March 31, 2008
All That Is Splendid In America: Part 2
Okay, okay, so it's not "tomorrow," as promised in the prequel, but hey, at least I got to the second part. Unlike most of my other mini-series. I suck.
When we last left our heroes, they were just quaffing down the last of their beer and saying adieu to the hole-in-the-wall that is classic Chicago dining.
Inga had bought so much stuff on her trip to Chicago that she needed another big tote bag to take on the plane back to New Jersey. Heather can smell one drop of couture in 500,000 gallons of air, so we soon found ourselves in retail heaven. Unfortunately, where simple chocolate is 12 pieces for $14, you ain't exactly going to find a tote that fits a college student's budget. So we indulged in $5 worth of dessert and were back out on the street.
And can I just say? When the hell did Puma become foot couture? When I was in school, Puma was what the poor kids wore because they couldn't afford Nike. And now it's on the same freakin' display table as the Coach footwear! A hundred bucks for freakin' Puma? What did that happen?!
With empty hands up full stomachs, we began the long march back to my car, via The Bean. Heather abandoned us to go back to work (whatev), so thank God that Sue was there to once again to lead us through the maze that is downtown Chicago.
(Yes, I know, Chicago is laid out in a perfect grid pattern. Shut up. It's not like you can see through the buildings!)
Okay, seriously, what the hell is up with The Bean. People spent $23 million dollars on a giant, silver jelly bean. It's totally whacked. I just don't get it. Was Chicago really that hard up for more landmark tourist attractions?
You decide.
By this point, I was tired and crabby and in serious need of a nap. I tried to get everyone out of my way so that I could get a photo of just The Bean, but the damn out-of-towners weren't cooperating. This isn't New York, people! We're accomodating here! Jerks.
We all took some photos and trekked across Millenium Park back to the car. I think it took a Millenium. Captain Von Trapp was like, "You kids, pipe down! These Alps aren't so bad. At least we're not having to walk across Chicago!"
There's only one thing to do when you're tired and crabby and tired and did I mention tired? Cocktails.
The funny thing about the John Hancock building is that you can see it from anywhere in Chicago... except when you're near it. And then you can't get to it. Unless you are motivated by the prospect of alcohol to persevere. Which we were. And did.
Since we aren't high-priced hookers, we couldn't afford dinner in the Signature Room, so instead, we hit the Signature Lounge, which still cost us $35 for three drinks! And I'm not even going to tell you what I paid for parking. It'll ruin your day.
In the lobby...
PW: Inga, I forgot to ask you if you're afraid of heights.
Inga: I am.
Sue: So am I.
PW: Well, crap! I am, too! Why are we doing this?!
Sue: Because as long as I can have a martini when I get to the top, I'll be fine.
PW: Inga, we don't have to go, if you don't want to. Sue can have a martini at home.
Inga: No, I want to go!
Sue: I didn't know you were afraid of heights.
PW: Well, it's not so much heights as it is really tall buildings. Mountains I'm okay with. If someone flies a plane into a mountain I'm on, I stand a much better chance of surviving.
Sue: Great. Now I need two martinis.
We didn't sit at one of the tables that was pressed up against the pane of glass separating the patrons from a very long plummet to their deaths, so we were all okay. And it was a beautiful day, so we had a great view.
So that's the end of our adventure in The City of Big Shoulders. I didn't see any exceptionally big shoulders, so that was disappointing. But maybe they were all working, and at 5:00, when everyone is walking to the train, it's almost impossible to move because of all the men with their big, burly shoulders taking up all the room on the sidewalks.
Ah, well, a girl can dream.
Posted at 01:12 PM | Comments (2)March 25, 2008
All That Is Splendid in America: Part 1
Recently, I found out that I have another cousin in Norway. Turns out, my grandmother and her great grandmother were sisters, which makes us... second cousins once removed, I believe. So we can totally get married.
Except that she’s a she. Which would be awkward. Is that legal in Norway? I’m going to assume that it is, since those wacky Norwegians -– and their neighbors -– are waaaaaaaaay ahead of us Puritan Americans on so many other levels of coolness.
Inga is studying to be an English translator. She wants to translate books and movies -– stuff like that. I tell ya, her written English is far better than any you’ll find on THIS blog, dat’s fer damn shure!
She’s from the small town of Spydeberg, Norway (45 min. south of Oslo). Which is not, much to my chagrin, pronounced “Spidey-berg.” Because how cool would that be?! No, it’s pronounced spee’-dih-behrg. Or something.
This semester, she’s going to school in New Jersey, for some exposure to the English language.
Now, people. Can you imagine? She has friends who went to England, Canada and Australia to learn English, and she’s gonna go home with a New Jersey accent. God help us. And until this week, New Jersey was the only part of America she had seen! Well, that and New York, which is basically Chicago-Wanna-Be, so that doesn’t really count.
But finally, on Wednesday, all of Inga’s dreams of the land of opportunity came true when Sue and I took her downtown Chicago to witness all that is pure and shining and splendid in America. That’s right, we went to Billy Goat for lunch.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sue came with us because she was available (being a teacher and on spring break this week), and because she is more familiar with Chicago than I am. Which, admittedly, isn’t saying much, but thank God she was there to navigate. I drove, while she discussed our options from the map, we’d vote on it, and then I’d turn the wheel. Driving by committee. Recommended for all suburbanites who dare to leave the sanctity of their gated communities.
The three of us went to the Art Institute first. My two must-sees: the Thorne Rooms (little tiny opulent dollhouse rooms!!!!! squeeeeeee!) and the European wing, 1500s-1800s. There’s something about old religious art that fascinates me. (As a Scorpio, I am interested in both the holy and the profane.)
I’m all, “Look at the light on the folds of her sleeve!” and “I wonder what’s the significance of the caribou in this picture?” And I’m sure Inga was like, “You know, we do have art in Oslo. Can we go now?” Mind you, regardless of how I sound, I’m too ignorant to be pretentious. I’m merely retarded and easily distracted by pretty things.
(By the way, I have a six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon kind of link with one of the guys who helped build the Thorne rooms, but I’m not telling you which one or how because I don’t want you weirdos stalking me. Unless you’re hott. Or bitterly sarcastic. Then please email me at piratewenchdotorg@yahoo.com, and I’ll email you directions to my house.)
(Oh, also? I’m pretty sure my grandfather has a piece or two displayed in the museum, too, but I’m not telling you what. See above parenthetical paragraph.)
Speaking of pretty things, we made Heather meet us at the Billy Goat
The original Billy Goat Tavern is a seedy dive underneath Michigan Ave. that’s famous because of... some curse? And a goat? And the Cubs? I don’t know. Someone told me once, but the explanation is almost as boring as the game of baseball itself, so I forgot. Still, Wrigley Field is pretty, and we’d all rather be there with a beer in hand than at work on a weekday, so we go, and we make supernatural excuses for what we all know to be true deep in our hearts -– the Cubbies suck.
Oh, it’s also famous because John Belushi immortalized the Billy Goat’s colorful atmosphere in an SNL skit some decades back. “Cheeseborger, cheeseborger, cheeseborger! No fries – chips! No Coke – Pepsi!” Classic, and yet not on YouTube. (I'm writing my congressman.)
Heather arrived first and tipped the toothless busboy five bucks to save a table for us while she got a burger. So when he arrived, he was all, "What can I get you to drink?" and pulling our chairs out for us. Five bucks can still buy you some serious bowing and scraping!
When we finally got there, that is. The Billy Goat is on Lower Michican, and when you're standing on normal Michigan, it can be kind of a challenge. It's like, "Okay, we want to be... directly below where we are right now. Anyone see any stairs?"
I had Sue and Inga sit down while I got burgers for everyone. Including Heather, who was still hungry after her first. And when I got back, there was beer waiting for me. Sometimes the world just works like that -- in perfect synchronicity.
I'm sure Inga now thinks that Chicago is populated entirely by white trash. Geez, even taking her to Ed Debevic's would have been classier! The Billy Goat never sees the light of day, which is fine because the windows are all boarded up anyway. The menu consists of about five things, and if you don't order the way the guy behind the counter wants you to order, he hassles you.
It was fun watching the tourists in front of me wrap their brains around the fact that the Billy Goat doesn't serve fries. Well, funny for a while. And then I wanted to punch them. "Man, I was really looking forward to some fries." "No fries -- chips! Don't make me call 911!"
Does Mr. Billy Goat call 911 on the stupid tourists? Find out tomorrow, when the adventures continue!
Posted at 07:02 AM | Comments (2)December 04, 2007
Twins
This is a guest blog by Kelly Garrett because I'm sick again.
When I heard this story from A, I made an ass of myself shrieking with laughter in the middle of Chorale rehearsal. But I knew I couldn't do the story as much justice as one who had actually been there, so I solicited this firsthand account from Kelly.
Enjoy.
* * * * *
There are two reasons that "A" and I always get asked if we are twins. The obvious is that we look alike. But once someone gets to know us, it becomes clear that our biggest similarities are in our behavior.
[Let me point out here that I don't think A and Kelly look anything alike, but perhaps that's because I've known them for so long. Maybe they look alike to total strangers. With glaucoma.]
If you remember my first guest blog, then you know that I barfed in bed and went back to sleep without cleaning it up at my cousin's wedding last year. I went to another wedding the other week, and there was more sleeping with barf, only this time, it wasn't me.
The wedding took place in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, at a beautiful resort. I got to the hotel at about 7:00 p.m. "A" arrived first thing that morning because, if you've seen him lately, he wants death via melanoma.
[Recently, our pastor was heard to say to A, "If you get any darker, you're going to change race!"]
He was supposed to leave a note at the front desk for me so that I knew where he was. Was there a note? No! Did I have sand in my vagina? Yes!
After creating much consternation for the desk clerk, who asked about ten other employees if someone had left me a note, I said to forget it and I would just walk the grounds and see if they were around the hotel. Luckily, I immediately found the bride and her friends drinking beer on the terrace, but there was no "A." Maybe his flight was delayed or cancelled, I thought to myself. I can be so naive sometimes.
Arrive (the bride) and Arrival (her sister) jumped up and told me that they had to bring me to our room right away to see "A." On the five minute walk to the room, they explained to me a few things that I missed that day:
1. They went to the pool bar for happy hour between 4 and 5 p.m.
2. Happy hour meant 2-for-1 margaritas.
3. This is Mexico, and they don't fuck around with their margaritas.
4. "A" drank ten margaritas.
5. They took "A" to the room at 5:30, and he instantly got naked, lied down in the bathtub, and peed on himself. That was when he passed out in the tub and they left.
As Arrival (who "A" and I were sharing the room with) opened the bathroom door, a disgusting stench bombarded us and nearly induced us to vomit. We held our breath and peeked our heads around the door. "A" got up and was awfully cheery and happy to see me. Then he fell back into tub, but rather than a thud, we heard a swish.
When we moved in closer and could see inside the tub, we discovered the entire left side of "A's" body was covered in barf. Not just a little barf. I'm talking Gary barfing in Team America: World Police or the pie barf-o-rama in Stand By Me.
[That scene in Team America: World Police literally triggered my gag reflex. I had to close my eyes and plug my ears until it was over.]
Arrive took charge of the situation:
Arrive: A, you have to get out of the tub and come to the shower. (The shower was separate from the tub in our room.)
A: No, no, no, no, it's so cold. It's cold. It's cold. Nooooooooo.
Arrive: A, you are laying in your own barf. Get out right now and come to the shower.
A: No, my barf is warm.
Arrive: A, I am so serious. It smells and it's gross. I am taking you to the shower right now.
As she reached in to grab his right arm, "A" finally revealed why he was so hesitant about getting out of the bathtub:
A: Ok, you guys, I'm getting out, but I might have pooed a little bit.
Arrive pulled "A" up and, sure enough, there was a little terd sitting there in the tub. Arrival and I were in the other room laughing hysterically. When we composed ourselves enough to re-enter the bathroom, Arrive was actually in the shower with "A" helping him clean himself -- I'm sure this was just the wedding she always dreamed of as a child!
[Am I the only person who hasn't seen A naked?]
After getting all the barf off of himself, "A" went to lie down -- this time in the bed. You know "A" is wasted when he sleeps in the nude rather than his signature briefs.
I am happy to report that only one of us "twins" barfed that weekend.
Speaking of twins, I was sitting in first class on the way home, and the seats in front of me were empty, which was hard to believe since I didn't get upgraded until after taking my seat in coach. Just as the flight attendant was about to close the door, two familiar faces rushed aboard: The Olsen Twins! Ashley spent the flight sleeping and doing sudoko while Mary-Kate read a book. How could I tell them apart you wonder? Well, as soon as they came on board, Melanie Griffith, who was sitting behind me, rose from her seat, screamed "Mary-Kate!" And then embraced her in the aisle.
* * * * *
Nice name-dropping, Kelly. What the hell is this now -- Pink is the New Blog? Crimeny.
Posted at 07:30 AM | Comments (6)November 28, 2007
The Psychic
Reading a friend's blog post, I remembered something kinda odd. So I dug the tape out of the depths of a box of crap and listened to it again, just to make sure I was remembering it correctly. (You know, now that I'm 38.)
For my practice bachelorette party (before I got practice-married to my practice husband), Billi got me a psychic instead of a stripper. (Which is fine by me because I already know enough hotties I'm not allowed to touch.) The psychic gave readings to all the women present and encouraged us to record them to refer to later.
At the time, I was 26, marrying a 26 year old Mexican electrician who belonged to the stagehand union and worked on movies for a living. We knew we'd probably be living in our little apartment for some time, but that was fine because we also knew we didn't want children.
What I didn't know is that King Daley's tax hikes and fees would drive the movie business out of Chicago and into Canada (of all places!), and would also drive my husband to drink. Oh, who am I kidding. That started, I found out later, when he was thirteen. But at the time, I didn't know all that, so we were happy.
Well, I knew that psychic was off her rocker when she told me I would have two children, and my husband would make lots of money. I would be veeeerrrry comfortable.
The only way I would ever have two kids is if Jerry's parents died (I'm his legal guardian) AND if my entire family died, as did everyone else Spikette ever knew. Because I'm a last resort for Nephew's legal guardian, I'm sure. And at that time, Billi's children were still several years away.
As for money, I always figured we'd have enough to live on (HA!), but I knew the Lottery was our only hope for big money. So, yeah. The psychic? Utter nonsense.
Except that it wasn't utter nonsense. She merely failed to mention -- or politely left out because I was still on my first -- which husband was going to bring me two kids and good money.
True, Younger and Older Step Daugther are not my own kids. But I've cleaned their rooms and celebrated their victories and bought their favorite foods. In short, I've done everything I've been allowed to do. And I'm sure if Husband and Ex died, as did everyone they ever knew, the girls might... come to me when they need money.
And true, we're not filthy rich. My car is six years old, and our house is smaller than either of my sisters'. But you know what? I'm richer than I ever thought I'd be. I'm so rich, I know I'll never again have to decide between getting the phone turned back on or buying groceries.
I'm so rich, I can drive my gas-guzzling, Al-Gore-enraging SUV way-the-hell up to Gurnee twice a month to see Billi & Co. I'm so rich, I can buy $23 mascara and not hide it from Husband. I'm so rich, I'll never have to decide between paying my LivingDot fees for my blog or my eBay fees.
So I guess this isn't really an oooh-ahhhh, shivers-down-your-spine kind of story. Just a curious one. Was she a lucky guesser? Probably. It's just interesting how one's prospects can change. And thank God for that because Diorshow Mascara is like butter.
Posted at 08:38 AM | Comments (3)November 06, 2007
The Pretzel Incident
Egrau is a flight attendant. Or "sky goddess," as she prefers. I won't mention what airline she works for, lest you stalk the friendly skies looking for her; suffice to say that, at this point, she's almost used to bending over and grabbing her ankles.
This high threshhold for pain comes in very handy when handling difficult customers, as she does on a regular basis. These men -- they're almost always men -- range from those who can't keep their hands off her butt, to those who can't handle their little, tiny bottles of booze and must be physically restrained.
Egrau has the best stories.
Recently, she encountered a passenger made quite surly by the hour delay, during which they sat on the tarmac while the flight attendants went into damange control mode, doing everything they could to keep the impatient flyers happy. In all honesty, most people handle delays with adequate decorum.
But there's always one.
This gentleman was particularly upset by the delay and seemed to hold Egrau personally responsible. Or perhaps she bore a striking resemblence to his ex-wife. Whatever the reason -- and it was certainly no fault of Egrau's -- this man was bound and determined to make trouble for her.
First, he wanted a seltzer water. "The WHOLE bottle," he demanded.
Sensing trouble, Egrau said with sugary-sweetness, "Of course, sir! On This Airline, we always give you the whole bottle!"
Then he wanted a tomato juice. "The WHOLE bottle," he repeated.
"Of course, sir!"
Unable to crack Egrau's determined kindness, he switched tactics.
"I want more than one bag of pretzels."
"Well, sir, I have to make sure there's enough for everyone, first," she sing-songed in her best Disneyland voice. "Then, if there are any left, I will bring you some."
"You better."
And the really scary thing here? He was sober! Tonic water and tomato juice! Dude wasn't even drinking, and he was still a total dick! Not that alcoholism is an excuse, but at least you can be comforted by the fact that you're not the reason he's an asshat.
When Egrau was done distributing beverages and pretzels, she had plenty of bags left, so she decided to kill the jerk with kindness. She went back to his seat and placed not one, not two, but FOUR bags of pretzels on his tray.
Ha! Try to be a douche with four bags of pretzels!
As she walked away, she heard him bellow, "Don't ever do that again! Don't ever do that again!"
And four bags of pretzels pelted her body.
Now granted, little snack bags aren't really going to hurt, unless a corner gets you in the eye or something. But... DUDE THREW PRETZELS AT HER! What the fuck?! The Boy Child knows better than to throw things, and he's FOUR!
One of the bags bounced off Egrau and hit another passenger. The thrower apologized, and the other passenger said, "Don't apologize to me! Apologize to HER!"
But he didn't. And to this day, Egrau still has no idea what it is that she's never supposed to do again.
The senior flight attendant on the flight told the captain about the incident, and he wanted to have the guy arrested and handcuffed as soon as the plane landed. But Egrau really didn't want that. Mainly because it was her last leg of her trip, and she preferred going home to filling out paperwork and being interviewed.
So the senior flight attendant told the pretzel-thrower, "I told the captain about your behavior, and he is in favor of having you arrested as soon as we land. However, the final decision is Egrau's. So you may want to spend the last hour of our trip thinking of what you might like to say to her."
Fifty-five minutes later, Pretzel Boy finally managed a brief, mumbled apology to Egrau, who smiled and thanked him ever so kindly. Think Scarlett O'Hara.
But don't worry, folks. Mr. Whole Bottle's story isn't over. See, he's going to find himself having a bit of difficulty. He'll be the first one bumped from overbooked flights. He'll be pulled aside for luggage checks.
For the rest of his flying career.
And he never even ate the pretzels.
Posted at 03:00 PM | Comments (2)October 15, 2007
The Unanticipated Poop
One of Billi's neighbors conveyed this story to her, which she promptly relayed to me. And to the rest of the neighborhood.
I have, or course, paraphrased it, since I heard it secondhand, but I remain true to the facts.
Bear in mind that the original telling of the story is a woman. This factors in greatly.
"I was watering my lawn last night, and the sound of the water made me have to pee. I didn't want to go inside because then the kids would start bugging me. So I thought, Well, my husband and my son do it -- why not me?"It was dark out, so I just went to the side of the house and squatted down. Suddenly I realize that I had to poop, too!
"So I did!"
*cricket*
*cricket*
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU SAY TO THAT?!
I mean, I had many things rushing through my mind, but I didn't bring them up because I know, from the story, that there were no intelligent answers.
No answers, and yet, so many, many issues.
First of all, if you don't want to enter your own home for fear of your own children -- to the extent that you will deficate in full view of the neighbors -- it's time to re-evaluate your parenting skills.
Secondly, what the hell are her husband and son doing peeing in their yard all the time? Does she lock them out of the house? Do they each only have one kidney, forcing them to empty their bladders the second they are full? I mean, when you're camping -- fine. But when there's a perfectly good bathroom 20 steps away, there's no reason to engage in such freedom. They live in a subdivision, not on a farm.
Thirdly -- and perhaps most importantly -- who gets a mere second's notice to a bowel movement? I always assumed I was normal in having at least 2 min. to find a comfortable place to drop the Browns off at the Superbowl. Am I just one of the lucky few? Do most folks find themselves running to the bushes with a turtlehead poking out?
I think that a normal adult human with a normal, functioning gastro-intestinal system, when presented with the issue of an unanticipated poop, should be able to slam the sphincter shut for the time it takes to get to a nearby toilet.
The bottom line is, if this chick routinely gets no notice as to when a poop is coming on, she must be shitting herself daily. Perhaps that's why her children run her out of the house?
And finally, if she's going to take the time to actually TELL people the story of pooping in her yard, wouldn't it save time to simply grab and Sharpie and write, I was raised by wild dogs, on her head instead?
Posted at 04:35 PM | Comments (2)September 26, 2007
Big, Black Pants
We did two bottle band gigs over the weekend, which makes for a very long weekend. The first gig was for someone's 50th wedding anniversary, so there were lots of people there over the age of 70. The Saturday gig was for the residents of a large local retirement community, so there were lots of people there over the age of 80.
Surprisingly, the octogenarians were a much better audience. I guess, when you're that close to death, you appreciate anything that'll distract The Reaper for just a little while longer.
The retirement community had a really nice performance space. When we were done setting up and went to get dressed, it hit me that I had forgotten my dress.
My long, clingy, black dress.
How could I forget my dress?! It's the centerpiece around which my entire outfit is created! It's the canvas for the work of art that is moi!
I could forget my shoes, or my opera gloves, or even my earrings. But my dress?! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
With my veiled pillbox hat on my head, and my huge-ass rhinestone earrings on my lobes, I approached the director still wearing my jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt.
"Dude. I'm so sorry. I forgot my dress."
"Wenchie. Have you seen our audience? It's not going to register. Don't worry about it."
Phew! At least he wasn't mad at me. And if Nicki has taught me anything, it's that any t-shirt can be dressed up with a necklace. And I had four strands of pearls! I was halfway to performance-ready!
A few women from the band started to offer me... something. But then they realized that they're all SIZE FOURS, and the laws of the universe wouldn't allow me to wear their stuff.
So, in a poetic, circle-of-life moment, it was WG who came to the rescue. With his black pants.
Now, who among us hasn't gained a few pounds as high school has retreated into the distance and our metabolisms slowed? WG is no exception. And -- how shall I say this -- he is much less of an exception than I.
Those pants were big.
Luckily, A is about my size (yes, he's in the Bottle Band, too) and offered me his belt.
Do you remember that skit on "Saturday Night Live," where Adam Sandler and the late and great Chris Farley were chicks working at The Gap? And when people tried on pants that were too big, they were all, "Well, you're supposed to cinch it!" (You can see the characters here, but I was unable to find the actual skit I'm referring to.)
I felt like that. Like I was wearing baggy, cinched Gap pants. I haven't worn my pants that high in 20 years. And I won't be wearing them that high again for another 40!
Once I pulled the whole look together with the hat and gloves and everything, I turned my back to everyone near me and said the only thing that I could, "Do these pants make my butt look big?"
Posted at 04:05 PM | Comments (0)September 25, 2007
Gimme a B!
Wait, wait, wait! I have a favorite story from high school that doesn't involve me getting violent or blacklisted! I remembered it Friday night when WG and I were talking about our high school reunion, and the name Amy M. came up.
Yes, WG and I are on speaking terms, despite the spelunking and the Coke. I have to respect any teen who can use spelunking in a sentence at a moment's notice, thus my energies are best directed towards other revenges. Besides, he has switched to Diet Coke, and that's not nearly as sticky as Classic Coke, so why bother throwing it?
Okay, the high school I went to had not only a cheerleading team, but also a pom-pom squad. Thee Pom-Pom Squad. Our pom-poms were state champions every damn year since Mary Magdalene first hiked up her skirt and yelled, "Go, Jesus!"
And just like every high school themed movie you've ever scene, the pom-poms were the prettiest girls in school. And the most popular. And the richest. And the sluttiest. And the bitchiest.
With a few rare exceptions. (I'm legally obligated to add that last sentence because Husband's Ex was a pom-pom, back in the day, and so was WG's wife. D'oh!)
Amy M. was the prettiest, richest, bitchiest of them all. Shiney blond hair, blue eyes, and big, big boobies. Your basic nightmare.
The pom-poms performed in the V-show every year. They used their coach's office as their dressing room, which was located in the Performing Arts wing by the stage, and not in the Athletic wing. Weird.
Anyhoo,... oh crap. I had not anticipated this next part of the story. I mean, I know the story because I'm telling it, but I forgot that relaying this information would just put another notch in my nerdy belt.
Okay. We played handbells. At my church, to be considered cool, the high schoolers had to play in the junior handbell choir. I shit you not. It was a whooooooooooooole different set of rules back then, folks.
And frankly, we were damn good. We played a Scott Joplin piece in the V-show -- I think it was "The Entertainer." I was in the choir, as was Billi and WG, and many other people not worth mentioning here because I will never blog about them again.
But EH is worth mentioning. Picture... Ron Weasley, only taller, skinnier, and even more socially awkward. Sweet guy, but quite the late-bloomer, to put it kindly.
Because the handbells are worth thousands and thousands of dollars, the drama teacher insisted that we store them in a locked office. But not his. EH was in there one evening, making sure they were all put away properly after our number, and ensuring that the cases were in the way as little as possible.
Convinced the pom-pom coach would not trip over them, he stood up to leave. Just then the door opened and in came the pom-pom squad. Amy M. was busy critiqueing their performance as she took her top off, so she didn't notice EH standing there. Staring. At her boobies.
Deer in the headlights doesn't even begin to describe it.
I don't know who screamed louder -- Amy M. or EH. He bolted out of the room, chased by the shrieks and laughter of twenty pom-poms.
For anyone other male in the school, the incident would have been a badge or honor, carried proudly to graduation and beyond. But EH was horrified and left the room whenever anyone mentioned it. Which was often. Indeed, I believe it was daily for the following six months.
And he didn't even get blacklisted from the pom-pom coach's office. No fair.
Posted at 03:14 PM | Comments (1)August 31, 2007
No Smoking
I have about two dozen blogs floating around my Draft pile that I started and lost interest because I'm just a -- hey, look! Something shiney!
Oh, nevermind. Just saw myself in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. Where was I? Oh, yes -- unfinished blogs. I wrote this one about March of '05, I believe, after a record number of days of complete cloud cover, when Nicholle and I were still working together at our previous place of employment...
Here comes the sun!
Doot 'n' doo-dooooooooo
Here comes the sun!
An' I say...
It's all right!
Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely two weeks without the sun! But it's back! I had to wear sunglasses at lunch, lest I be hunched over and hissing like a sleestack! Pure! Awesome!
And thanks to global warming -- and my S.U.V. -- it's also over 50 degrees out! So Nicholle and I went on our first round-the-building walk in months.
As we got off the elevator and walked to our exit, I saw, through the huge windows, that there were three young men smoking just outside the door. Not a big deal, except for the many NO SMOKING signs posted within four feet of them.
I don't smoke. However, I don't lecture people on smoking. And I think Mayor Daley's new smoking ban IN BARS is kinda retarded. However. I don't like the smell, and the smoke irritates my eyes, especially now that I have contacts. Therefore, I don't go to bars, and if I see someone smoking, I keep my distance for the duration of their cigarette. I don't like cigarette smoke, so I make it my responsibility to stay away from it. Just like I don't like seafood, so I don't eat at Red Lobster. See how that works?
But what happens when you open the menu at Outback Steakhouse and see only salmon, squid and clams?
There are four entrances to our office building, one on each side. Two of these entrances -- exactly half -- are designated SMOKING areas, complete with shade trees, lovely landscaping, garbage cans, ashtrays and benches. They are much more inviting and picturesque than the NO SMOKING entrances, lemme tell ya.
But that's okay! I get what's going on! They want to lure the smokers away from the NO SMOKING areas, and I thank them. I don't enjoy having to walk through a cloud of smoke to start my day, so I always park by one of the NO SMOKING entrances.
So it really irked me to see three assholes puffing away less than four feet from where Nicholle and I were going to exit the building. There's plenty of room in the SMOKING areas! Why force me to walk through your stinky cloud? I just washed my hair with Pumpkin Pie shampoo, for God's sake!
As we neared the door, I expressed my irritation to Nicholle through eye-rolling, snorting and swearing.
"Are you gonna say something?" she asked apprehensively.
Well, sure, I always fantasize about saying something when I see people flicking their butts into the bushes when they should be putting them in the garbage recepticles provided solely for that purpose at the NO SMOKING entrances! But it never occurred to me that I could actually do it.
But I could actually do it. Any why not? Why shouldn't I? It's certainly not rude to point out other peoples' rudeness. Husband gets mortified when I tell people in movie theatres that their crying baby is disturbing everyone around them. But how is that rude? IT'S TOTALLY NOT! If you spit on my shoe, and I go "Ew!" I'M NOT BEING RUDE!
The other obvious fact is that they're going to call me a stupid bitch the minute I'm outta earshot, but do I care? Why would I? If stupid assholes think I'm a stupid bitch, I think that pretty much cancels out the whole insult.
The final possibility is that they might get mad and, since their cigarettes are laced with PCP, go totally insane on our asses, biting off our ears and whatnot. But how likely is that? God, do they even make PCP anymore? I'm so not up with the cool drugs.
So we go through the door, and I'm totally geared up to say something. Something silly, though, not bitchy. There's no need to be obnoxious right outta the gate, blah blah blah, flies and honey.
I said, "Hey, is that a NO SMOKING sign right there? Well, I'll be!"
Deer. In. The. Headlights.
For about two seconds, which seemed like two minutes, they just stared at me.
Finally, one of them broke the curse and said, "Oh, is that what that says?"
Meanwhile, I notice that Nicholle is walking about six feet behind me. And as she was not wearing a burka at the time, I have to assume that she thought they were going to kick my ass and did NOT have my back. Or she just didn't want to be associated with the crazy lady.
And at first I was hurt, cuz, I mean, I'd totally have her back. But then I realized that she had to have some distance between her and her victims if she was going to get a good spin on her ninja throwing stars.
So, um, yeah. Never finished it. And I don't remember exactly how it ended, but there was no fight, so I'm assuming it ended with Nicholle being mortified and me being called a stupid bitch behind my back. So pretty much like every other day.
And then I found five dollars.
Posted at 03:04 PM | Comments (1)August 30, 2007
The Rainbow After the Flood
Ah, I love the sound of woodchippers and gas generators in the morning!
Actually, post-flood life around here is settling down. Most people have their power back, and the debris is mostly cleaned up. Here's our story.
This is the day the rains came. You can see the dark patches of water on the carpet. For once, it's actually water and not dog poop or puke. How novel! Oh, and the rolled up rug on the left? Also wet.
All the boxes piled on tables and such are full of things I've promised to eBay for various people. Methinks I've over-extended myself. For example, here is just part of the second largest Charlie's Angels collection in the U.S.
Unfortunately, dozens of video tapes got wet with muddy water. But Kelly is cool and assured me it's no big deal. Thank God! I was afraid I was going to get karate-chopped.
When the weathermen started predicting another bout of rain that would make our neighborhood, in a nutshell, uninhabitable, I started hauling stuff upstairs.
It all ended up in the dining room, since we're cavemen and often eat standing up at the kitchen counter anyway. Yes, that's Stella's little silhouette in the corner. I'm so tired of looking at that damn cage. But I think she likes being tucked away in her own little cave. I know I'd like to crawl into some unnoticable corner of the house and curl up!
While I was hauling heavy shit upstairs, Husband was working on a project of his own. He bought a couple new sump pumps, batteries and pipe, and he rebuilt the entire system.
These are the times I am sooooooooooooooooo glad to be married to him. He doesn't loose his temper under duress, and that man can fix and/or build ANYTHING.
Growing up on a farm, his parents didn't call a professional to come out and deal with any plumbing or electrical problems they had. When something needed doing, Husband's dad got a book from the library, and the whole family learned what had to be done.
Pretty damn smart, if you ask me. I'm such a sissified city girl, my only solution is to make a phone call, open my checkbook and grit my teeth.
Husband and I actually work pretty well together, when it comes to projects like this. I'm the brawn and he's the brains. I.e. I haul heavy stuff while he figures out plumbing.
Afterwards, I moved allllllllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the dry side of the room.
(The "Titanic" poster is his, okay? It was here when I moved in, and he won't part with it. Unfortunately, it survived the flood.)
Then Husband ripped up all the wet carpeting, and I moved allllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the non-carpeting side of the room.
The couches were easy. It was moving all the damn books that killed me. I may have to rethink this facade of intellectualism I try to keep up...
You'll notice that there's a few feet of space between the leather sofa and the t.v., so we can still watch. I don't mind that my entire house is topsy-turvy, as long as I can sit on my ass and watch the boob-tube.
We dragged all the dead carpeting and mushy video tapes and such to the curb. Wenchie Ave., Where Floor Covering Goes To Die.
Our neighbors two doors down had it worst. They had three feet of sewer water in their basement. They literally had to throw out every single thing. A third of their worldly posessions were curb sculptures.
As if invitations had been sent out, all the lawn care guys in the county started trawling our streets for treasures. They were picking some chairs off our neighbor's pile of sewage-sodden stuff, and the guy who lived there was trying to explain to them that it was wet with sewer water, but the garbage pickers didn't speak English. It was pretty funny to watch. They couldn't understand why this guy didn't want them to take his garbage!
Since then, I've been on carpet shampooing duty. Every other day, I lay one carpet out in the driveway and go to town with the Bissel. Then I just let it lay there to bake in the sun.
Last night, we brought home 20 boxes of faux-wood laminate flooring for the basement floor. Next week, I'll show you why, along with HGTV-worthy before and after pictures!
Posted at 03:35 PM | Comments (1)August 14, 2007
Holy Barfimony
Since I was M.I.A. all weekend and my week has suddenly gone mental, I'm being a lazy-ass and relying on a Guest Blogger to entertain you today.
Donning the blogging hat today is Kelly Garrett, who is currently "kvelling with excitement about my 1500th post!"
[You know I won't be able to resist an occasional bracketed comment or two. It's my nature.]
* * * * *
“A, did I barf before or after the relatives left?” Not something a 31 year old plans on asking his brother at a family wedding.
“Wait... you barfed?”
Even better, I thought. No one knew, not even my brother, who was sharing my room.
After A’s face remained in an inquisitive and confused stupor, I lifted up the pillow next to me and revealed the chunks I blew last night. Yes, I slept with my own barf. Why?
Well, picture it. Sicily, 1922. Just kidding.
Seriously, picture it. Los Angeles, 2006. I arrive at the airport an hour early for a 4:35 p.m. flight into San Francisco. My cousin Erik’s rehearsal dinner started at 7:00 p.m. (BTW, is it really a rehearsal dinner if you invite 60 people? Do all of the guests really need to rehearse sitting down and pretending not to be bored? WTF?) The 4:35 flight was to get me in just in time.
After a series of mishaps that included pilots and flight attendants not showing up for work (this was not even Northwest Airlines), a computer crash (no, I do not fly JetBlue), and an onboard lavatory back-up (I wouldn’t dream of boarding Continental), the plane did not take off until 8:15 p.m. This left me with almost five hours of free time to spend drinking white wine.
Needless to say, I arrove (I know this is not a word. For those who know my brother, this should not need an explanation) at the dinner quite drunk and naturally, drank more white wine while watching videos of my cousins impersonating Def Leppard in 1986. Will someone tell me what went wrong in the 80’s?
After dinner, A and I invited the cousins and uncles up to our room to have more drinks. I should have had one more glass of white wine, but what is it about white wine that whets ones appetite for champagne? So, I had 2 champagnes. Not glasses -- bottles.
[What is it with the Gays and their champagne?]
I was quite garrulous for the next 45 minutes (the time in which I drank both bottles) and then all of sudden passed out. I woke up five minutes later, rolled over to the unoccupied side of my queen bed, barfed what looked like a raw chicken tender and tomato stew, rolled back over, and went to sleep until the next morning. I was so drunk that I did not even care. (At least I didn’t cuddle with it.)
[The most shocking part of this is that the other side of Kelly's bed was unoccupied.]
Well, A sure got a kick out of this (you know, laughing hysterically with great exaggeration in his own annoying little way) - especially when K came into the room and started cleaning it up. Pirate, if you think K is really scary in normal day-to-day relations, you should see her cleaning up barf!
[I can't believe she cleaned it up for him! I would have rubbed his nose in it and swatted him on the ass with a newspaper.]
But, as the great Ignatius J. Reilly would say, fortuna smiled upon me when, not one hour later, it was A who was hurling is guts out(albeit in the toilet), and it was I who was laughing my ass off.
And for you regular wenchies out there -- no, he did not pee on the carpet.
Posted at 01:18 PM | Comments (9)August 06, 2007
Too Much To Deal With
Oh. My. God. Isn't it lovely when some succulent piece of gossip simply falls into your lap?
At work this week, some guy meant to forward an email -- a very, very personal email -- to his wife, but he ended up sending it to the entire office by mistake. I don't know how the hell something like that happens, but I'm glad it did.
Now, the email needs some backstory, which I got from my boss and will now share with you.
Keith is the son of the woman who wrote the original email. He and his family live in the Chicago area but have a place in Wisconsin (in a town I will not name). He has three teenaged children, who are all staying with his mom for a bit at their place in WI. There are two boys and a girl, 16, 17 and 19.
Now, these kids are, by reputation, all drunks. One has dropped out of school, and one is failing out of school. They all have criminal records in their home town.
Keith's wife is currently also in the same Wisconsin town but staying at a different house and never around.
Reading this, I feel really bad for Keith's mom... but not so bad that I'm not going to print the email. What? I'm eliminating the names! There's also some people mentioned whom I don't know, but they're not really pivitol to the story.
Keith,
I have hesitated to bother you when you have serious issues to deal with in Chicago, but something has to be done about all these kids up from Chicago and their lying and drinking.
Their are putting your reputation in jeopardy. It is just one thing after another and they don't seem to learn. Why are [2 teenaged friends of the kids] up here without a parent?
Marie came to me yesterday and said [17 yr. old Son] lied about his age and she rented him a moped. As long as he had a driver's license, but not 18, he could have gotten parental permission and it would have been ok, but he didn't. Marie would have been liable if [17 yr. old Son] had been in an accident and lost her business.
[16 yr. old Son] and [2 teenaged friends of the kids] tried renting mopeds too, but Marie was on to them. Later, [2 teenaged friends] tried to get one of Marie's underage employees to get beer and join them at a bonfire at Cathy's house. [Keith's bro-in-law] went out to the Lake House to have [Keith's wife] take of this.
[19 yr. old Daughter] has been at the Local Bar twice and not noticed right away. She is putting Local Bar Owner's business in jeopardy. Owner is still waiting for an apology from [19 yr. old Daughter].
[19 yr. old Daughter] has brought beer up in her car and with [16 yr. old Son]'s help took it to the bunkhouse, where 3 more underage kids were, including a 15 yr. old girl. Some of these kids had to drive home. If I knowing allowed them to drink at my house I could go to jail. After I told the kids they couldn't drink at my house, I called [Keith's wife] to handle it.
[Keith's wife]'s solution is to lecture me on being too hard on the kids and not talking to them. I will talk to them, but they do not want to hear what I have to say. [Keith's wife] is the parent up here. Her punishment is not allowing them to stay by me or work at the ice cream shop. I am fine with that right now. All this is getting too much to deal with.
The MySpace web page that [some whorey friend] created including members [16 yr. old Son], [etc.] created is call:
Drunk in [Town Name] (Chicago Chapter)
Common Interest
For anyone who have ventured up to [Town Name], WI in search of wild drunken debauchery, and those who have made [Town Name] police report history.
Recent News: At 63 years old, Robert is the oldest (and drunkest) honary member
Officers: [some whorey friend] (Official dancer with Keith)
I am asking for help before something else happens.
Mom
See, this is why Wisconsin-ites call us F.I.B.s (Fucking Illinois Bastards). Can you blame them?
What kind of hippie shit is this don't-be-too-hard-on-them crap? Talking is fine for when Sally repeatedly forgets her homework, or Tommy goes out without cutting the grass first. But police reports call for something more serious than a tsk-tsk.
When I'm Queen, if some parent(s) let all of their kids become criminals, it will be my sentence that they join their kids in prison. Because really -- what has Keith contributed to the world except three reasons to stay off the streets after dark?
Oh, and to add to the hilarity, Keith has some business ventures up in that very town in WI. He has even gotten the mayor to invest in his business plan. I wonder how the mayor will feel when news of Keith's kids reaches his ears?
I'm assuming the whole shit-for-brains family will eventually be run outta town by an angry mob with torches and pitchforks. I just hope they don't come back to Illinois.
Posted at 03:21 PM | Comments (0)July 20, 2007
The Cabin, Part I
Husband and I will be going to my family's cabin briefly this weekend. Mid-July is awfully late for my first visit of the year. Most summers, I'm at least up there by the first week of July, with the rest of the family, serving as buffer for my Mom so she doesn't go stir-crazy while my Father spends his days in stoic, Scandinavian silence.
My Mother has certainly put up with a lot from my Dad over the years. For example, 'though they have been married for over 50 years now, he continues to introduce her as "my first wife." Nice, huh?
Frankly, the man is lucky she hasn't poisoned him by now. I wouldn't turn her in. His eternal trying of her good will began not long after they were married.
At the time, they were living in a "garden efficiency" apartment. I.e., a tiny, basement apartment. And as any savvy financial advisor will tell you, they were in the perfect position to buy a summer home!
Not.
But Dad did it anyway. He went in on a place with his father and brother. Grandpa had his eye on this sweet, little, white cottage and, apparently, couldn't afford it himself, so he had his sons each pay him back for part of it. Not a bad deal for my uncle, who is quite a bit older than my Dad and probably in a better position at the time to afford $20 a month. But for my parents, that was a lot of freakin' scratch!
Can you imagine, as a new bride, being told, "I know you're the only one working to support us while I finish college, but can you squeeze twenty bucks out of the budget each month?"
I've got one word for you. Anullment.
Oh, and that sweet, little, white cottage? Well, the owner backed out of the deal at the last moment. Some of you might think that that ought to have been the end of the fiasco, at least for the time being. But no one has ever gone to the animal shelter "just to look" and NOT gone home with a puppy.
They came to buy a summer home, and by God, they were going to buy a summer home!
And thus, the shanty came into our lives. An old, three-season fishing cabin that had been unused for a couple decades. The walls are split logs with tar paper in between. The roof requires buckets when it rains. The floor is such that, when you sweep, you don't need a dustpan because you can just sweep the mouse droppings right through the floor! Handy!
It had no electricity and no running water. There was a water pump a ways down the road. There were (are) bats and spiders and mice and raccoons and God knows what else. My Mother cried the first time she saw it.
I don't blame her. We have 8mm film of her washing out Spikette's diapers on the rocks down on the beach. Yes, the poor woman who dreams of satin sand beaches and tropical climes got a rock beach 300 miles north of her Chicago home.
See what I mean? And miraculously, she didn't forever withhold sex from my Dad because here I am! She's a saint.
Also in my parents' collection of 8mm films is footage of my Dad skiing. It's very old footage. Very. I know this because I have inherited my Dad's under-performing knees, and at 37, there's no way in hell my knees would allow me to barrel down a mountain on two planks of wood. So Dad had to be under 37 in the movie.
(Yes, they had moving pictures when my Dad was younger. But no sound. Or color.)
When I was growing up, there were three girls my age on my block. Over the years, I hated them all on-and-off. I distinctly remember their brightly-colored down jackets. A sharp contrast to the faux-fur hand-me-downs Billi and I got from one of my Mom's friends.
Growing up un-affluent in an affluent neighborhood sucked. My clothes were never the right clothes, and I was shunned mercilessly for it. My friends tended to be the class clown, the class bully and the new girl -- all outcasts in their own right.
How I wanted a ski jacket. Of course, I never skiied. My zipper pull would never have the collection of lift tickets that fluttered on the front of the other girls' jackets year-round. I envied them those tickets. And they knew it and flaunted them. Bitches.
But my family never skiied. In fact, we rarely went on any vacation, except to that shack in the woods. Which is probably for the best, if I'm going to be honest. Skiing involves three things that don't sit well with me: cold, speed and coordination. I can't imagine not ending up in the E.R.
So my father perfers snowy, northern climates. My mother yearns for the hot, sunny tropics. I supposed a cabin on an island in Wisconsin was my father's idea of a compromise. Hey, it's an island, right? Just not a tropical one.
Irene, Patron Saint of Non-Murderous Wives. Patron Saint of the Long, Slow Burn.
While the girls on my block were going skiing and taking horseback riding lessons and visiting grandparents in sunshiney Florida, I was spending my summers far away from any modern comforts.
I remember one time, I accidentally left a sweatshirt at one of these girls' houses. It was my favorite -- pure white with the name of the island proclaimed in blue script, a drawing of a viking ship sailing proudly beneath.
I found out later that her mom had asked her and one of the other girls to walk it down to our house to return it. But instead, they had thrown it up on the roof of another neighbor's house and secretly rejoiced when it thunderstormed that night.
I never saw that sweatshirt again. And I take some smug glee in the fact that it bothered her conscience so much that she had to confess it to me a decade later. Hee!
Could it be those over-priviledged girls were jealous of my ramshackle, bat-infested, barefoot, oak- and cedar-surrounded, hot-dogs-over-the-bonfire, red-truck-ridin', wood-stove-warmed, split-log cabin?
You bet your sweet ass they were.
P.S. Back on Tuesday!
July 03, 2007
Barf Story with a Bonus
Since telling my own story about barfing on the Indiana Skyway, and A's story about barfing out the window of his car, it seems that everyone wants to get in on the act. I've had so many people come up to me and tell me their barf stories, I haven't had much inclination to eat lately.
Which isn't a bad thing, so I'm going to relate the story that A's friend, Scott, told me. Now those weirdos searching for "barf stories" on Google will have something new to read.
Scott is in his mid-twenties, gay and very active in his church. He is especially popular with the thirty- and forty-something moms of the church. They're his hags, and he's their little pet. He calls them his "desperate housewives" because they're all rich, pretty and fancy-free.
Scott and his hags often go out drinking. They especially like karaoke. After one such evening, they were driving home, and Scott started to feel sick. Not wanting to barf out of the car window, like A, he told the housewives he would walk home from there and got out of the car.
But as soon as he got out, he felt even more sick and less like walking. So he laid down on some random lawn and very calmly and rationally decided he would spend the night there.
But Terry, one of the hags, was having none of that. She put Scott back in the car and assured him that he could spend the night at her house, on her couch. Now, Terry has three boys, ages four to ten, so there's a good example to set.
Actually, now that I think about it, maybe the boys did learn a couple lessons from seeing Scott in such a state. Lessons like: Friends don't let friends drive drunk. And: Drinking too much turns you into a pathetic, helpless retard.
Come morning, Scott discovered that he had, indeed, gotten up in the middle of the night to barf and it wasn't just a bad dream. He followed the smell to the kitchen garbage can, where he saw his dinner from the previous night all over the paper towels, coffee grounds and other things that normally reside in a kitchen garbage can.
And then he saw it. A large, dark yellow spot on the beige carpeting near the couch where he had spent the night. It could only be one thing.
Scott looked down at his pants. They were still dry. Some time in the night, he must have carefully and very purposefully undone his pants and peed on the carpet.
"Um, Terry?" Scott was forced to confess, "I think I may have... peed on your carpet. I'm so sorry!"
"Oh, that's okay!"
Terry was as non-chalant about the pee on her carpet and she was about the puke in her garbage can. Leading me to think that, in her younger days, Terry probably peed on a carpet or two herself.
There but for the grace of God go I. I find myself feeling quite smug that I have lived my life in such a way that I've never had to utter the words, "I peed on your carpet."
Real pirates can hold their rum.
Posted at 01:42 PM | Comments (1)June 08, 2007
Two Fires, One Very Special Family
When I was growing up in my charming, affluent town, there were two families that everyone knew – the Jacksons and the McDonalds. They were the names most frequently seen in the police blotter. They were the kids our parents wouldn’t let us play with. They were the kind of people who would die and either be eaten by their own cats or have to be removed from the house through at window with a crane. Or both.
Mrs. Jackson was one of those women you hear about but can’t believe, who was pregnant for the sixth time and didn’t know it until her water broke. True story.
I think they were vying for the coveted title of “Trashiest Family in Town.” Literally vying. They lived on the same block and were actually feuding, for God knows what reason. I think the oldest Jackson boy impregnated the McDonalds’ dog or something. They would throw beer bottles and firecrackers at each others’ houses. I think 50% of the calls to the fire department in the 70s and 80s were from the Jacksons. That place was always on fire.
One time, it was on fire twice in one day.
Gary Jackson had a motorcycle. He liked to ride it through residential streets at breakneck speeds. He also liked to ride it through picnics, parades and Easter egg hunts.
One day, he came screaming around the corner, and his hubcap went flying off, into K and Garrance’s yard. K picked it up and beat him on the head with it! No, she didn’t really, but that would’ve been awesome.
She handed it back to him and said, “I have a two-year old that you are going to kill if you don’t slow down!” Because when I say around the corner, I really mean across their lawn. I think Gary inherited his driving skills from his mother, who once drove her car through her back porch. For reasons unknown.
One day, K saw Gary tear around the corner, over the Jacksons lawn, into their back yard and disappear. Followed shortly by a police car.
K was happy to direct the officers to the Jackson home, although they probably didn’t need much direction.
Mrs. Jackson, 6 feet tall and 600 lbs., came to the door and, of course, started telling the policemen that Gary wasn’t there and she hadn’t seen him all day and blah blah blah. But apparently she hadn’t told Gary of her brilliant plan to cover for him because he came down the stairs in a towel and told the police he had just gotten out of the shower.
By this time, half the neighborhood was on their front lawns, and they weren’t even pretending to water the tulips. They were just flat-out gawking.
But before the officers could decide whether they should haul Gary off in his towel or let him change clothes first, smoke started coming out of one of the basement windows. So one of them walked around and took a look. Yup. Something was on fire in the basement.
Apparently, Gary had driven his motorcycle down the basement stairs, laid it down and put a blanket over it. Because, ya know, that’s sure to fool anyone!
The two Jackson girls started screaming and carrying furniture and pets out of the house. And they had some really beautiful antiques, which was ironic. And unfair. They should be living with milk crates and card tables, like normal white trash!
I guess the jig was pretty much up at that point. Hard to plead innocent when your motorcycle is on fire in the basement and your sisters are emptying the house of valuables.
The fire department came and put out the fire. When K asked if they were going to arrest Gary, they said, “I think having their house go up in flames is punishment enough.” And it wasn’t, in my opinion, but I think the police were probably just fed up at that point.
But just as the firemen were putting their hoses away and getting ready to leave, smoke started coming out of one of their second story windows. Apparently, the fire had gotten into the walls and traveled upstairs. Bwaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! So the firemen had to get all their gear back out and put out the second fire.
Meanwhile, Garrance went around to the rest of the neighbors to take up a collection. They were hoping, at that point, to bribe the firemen to just let the place burn down. But apparently that's a crime or something, even when half the people living there are on the lam.
And I don't know why I felt compelled to share that story except that we were talking about the Jacksons last week. They come up in conversation fairly often, even after moving away twenty years ago. But the motorcycle story is my favorite.
Hokaaaaaaaaaaay, good story. And then I found five dollars.
Posted at 04:29 PM | Comments (5)November 27, 2006
The Third Time
In thirty-seven years, I have only barfed while away from home twice. And I remember both quite vividly because, when you're engaging in that graceless ballet that is blowing chunks, all you want is to be in your own home, vomiting into your toilet, and then crawling into your bed.
The first time was when I was in grade school, and, apparently, I accomplished the task while still asleep. We were on vacation at our Wisconsin cabin. I didn't even know I had ralphed until Mom was waking me up. I had puke in my hair and my ear.
That was the incident that ruined root beer floats for me. The float wasn't what had made me sick -- no, I definately had a stomach bug. But it was the last thing I had eaten before bed, and I haven't had another one in thirty years.
Our cabin is set-up in kind of an unusual way. There's main cabin, built in the 20s. And then there's the new cabin, which we still call the new cabin, despite the fact that it's older than I am. It has an extra bedroom and a bathroom (something with which the original cabin did not come equipped). The two cabins are connected by a screened-in porch we call the breezeway.
I was sleeping in the new cabin when I got sick on vacation. And I remember Dad, in the middle of the night, rigged up this clever alarm system for me with a fishing pole. All I had to do was pull it, and it would ring the dinner bell on the breezeway, and Mom would come running.
The second time I barfed away from home, I was in the E.R. with severe abdominal pain (a blog I have been promising for eons, I know). They gave me something to drink so they could x-ray my stomach or something, and it just came right back up. Fortunately, at the time, I was so stoned on a painkilling cocktail that I didn't even mind.
This weekend, Husband, Younger Step Daughter and I had a slightly belated Thanksgiving at his parents' house. Now, I really lucked out when it comes to in-laws. They are fun and kind and laid-back, and I always have a good time there. This time, the kids made and decorated gingerbread houses -- kewl!
So it was extra-disappointing when I got a huge headache Saturday evening, and it was still with me when I woke up on Sunday. However, I consoled myself that, hey, at least I wasn't spewing lava like Husband's brother! Apparently, one of the forty-seven dishes in which we had indulged in the past 24 hours hadn't agreed with him.
Ah, but Fate is a bitch, ladies and gentleman, and it had plans for me. Plans that involved prompting me to snarf down a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way back from Lafayette to Chicago.
When I started feeling nauseated, I didn't think much of it. Yeah, okay, ice cream is perhaps not the perfect lunch, but my body could handle it. After all, I've been training it with Oreos for breakfast for half my life!
But then the chills set in. Followed by the sweating. And that unmistakable feeling in your esophogus.
"Honey? I'm gonna throw up. Can you pull over?"
We were on the Indiana Skyway at the time. And if you're not familiar with the Indiana Skyway, it's about a mile in the air, and it's alwaysalwaysalways under construction. Luckily, we were on a stretch where there was actually a shoulder, so Husband pulled over.
The first gush splattered on my shoes and jeans. My awesome new Sketchers. And I remember simultaneously praying for a chance to breath, and cursing my stupidity.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go. So the other people on the road with us got a nice view of my partially-digested Pumpkin Pie Blizzard.
I don't think I'm be eating anything pumpkin-y for a while.
Husband is insane. He can feel like crap, then throw-up and be like, "Ahhhhhhh, much better! Can we have lasagna for dinner?"
But I hurl, and I have to don my bed jacket and take to the couch, sipping water and nibbling crackers for three days. My body has never been very happy about having to relinquish food. I get weak, spacey and shakey. And I have to walk around doubled-over because all my stomach muscles feel like hot, liquid magma.
It's not fair. I know Husband thinks I'm faking it.
Posted at 06:53 PM | Comments (2)October 18, 2006
Crackers
Up north with PJ, there is a certain restaurant that we frequent, particularly for breakfast. Which they serve all day long because breakfast is the yummiest meal of the day and comes with a side of bacon.
We went there so often, the staff started to recognize us... and then probably got sick of us. One evening, we went to a different restaurant for dinner because they have beer cheese soup, and then drove across the street for pumpkin pie at our Usual Restaurant.
Yes, we drove across the street. What? You can't just leave your car in the parking lot and go to another restaurant! That's totally rude!
Our waiter was probably our age but had a California surfer thing going on, which isn't really my type and is definately out-of-place in Wisconsin. But PJ thought he was cute, so we chatted him up. It was late, and we were almost the only people in there, so he had time.
I asked where he was from, but I didn't get the answer I expected:
"I'm from St. Paul, and so is my girlfriend. Her friend is from around here and used to have a restaurant around St. Paul. But then she closed it and moved back here and opened this place.
"She kept asking us to come down and work for just the fall because that's the time when the kids go back to school, but the businesses have one more busy month to get through before things drop off for the winter.
"So we came down in September. But we had, like, a million things to do on the day we were supposed to leave, so we didn't get on the road until 11:00 at night. By the time we got here, it was 5:00 in the morning, and my girlfriend was supposed to be at work at 6:00. I didn't have to be in until 7:00, so at least I got an hour of sleep.
"But I got here, and I'm totally exhausted, and I haven't eaten, and I can't focus. And we work a fifteen-hour day! So I go to our friend, Dude, I haven't eaten or slept or anything. Can I just grab something to eat real quick?
"And she's like, We eat after the lunch rush. Grab some crackers. You know, I really like her as a friend, but I don't think I like working for her."
When I finally stopped laughing and could speak, I said, "So how long have you been here?"
"Four years and one month."
When I looked around to see who we were bothering with our cackling, I noticed we had long cleared out the place. D'oh!
Posted at 02:26 PM | Comments (0)October 11, 2006
The Princess and the Pea
It's fairly common knowledge that, in order to get Husband to marry me, I brewed a special potion in my pewter cauldron and slipped it into his guinness. Soon after the wedding, reality set in, and he started waking up to a cranky zombie each morning.
Not wishing to have his brains devoured for breakfast, we bought a Select Comfort Sleep Number Bed. Yes, he's a bit jealous that my love for my side of the bed is deeper than my love for him, but it's a small price to pay for keeping one's cranium intact, and he understands that.
My sleep number is 70. I like a fairly firm mattress. I have become so in tune with my mattress that I can tell when it has slipped down to 65. And it just won't do.
Over the weekend, PJ and I went up to the Pumpkin Patch Fest in Wisconsin. Unfortunately, so did half of the population of Chicago, and I didn't call for reservations until two weeks before. My regular hotel (I walk in, and they go, "Norm!") was booked solid. As was every other hotel in the area. Stupid tourists!
(See, I can say that because I'm not a stupid tourist. I own property in Wisconsin. I pay taxes. Yeah, I'm the worst kind of F.I.B. -- I'm a F.I.B.W.A.C.*)
In a panic, I started calling every hotel in the county, in alphabetical order. I finally got us in a room, in the R's.
I'll give you a full description of the room tomorrow. For now, let's concentrate on the slab of concrete upon which they had thrown a (filthy) comforter. It was like sleeping on the floor, and I am not in any way exaggerating for comedic effect. (Obviously, because that sentence wasn't funny.)
On our list of Things To Do the next day was Local Farmers Market, Apple Orchard, Pottery Store and Fudge. But first, we drove half an hour to the nearest Target and bought an air mattress and an electric air pump. I shit you not. There was no way I was going to risk permanant spinal damage -- not even for fresh Cherry Rum Fudge.
We finally got back to our room, after twelve hours of shopping and gorging ourselves, at 9:30 p.m. You know how loud an electric air pump is at 9:30 at night? I thought we were going to get kicked out. But sleeping in the car would have been preferrable to sleeping on that damn bed, so we forged bravely ahead. Neighbors be damned!
It took some time to tweak it until it was finally the right firmness. It would be fine for me, but then too hard once PJ got on it, too.
There was no way we were going to put it on the floor because we were afraid something would scurry over us during the night, so we put it on top of the bed. So we were, like, five feet off the ground. There was no graceful way to get in and out of it. The act took much rolling and leg-flailing for momentum. There's a mental picture for ya.
So, hey, if anyone wants to come visit me, you now have three choices of where to sleep -- Step Daughter's bed, the futon in the basement, or the air mattress in the Barbie room!
* A F.I.B. is a Fucking Illinois Bastard -- a cute, little nickname the Cheeseheads made up for us, in retaliation for the name Cheesehead. Which is kind of like stabbing someone in the kidney after they kick you in the shin, but whatever. A F.I.B.W.A.C. is a F.I.B. with a cabin.
Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (3)September 11, 2006
Reflections On This, the Fifth Anniversary of Nine-Eleven
Since I am a public figure, I am obligated today to do a piece entitled "Reflections on 9/11." And if I don't, all the 9/11 babies are going to stage a sit-in on my front lawn. So here goes.
(And me and Heather just had a big discussion because she thinks that 9/11 babies are the ones concieved right after the attack, and I think they're the ones whose fathers were killed in the attack while they were still in utero. We have no idea. Either way, the thought of a bunch of toddlers on my lawn fills me with Hitchcock-esque horror. But I digest.)
I work in the 'burbs, as you know. The Chicago 'burbs. My job requires no traveling, no training, no continuing education. Hell, it barely even requires a pulse.
But once upon a time, one of my bosses whom I never write about because I make it a point to have as little to do with her as possible, decided I should take an insurance basics class. Yeah, and people think the only atrocities committed that day were by terrorists. Insurance Basics Class!
The class was in some building downtown, and really, I'm, like, Amish when it comes to going into the city. "Trains? Transfers? It's east of what Tower? Jebediah, help!"
Thank God that Husband, then Fiance, took pity on me. Of course, I was still cooking dinners then and had just started doing his laundry, so that might have had something to do with it. He drove me right to the front door of the building and dropped me off, before going to his own building just outside of the Loop.
My building was some dark, ancient, low-ceilinged, windowless nightmare, smooshed between two newer, glossier, taller buildings. The plan was that I would call Fiance whenever I was done, and he'd come get me. If he wasn't done at work, yet, I'd just go hang out at his office until he was. Anything was preferrable to getting home on my own.
Driving into the city, we listened to our usual radio station. (Yes, we are old.) And that's when we first heard of the plane crashing into the tower.
My first thought was, "What idiot can't see a goddamn TOWER?!"
My second thought, and I'm sure Fiance's, too, was left unsaid -- If that wasn't an accident, this is some serious shit...
By the time he and I each got to our respective destinations, the second plane hadn't crashed, and the buildings had yet to collapse.
I found it hard to concentrate on insurance basics. I know, hard to believe the question of that plane crash could distract me from the differences between property and casualty, right?
The instructor called morning break, and immediately, we were all on our cell phones. A woman who had a voice message waiting for her was the first one to announce, "A second plane crashed into the other tower."
And there I was, in the shadow of the tallest building in the country. Yes, my first thought was of my own safety. My second was of Fiance. But the Verizon satellites were melting in orbit with all the calls being made, and I couldn't get through.
That's when the instructor made the announcement that Chicago was a suspected target, and they were evacuating the entire downtown area. Can you say P*A*N*I*C, boys and girls? I knew that you could.
I couldn't get a hold of Fiance, and I didn't know where the hell his office was, and I was being swept along in a stampede of people all headed in the same direction.
I had no fucking clue what to do. So I did the only thing that came to mind.
I swallowed my pride and announced to the surrounding crowd, "I need to get to Suburbville, and I don't even know where the train station is, let alone which train to get on!"
A woman immediately grabbed my hand and said, "I live two stops past Suburbville -- follow me!"
She might as well have said, "Come with me if you want to live." That's what it felt like. And I never even asked her name.
As far as we knew, another plane was already headed for the Sears Tower or the John Hancock. Or O'Hare. Jesus, most of my family lives within blast-range of O'Hare. And as we stood in the train station, on the constant brink of terrified stampede, it occurred to me -- wouldn't this be a good plan? Flood everyone to the train station, and then blow it up.
Frankly, I'm amazed at how quickly my new friend and I got on a train. I think the CTA did a great job, under the circumstances.
I still hadn't reached Fiance, but I left him several messages telling him what was going on and where I was and to get the hell outta the area already!
When I reached my stop, I happened to be equidistant from my apartment and my office. Easy walking distance to both. I kinda just wanted to go home and curl up on my couch with a blanket and hit redial until I got Fiance on the phone. I knew my boss would totally understand.
But even more, I just wanted to be around people.
When I finally spoke to Fiance that evening, I threw a raging hissy-fit at him for not leaving downtown (his office was just outside of the evacuation zone).
He's like, "But if they scare me away, then the terrorists have already won!"
And I'm like, "Yeah, well, I don't want to have to tell that to your daughters at your funeral."
That got him. Next national emergency, he's running like a sissy-mary.
One tiny little miracle did happen that day, though. See, normally, when there's any deviation from my usual life, I call my Mom and let her know. Yes, the umbilical cord has been cut -- I'm not one of those people. I just don't like Mom to worry if she's trying to reach me.
But, for whatever reason, that time, I didn't tell her I was going to be downtown. I don't know why. Normally, I would make a point of letting her know I'd be icognito for the day. But I forgot. And thank God I forgot because, if she had known I was being evacuated from a potential danger zone, she would have completely lost it, as any mother would.
As it was, she shed a couple tears of relief and that's it. People left work to go get their kids from school, and the office closed early.
Just figures, huh? The one time I have to go downtown for something, the world goes crazy, and they evacuate the entire Loop area. Just my luck.
And yes, I had to retake that stupid class.
And now I'm going to The Red Cross to make a donation to atone for this blog.
Posted at 03:12 PM | Comments (2)September 08, 2006
Tempting Fate
Yesterday, I fell back on a Barbie "comic" I had done weeks ago because I didn't really have anything to write about. Well, I do have a couple things meandering around my brainpan, but I lack the motivation to devote any time to developing them.
(I put the word comic in quotes because the jury's still out on the comedic quality of it.)
It's what's known in the business as writer's block. (Heh -- like I'm "in the business.") It's not fatal. Like everything else it life, my muses tickle me in fits and spurts. (Ewwwww, spurts.)
Lately, I've been cursing my boring life. Why haven't The Kids done anything hilarious lately? Why does nothing cool ever happen to me? Why do people even read this? Why haven't I quit my job to go live in the wild with a pack of meerkats?
And I should know better. I mean, really, have I already forgotten what happens when I tempt fate like that? Have I forgotten that the universe is run by a sick, spiteful bastard?
Apparently.
Before leaving work on the looooooooong twenty-five minute commute to get home, I always stop to pee. It's Pavlovian. Leaving anywhere? Pee. I was all ready -- had my keys out and my sunglasses hanging on my shirt and my briefcase packed.
So I peed and pinched off a loaf. I leaned over to get some toilet paper (because God forbid they actually put the t.p. near the toilet), and my sunglasses fell off my shirt, between my legs, and through the narrow gap into the toilet.
What are the odds.
They were my favorite pair, off the four I have. I call them my pink Charlie's Angels shades. I'm not sure exactly why. But there they were. My favorite sunglasses. Lovingly spooning a fecal log. Traitors.
I went over my options:
1. Retrieve them. Yeah, that wasn't happening.
2. Flush. Hmm. I could just see the toilet overflowing and little poops swimming across the floor, and I wasn't sure I could outrun them.
3. Leave it. You know, that's not really nice. The women who keep this bathroom sparkling clean are so nice. I'd be a real asshole to do that.
4. Fish them out. I'm no McGuyver, and there was nothing in that stark bathroom, or my purse, for such an occassion. And even if there WAS an appropriate instrument in my purse, hell if I was sacrificing TWO of my belongings to the poopie water.
Which brought me back around to option #1.
I sighed resignedly at the realization that I had to suck it up and take care of my own problem. Then I did what any decent human being would do -- I stuck my hand in the exrement-tainted toilet and fished out my sunglasses.
You heard me -- I stuck my hand in the toilet.
I dropped them in the little trash recepticle because they certainly weren't going on my face again.
My hand, however, wasn't so simple to dispose of. I pulled up my pants as best I could with one hand and quickly ran to the sink for MUCH SOAP AND SCALDING WATER, leaving my belongings still hanging on the stall door. But I doubted the only other woman in there was going to steal them, especially after hearing what she just heard.
That'll teach me to long for something interesting to blog about.
And no, I'm not telling you which hand I used.
Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (5)August 29, 2006
Worst New Neighbors Ever: Part II
When we last left Wenchie and Heather's Mom, Heather had left them behind to "wait for the cable guy," when, really, it was purely an act of mercy. Heather's Mom is way too fabulous to be lugging boxes, and I, well,... I'm just way too out-of-shape.
We were standing in the topsy-turvy apartment, fighting the urge to collapse [in a fit of passion] on the newly-made bed and contemplating what our next move would be.
A-HA! Decorative flair! Mais oui!
In a corner of the hallway, where there was once a teeny-tiny, three-sided closet, there is now a little display area with three well-lighted, glass shelves. And what goes better on well-lighted, glass shelves than SHOES!
Heather's extensive shoe collection was easily found among the much smaller boxes, so we picked three and, channelling our inner gay men, arranged them artfully on the shelves. Voila!
After that, I barely had time for two lengthy phone conversations before the crew was back with Heather's Fiance's stuff and it was time to start working again, this time with much less enthusiasm.
Within seconds, I was so sweaty, there wasn't even a dry spot on my shirt with which to wipe my face. So I gave up and just shook my head to send the droplets flying off like a dog (you're so turned on right now, I can tell). It was like Flashdance, but without the pole.
Of course, Heather's sinewy arms and dainty shoulders only looked MORE sexy when covered in a glistening sheen. And don't even get me started on Heather's Brother. God-DAY-UM. Red-faced and spikey-haired, he only looked hotter. Thank God Heather's Mom spilled a drop of salsa on her shirt, or you wouldn't have even known she had lifted her fabulous form off the chaise lounge that day.
God, I hate Heather's family.
Now, what happened next has never been fully explained, even by Heather. Which is doubly odd because there was no alcohol involved. (The alcohol came immediately after this incident.)
Heather shattered the top of a glass table. With her chin. While she was holding it.
Seriously, how the hell does that happen?! And the offending chin went unscathed, while her thumb suffered a deep cut that bled for the remainder of the aftenoon.
I still can't imagine how that all went down. By the time I got to the scene, Heather was picking shards of glass out of the neighbor's lawn.
She quietly muttered, "Worst. New neighbors. Ever."
I cried, "And there's the title for my blog about this!"
Posted at 02:27 PM | Comments (2)August 28, 2006
Worst New Neighbors Ever: Part I
Well, my darling pets, I may be uttering my last words sooner than I thought. I helped Heather and her fiance move on Saturday, and as a result, I myself cannot move.
We started out the move amiably enough with donuts and Coke. Breakfast of champions. But the morning quickly digressed with a car accident. Namely, Heather's Brother tearing the front bumper off a parked car when he tried to park the rental truck at the new apartment. Eep. Not good.
But the car's owner was very cool about it. And quite adorable. And braless. Bonus!
I, on the other hand, was one sweaty mess. My teeth were sweating. My fingernails were sweating. Heather and I had used some bags of her various female sanitary products to prop-up some plants in the back seat of my SUV. Upon unpacking my car, I briefly entertained the idea of shoving a few down my pants to soak up some of the asscrack sweat. But I'm pretty sure I would have needed a spatula to unstick my jeans from my sweaty body, and I didn't know which box the spatulas were packed in.
When the truck was emptied of all Heather's crap, er... I mean, belongings, the rest of the crew went to pick up Heather's Fiance's stuff, while Heather's Mom and I were assigned the grueling task of sitting around to wait for the cable guy and mattress delivery guys.
So, while the apartment's residents were out sweating off various body parts, Heather's Mom and I started making Executive Decisions.
Liiiiiiiike, we didn't put the bed against the wall opposite the bedroom door, as Heather had directed. We centered it between the two windows. And we created a couple nightstands out of bamboo boxes or something. And we made the bed, as we saw fit.
And then, being the obsessive-compulsive control-freaks that we are, we started jonesing for things to organize. Unpack the books onto the shelves? No, we didn't know where they wanted the shelves. Set up Heather's desk? We didn't know where the screwdriver was.
Okay, this is getting too long and the afternoon, too short. To be continued...
Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (1)July 28, 2006
Off to Boast and Brag with the Boys
Once upon a time, little eight-year old Wenchie's parents joined a community theatre group that performed solely the works of W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. (The name of that group is withheld to protect the asswipes, as well as the innocent.)
The little church at which these plays were performed, annually, was one block from her house. Naturally, during rehearsal season, Li'l Wenchie spent all her freetime there, sweeping up, watching, singing, painting, running around...
Okay, not naturally. Any normal kid would have been with other normal kids riding bikes or playing kick the can or whatever normal kids did back then before video games were prevalent. But my father had the tenor lead in "H.M.S. Pinafore," and by God, I memorized the entire opera at the tender age of nine. Hey, there was only one stereo in the house, and daddy needed to practice.
The years went by, and I watched from the lighting balcony as my parents and their friends became other people, donned ridiculous costumes, sang at the top of their lungs... and soaked up the applause. I worshipped them.
I thought to myself, "I can do that. That's gonna be me someday."
Of course, that someday wouldn't come until I was sixteen, as mandated by my parents. And if you know anything about theatre people, you know they were probably nuts not to make me wait until eighteen. But, hey, I sang alto then, and what chorus doesn't need a good alto who can sightread and hold her own part no matter who is shrieking in her ear?
More years passed, accompanied by voice lessons, and I went to each audition with high hopes. Not that I was in danger of being left out of the chorus, mind you -- no, I had loftier aspirations: a chorus lead!
Not a real lead. I'm not greedy. Just a small, supporting role that sings with the chorus and occasionally has a break-out verse of her own, or maybe a brief duet with a real lead. After all, it was my birthright, no? Weren't my parents founders of the group? Didn't I spend two decades doing ANYTHING that needed to be done behind the scenes? Don't I have a pretty voice and look like I'm eighteen on stage?
Yes, yes and yes.
But there were asses to be kissed, ladies and gentlemen. And Wenchie don't play that.
One year, not long ago, the role I wanted went to a sixteen year old diva with a vibrato you could fly a blimp through. And? I was asked to be in the mens' chorus because they were short on men and, hey, I know all the music to "Ruddigore" anyway, right?
I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed hysterically for hours. Not only was I not good enough to beat some fat, warbling bitch; I wasn't even good enough to be a woman.
That was my last year with that group. I never got to fulfill my dream. I never got to sing in their spotlight. I never got to have my parents watch from the audience and say, "That's our daughter!" I stood behind friends and enemies alike and was the pillar of the womens' chorus. And no one even bothered to throw me a fucking bone for my efforts.
The orgranization is defunct now, due to politics and egos and a dozen other factors. All the costumes and props are in storage indefinately, until the founding members decide exactly what to do. Oh, I could rally the troops and probably re-start the company... but why?
Wenchie has a new home now.
My voice teacher and fellow Thursday Dinner diner, K, finally succeeded in her nagging. And a year and a half ago, I joined a local choir organization. No costumes, no "roles," no spotlights. But it sure felt good to be singing again. And honestly? Felt good to be out of those damn period costumes!
And what do you know? This director likes me! Enough, in fact, to have given me solos in three out of the past four concerts!
Now, there are some serious voices in this choir. This is no rag-tag group of neighbors who got together and said, "Hey, let's put on a show!" These people are good, and for me to be counted among the best of them is incredibly humbling.
Of course, having been humbled doesn't mean I won't gloat... just a little.
On Saturday, we had our spring concert, the theme being "Sequels & Prequels." Gay, I know. What do you want? We're a choir. We sang selections from "The Wizard of Oz" and "Wicked," and "Camelot" and "Spamalot."
A (also from Thursday Dinners) and I sang the "romantic" duet from "Spamalot." And there are quotes around "romantic" because it's not very romantic, and because A is gay.
The song is called, "The Song That Goes Like This." Here are the lyrics, although, unfortunately, they don't specify who sings what. You can also go to Amazon and hear a snippet of it (it's no. 8), if you'd like.
But the snippet doesn't really give you a good idea of the vocal oomph the song requires. There are three key changes (a la Barry Manilow), and it ends on a high B-flat. You non-musicians won't be impressed, so I'll translate -- really, really high.
And in addition to requiring a set of lungs and a pretty voice, it also requires funny. Now, lots of singers -- especially amateurs -- take themselves waaaay too seriously to be funny. But that's where the Wench has a leg up because, let's face it -- I know from funny.
And if I may indulge in one of the Seven Deadlies for a moment... I sang the shit outta that song!
There were strangers coming up to me and gushing about how great our song was! Other soloists from the choir told me, "You guys were the hit of the whole show!" Imagine that!
Ex-tree! Ex-tree! Read all about it!
* * * CHORUS GIRL BECOMES STAR * * *
So, um, all you ex-G&S people? While you're cleaning out your storage locker? Be sure to eat your heart out.
Posted at 03:08 PM | Comments (2)May 22, 2006
Hardships Endured
I've heard tell that, the bigger your boobs are, the more painful a mammogram is. Chilling words, indeed, for one sporting a D cup and facing her first mammogram. Welcome to my Friday Morning.
No, welcome to my Last Tuesday Morning, because that's when I started freaking out about it.
We ladies who are fortunate enough not to have breast cancer in our family history, are supposed to get a baseline mammogram at age 35, then one a year starting at age 40.
A baseline mammogram. The mammogram against which all other mammograms are judged. Talk about pressure! I wanted to make sure The Girls were at their best, but how to do that when you're not allowed to wear lotion or perfume? Not even baby powder or deodorant! My breasts were naked and without adornment!
And cold.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
As you well know, I'm 36. And a half. I've been putting this off for some time now. And it's because of my mother that I haven't put it off another year and a half. My apples didn't fall far from her tree (thanks, Mom!), and she was always reassuring whenever I spoke of my impending mammo.
She's a very level-headed woman. Her Life Motto is, "Don't panic until it's time to panic." I love that. Don't freak out. Don't create drama. And if something could potentially save your life, suck it up and take the pain for a few seconds, ya bozo.
So I gave myself a pep talk: "Wenchie," I says, says I. "You are quite well endowed, it's true. But think of those women with boobs bigger than yours! You're hardly in the top percentile. What about those women who have to have their bras specially made? They must get mammograms, too. And if they can do it, you can do it. Ya big pansy."
So I did it. On Friday. Had to show up at 9:00 for a 9:30 appt., for the filing out of forms, and the changing into flattering hospital attire, and the superfluous waiting around that is mandatory when you're shelling out buttloads of money to be physically tortured.
The "gown" I had to wear (I love how these things bear the same title as the fabulous, designer-made garb that clings adoringly to Halle Berry's perfect form on the red carpet) had three sleeves. Three. I, like most folks I know, have only two arms.
I stood there in the dressing room, looking at the three holes, waiting for the design to suddenly make sense to me. I had visions of walking out into the waiting room and all the other women laughing at me. Junior high all over again. (Only this time, I could actually fill a bra.)
I put it on and sat down quickly. No one else looked especially stylish, so I calmed down and opened my book. Oprah was on the television set, and all the other women were watching. Which led me to wonder what's on the t.v. in the room where the men wait for their colonoscopy, and envy them. I hate Oprah.
Finally, my name was called, and I followed a petite, fairly attractive woman into a room. The three-armed gown, I figured out, was supposed to allow one breast to remain covered whilst the other one was being photographed. Like, at that point, modesty is of the utmost importance. Gimme a break. Just lemme wear a poncho or walk around topless because the three-arm gown is an awful lot of fuss for the illusion of decorum.
I say illusion because, once the breast is unveiled, it is Play-Doh in the mammographer's hands. Hoist it up, pull it onto the glass, smoosh it flat. Oh, shuh, thank God my other breast isn't visible. It's not about propriety -- it's about not letting the left breast see what lies ahead for it.
There were the hogans, exposed for all to see, and I'm like, "Sure is cold in here!" But we could both see that for ourselves, if you catch my drift. So when she put the stickers on my nips, it was just not possible not to laugh. The stickers have a tiny metal ball on each, so she can tell where the nipples are in the pictures.
And of course, I was looking at them thinking, "I wonder if she'd give me a pair for Barbie...?" But I chickened out and didn't ask.
She took two photos of each: one vertical, one horizontal. And it hurt, yeah, but not horribly bad, and only for a few seconds. Actually, I was giggling much of the time.
In trying to pose the girls for the best possible photo, she was like, "Okay, put your left hand over your head. Now hold your other breast out of the way with your other hand. Chin up. Suck in your stomach." Oh, pleasejusttakethepicturealreadyyyyyyyyyy!!!
Afterwards, I had to go back to the waiting room while the mammographer looked over my glamour shots to make sure she got what she needed. By then, "The View" was on the television. I hate "The View" more than I hate Oprah. They are screeching harpies. They are everything that's obnoxious about the female gender. Let's face it -- they are everything that's only funny when I do it.
Their "interviews" are anything but because a guest can't get the first part of a sentence out before being interrupted by Starr Jones and that red-headed chick being just bitchy and risqué enough to make the token twenty-something widen her eyes in faux-shock, but not enough to anger Barbara. And I totally stopped typing to make quote signs in the air because that's how truly horrifying they are. I tried to read my book, but the cackling gnawed at my brain. For thirty-five minutes.
Mammo-chick said it'd be "ten or fifteen minutes," and then left me to endure half an episode of "The View." I could get over the smooshing, but THIS. THIS! Was unforgivable!
I hate being pushy at hospitals because I know they're busy and understaffed and there's always some weird, unforeseen incident they have to deal with. But I had to do it. I asked one of the other mammographers if I could go. She checked with The Great and Powerful Oz, and five seconds later, I was released back into the wild.
Since I didn't want them tracking me, I went into the dressing room and set about removing the tiny metal balls from my nipples. And I can honestly say -- Worst Pain of the Entire Mammogram! Peeling that super-sticky sticker off my poor nip. I have no children! My nipples have not been nursed into tough, no-nonsense patches of hardships endured. They are pristine and sensitive!
For the second one, I decided to take the Band-Aid approach and rip it off quickly.
I don't recommend it.
Driving home, my nipples were still screaming obscenities at me.
(By the way, is mammographer a word?)
Posted at 12:45 PM | Comments (6)May 04, 2006
This Is the BEST!
Okay, here are the top 10 searches that recently brought people to my site. My favorites have been bolded:
1. pirate wench
2. wench
3. pirate wench outfit
4. mint tulip party pleaser shoes
5. danielle jade mermaid
6. world s biggest vagina
7. draw the pirate
8. fuck me shoes
9. hold urine while puking
10. when she was bad she was horrid
I'm so glad that some Strawberry Shortcake fan was trying to find the shoes to complete her Mint Tulip Party Pleaser's outfit, and she came here. I wonder if she stayed to look around, or recoiled in horror and took a long, hot shower.
I just couldn't be more pleased that searches for "America's Next Top Model" are bringing people here! Bring me your poor, your tired, your bitchy, your accessorizingly-challenged!
How... why would anyone search for "hold urine while puking?" Is this a problem experienced by millions of Americans, peeing while puking? Did I miss the special "Dateline" broadcast?
I love that someone was searching for the line in some old poem my Grandma used to say to me, and it brought them here. I hope it wasn't someone's Grandma. I don't want to be responsible for a stroke.
And now, I have to tell you a story about The World's Biggest Vagina! But I'm going to clean it up a tad because even I have my limits. Seriously, it's that bad. Yes, even your favorite cunttard has standards of decency, paper-thin as they may be.
I was a big nerdy loser in school. All through school. My "ugly phase" lasted for over a decade. I had many nemeses, but one stands out in particular.
He was in my grade, and we were in the same Sunday school class K-12. We were friends for many years, but somewhere along the way, it occurred to him that he probably shouldn't be associating with someone as homely and weird as I.
But being a teenaged boy, he couldn't leave it at that. He had to break me down and crap on me. I imagine it was pretty awkward for our mutual friends, with whom we both ate lunch.
One day, he made a joke -- and here's where I'm cleaning it up -- that my vagina was so stretched-out from much usage that my next boyfriend would have to go spelunking to find my previous boyfriend.
It was the crudest thing anyone has ever said to me, before or since, and he said it in front of all our friends. It earned him the priviledge of wearing his Coke in his hair and on his shirt for the rest of the afternoon.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the owner of the World's Biggest Vagina. And I'm trying to get Vaginal Spelunking acknowledged by the Olympic Board as a legitimate sport. Look for it in Beijing in 2008!
God, I so want to make World's Biggest Vagina my new masthead. I just fear the weirdos it would bring.
And as a side note, I think it says a lot about how far I've come in my relationship with my mother, that I now fear the creepy perverts of the world more than I fear reprimand from her. Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
Posted at 01:16 PM | Comments (3)April 20, 2006
Revenge Is a Dish Best Served
Once upon a time, before Disney World and sleep studies, a dear little scamp named Michele was my 800th commenter. She sent me an awesome question, but I've been hesitant to answer it because it's quite possible that the person whom I would have to include in my answer, lurks this blog.
I'm speaking, of course, of that creepy coward, Stalky McClownerson.
This could possibly ruffle his backhairs and provoke him to renew his asshattery....
Enh, fuck it. Here's Michele's question:
I'm a vengeful person when pushed. When an ex-boyfriend (of 8 years) was cheating on me with a multitude of tarts that he met when he worked out of town, I didn't get mad, I got even. I saw in his suitcase one weekend home a large bottle of lotion, and it wasn't the brand we used at home. I knew two things about that lotion: It was going to be used to rub down his tarts, and that he'd used it on himself; or as the DeVinyl's said, "when I think about you I touch myself." So I put in massive amount of cayenne pepper, mixed well... and the next day I got a phone call from a screaming man whose penis was on fire!My questions to you —- what's the most revengeful thing you've ever done, and did you get caught or confess?
First of all, let me commend you on your penis arson. Well done!
Yes, I have taken revenge. On Stalky. See, the guy I dumped him for ended up being my first husband. But whatever -- Stalky acted like he was the first person in the history of the planet to get dumped for someone else, and that's just gay.
He called me all the predictable names -- slut, whore. Again -- whatever. If finding a muscular Latino guy more attractive than his fat ass makes me a slut, then so be it. I'm a Slut in the First Degree. Let's move on.
Oh, it just occurred to me -- I never told you the WORST stuff he did. I blanked on it until Heather and I were talking about clown-fear one day and how pervasive it is in our society.
So after I dumped Stalky, I started losing my mind. I'd come home from work and be like, "Huh. I thought I had put the blankets away." Or, "I don't remember leaving that bowl out. What was I even using it for?"
For Christmas that year, my cousin had hand-painted a gnome for me. (What? She's an artist; we're Norwegian -- get over it.) I arrived home from work to find the gnome, which normally resided on my bookshelf, standing on top of my television.
I was like, "Now I know I didn't put that there..."
And in a split-second, the whole thing dawned on me. Stalky was coming into my apartment and rearranging stuff, just to fuck with me. Not stealing, no, because that would have required actual balls. Just moving stuff.
But, Wenchie, how could he have gotten into your apartment when the only other people with keys were your parents and your saintly landlord?
One day, months prior, I had lent him my apartment key for some reason or another that made logistical sense at the time. It made sense because it was only for a few hours, and he was my BOYFRIEND. So why would I suspect him of anything?
Yeah. While the shithead was dating me, while our relationship was good, he made a copy of the key to my apartment, and I had no idea.
Now how completely sociopathic is that? Anticipating revenge while still in The Honeymoon Period. The thought still makes my skin crawl.
When I told F.H. (First Husband) about the shit Stalky was pulling, he was all, "Well, obviously, dude needs his tires slashed."
And we did. Under cover of night. And it was AWESOME!
Well, I just watched and drove the get-away car while F.H. did the actual slashing, but it was still fun!
And I have to tell you about his van. It had no other seats than the driver's seat, so when we went out, I had to sit in a folding chair. Plus? It was all full of toys, because he managed a toy store, and juggling crap from when he had gigs. Seriously, it was a dump. I mean, sure, it was still better than having to take public transportation to work, but just barely.
So that's my revenge story. As for getting caught and/or confessing, well, I guess this takes care of it, eh?
And if, indeed, the best revenge is living well and NOT tire slashing? Than I'm getting AMAZING revenge on F.H. for turning six years of my life into a frenzy of lies, co-dependency and money-scrounging. Husband treats me like a queen, I have more security, contentment and freedom than I ever thought I'd have. And F.H. is left to wallow is his own crapulence.
Pure. Awesome.
And the key? I didn't bother to ask for it back. I just phoned the landlord immediately, explained the situation and apologized profusely. He came out pronto, changed the lock himself and didn't even charge me for it, even tho' I offered. He was like, "Oh, it was an old lock anyway and needed changing." See? Saintly.
P.S. Fresh, you bastard, you never asked me a question from when you were 700th commenter. Or was it 600th? I forget. But you're still a bastard.
Posted at 12:55 PM | Comments (3)April 11, 2006
The Show at Dame Edna's Show
The Friday before we left for Florida, Husband and I went to see "Dame Edna" with Garrance and K, their son A, and their friend Steve.
Now, we've seen Dame Edna before, when she was in town three years ago. The audience was a peculiar mix of raging queens and symphony season ticket holders. Needless to say, the two groups didn't mix much, and we had fun people-watching.
However, people-watching can have its drawbacks, as we were forced to watch the couple in front of us give each other tongue baths during the entire first act three years prior. At one point, I'm pretty sure he had his hand down her expensive, exquisitely tailored, lavender, silk pants.
In fact, they were both impeccably dressed, proving yet again that money can buy season tickets to the symphony, but it can't buy you a shred of decency. Money can also buy a nice hotel room near the theatre, which made us wonder -- loudly -- why they hadn't chose that option.
But our subtle hints weren't working, so K, who was directly behind them, leaned forward and said, "Excuse me. Could you stop making-out? It's hard for me to see the stage when you're two heads are together like that."
Well. The man blustered and huffed and postured and "I've never been so insulted in all my life!"
Yeah. Whatever. Like he lives a life of modest decorum. Thank God they didn't return for the second act.
Fast forward three years to several Fridays ago. The curse continued, striking K and all of us again at Dame Edna's show. And this time, in full view of the Dame herself.
See, Dame Edna interacts with her audience a LOT. In fact, she brings them up on stage, she interviews them, she calls their families. At one point, she even asked K if she'd had some "work" done. HA!
To facilitate this interaction, the house lights are up for much of the show, which means that Dame Edna -- and every one else -- can see exactly what's going on in the audience.
We were lucky to get second row seats. Or unlucky, if you count the number of times we saw up his/her dress. There was a couple on the aisle, and then the six of us, so we were practically center. Right to left, it was Couple Woman, Couple Man, Steve, K, Husband, Me, Garrance & A (yes, the same guy who let me use his Old Spice).
Now, about the couple on the end of our row.
She was... Ruebenesque. Okay, she was fat. Which, in itself, is no crime. But, Jeebus, that dress was. It was like someone put a whole watermelon harvest into a sack designed only to hold a dozen peaches. Or something. And the guy was about 20 years older than her.
Not far into the first act, K leans in, does the Pssst! thing and points towards the couple. The guy has a program unfolded in his lap. And not one of the big, glossy ones you buy for twenty bucks -- it was just a Playbill. The girl's hand was under the program, and program was bobbing rhytmically up and down.
For those who lack the power of mental visualization -- dude was getting a handjob in an elegant, downtown theatre, not twelve feet from the person performing on stage.
Perhaps his Viagra had kicked in too soon? Or perhaps it had lingered beyond that afternoon's romp? I don't know.
But I do know this. Handjobs are for high schoolers. Real women give blowjobs, and they don't give them in upscale theatres. They give them in normal places, like elevators, movie theatres and cop cars.
It wasn't long before we six had become as un-subtle as the couple themselves and were flagrantly gawking and pointing at them.
There were other people we knew in the theatre, too, but they were sitting in the pauper seats, i.e. the balcony. During intermission, K got up and waved frantically to get their attention. Once she suceeded, she pointed to the now-vacant seats of the handjob couple, made her hand into a loose fist, and pumped it wildly up and down.
PW: K! Jesus! The entire theatre is looking at you!