearing my new shoes today. I'm wearing my new sweater tomorrow. And I'm going to J. Jill on Saturday.

So what would your porn name be?

Posted at 10:42 AM | Comments (0)

October 20, 2004

Bonding with Dad on Vacation

My Godfather, an affectionate, passionate, emotional man, is an anomily among the males of my family. He is a lilac bush in a forest of oaks. Which is not to say that he's effeminate, but he does smell nice.

That has nothing to do with anything much. I just think it's hilariously awkward when Godfather hugs Dad.

Anyhoo, the unlikely couple had plans for breakfast while we were on the Island (Godfather has a cabin there, too, albeit a much nicer, warmer one). Meet at K.K. Fiske's at 9am. I got outta bed reluctantly to take Daisy outside, and there was Dad, filling the birdfeeder.

"Dad, what time is it?"
"'Bout quarter to nine."
"Oh, you'd better leave soon then."

But I must've been talking at his deaf ear. No, seriously, he's almost deaf in one ear, has been for as long as I've known him. Too many homemade firearms, not enough ear protection. Which, unfortunately, lends credibility to the claim I didn't hear you when he goes (selectively?) deaf on Mom. Ah, marital bliss.

A little later, I was eating my cereal, and Dad walks in with jelly and a knife.

"Dad, why are you eating? You're supposed to meet Godfather for breakfast!"

"Oh, shit, that's right! It's 9:20!" And then angrily, "Why didn't you remind me sooner?!"

Can you feel the love, ladies and gentleman? Can you? Because I can. I can feel the love and respect he has for me oozing from every pore in his body.

No, wait. That's the Canadian whiskey.

Posted at 04:33 PM | Comments (0)

September 09, 2004

Join Usssss...

As I alluded to a while back, my sister has recently become a Lord of the Rings geek and, even more so, a Billy Boyd stalker, er, I mean fan. Earth shattering news, by no means, but let's take a closer look, shall we?

When the first two LotR movies came out, she was either vastly pregnant with The Girl Child and had the bladder capacity of a dust mite, or she was playing dairy-cow to The Girl Child at regular intervals. Neither of which are epic-movie-viewing-friendly.

Yes, she's a mom. A stay-at-home, neighbor-chatting, coupon-clipping, sub-division-living, scrapbooking kind of gal. Mind you, she's not boring -- she's got a belch that'll drop a truck driver at 40 paces -- but she is down-to-earth and practical, and not given to silly things like comic books, GenCon, Barbies, Xena, etc., as I am. She humors my dorkiness.

On one of my visits to Pleasant Valley, I forcibly lent her the extended versions of "Fellowship of the Rings" and "The Two Towers," fully expecting sneers. A couple days later, I got The Call. The Call that heralded my sister's Descent Into Dorkiness.

She had stayed up 'til midnight watching FotR. Which would be no big whup, for someone whose Boy Child doesn't wake at 5:30 a.m., but hers does. So apparently, she liked it. (MWAH HA HAAAA!) And then, as she was watching TTT, the unthinkable happened. Her husband... paused in front of the t.v. Until that moment, he had, sight unseen, derided the movies as "that nerdy, D&D, wizard shit" (this from a Trekkie!). But, being male, he was instinctively drawn to the Battle at Helms Deep.

"What's this?"
"The Two Towers."
"That Lord of the Rings stuff?"
"Yep."
"...Can I watch?"
"Sure."
"Can we watch from the beginning?"
"Well, you won't understand it unless you see the first one, too."

So they both ended up watching both movies! I'm so proud! (RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!) Plus she would watch the DVD extra features while The Children were napping. I think she watched every damn piece of footage on those discs, including the Easter Eggs.

And that's when things started to get scary.

She bought the trilogy, in book form, plus "The Hobbit," and read them all. The chick who has had my Anne Rice novel for three years and won't read the long articles in "Glamour" read "TH," "FotR," "TTT" and "RotK" in a matter of months.

While she was watching the DVDs, she would call me up and ask me stuff like, "Who is Celeborn again?" Or, "How are orcs different from uruk-hai?" While she was reading the books, she'd ask me a question, and I wouldn't even understand half the words in it! (I haven't read the books, yet. Don't hurt me! They are in the pile on my nightstand!)

I think it was after seeing "RotK" that her drooling, giggling, panty-throwing, hobbit-googling obsession started. Perhaps it was seeing sweet, little Pippin in that soldier of Gondor uniform that pushed her over the edge? Frankly, I'm afraid to ask. But it's hilarious to watch. I haven't seen her this worked up since Duran Duran came on the scene!

I got her a bumper sticker that says "My other ride is Billy Boyd," but I don't think her husband will let her put it on her car. However, I'm sure he will join us for a celebratory screening when the RotK extended DVD comes out! CAN'T WAIT!!!

(NOTE: I have not used names, in order to protect the innocent - mainly ME - from the wrath of The Sister. Ironically, we actually do call her kids The Boy Child and The Girl Child. As in, "Crap, The Girl Child is already up from her nap," and "I'll call you back; I gotta go beat The Boy Child.")

Posted at 08:12 PM | Comments (1)