April 29, 2008

So Apparently, I'm Dying

I went to see my G.P. today. (That's "General Practitioner," for those of you without health insurance. He's my main doctor.)

You know what he said to me? He said that I'm "of that age."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of that age??? What the fuck???

And then the dirty bastard said, "Well, you're almost forty, right?"

Oh, so apparently, "of that age" translates into "deteriorating so rapidly that you're practically dead, so why don't you just go put up your feet and wait to die?"!!!

All this abuse simply because I've had three stomach pain attacks in the past month. Now all of a sudden I need an ultrasound of my gall bladder AND my pancreas because I am OF THAT AGE.

I would have knocked his teeth down his throat, except that he hadn't yet written my prescriptions.

Posted at 07:40 PM | Comments (4)

April 23, 2008

Cyborg Etiquette Lesson

Okay, Friday was the WORST day. So bad that it wasn't even made better by the fact that my lavender nail polish perfectly matched my sweater.

First, there was the earthquake.

Then, I got a headache.

And then, my next Netflix movie was supposed to arrive Friday, and it didn't.

Why does everything bad always happen to me?

Another example -- I was at the movies with Marty on Friday. Now mind you, it was 1:00 in the afternoon, so at first, he and I were the only ones in the theatre. So we sat right in the middle by the railing and put our feet up.

Then two old ladies came in, and out of ALL THE HUGE THEATRE-FULL OF SEATS, they sat right fucking behind us. AND? It gets better. I started hearing this weird mechanical noise, like... a valve or something. Like a release valve, rhythmically hissing or closing or whatever.

And I'm like, "Do you hear that? What the hell is that? Is that an air tank? An iron lung? A colostomy bag? What the hell IS that???"

Yes, I said it out loud. What? She's old! She couldn't hear me! And certainly not over the din of her mechanical heart!

And of COURSE the woman being kept alive by only a machine was making gutteral, humming noises on top of it.

Does she not know the rules? If you are a cyborg, hooked up to a machine, then you must aware of the fact that it CONSTANTLY makes noise. Therefore, it is the cyborg's responsibility to make sure that his or her steam engine isn't annoying the rest of the non-cyborg population. Which means NOT sitting right on fucking top of the only other people in a movie theatre! That's how society works!

So I got up to go to the bathroom, and I told Marty, "When I get back, be sitting somewhere away from the cyborg."

And I'm sure you think I'm a terrible person for getting mad at the "mechanically challenged," or whatever they want to be called nowadays, but c'mon. If she's well enough to go to the movies, she's doing alright and doesn't need my sympathy.

Damn cyborgs. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting the right to get married and adopt children.

Posted at 06:55 AM | Comments (2)

April 07, 2008

Baby Bingo

They made me play... "Baby Bingo."

That's where someone reads clues about baby-related items (i.e. stroller, onesies, bottle), and if you have the answer in one of your squares, you X it off. I've also played the version where, as the mom-to-be opens her gifts, you X off what she unwraps if you have it on your page. So many ways to play!

By the way, my page had "nipples" in one of the squares. Swear to God. I must've missed three clues because I kept staring at the word thinking, "Tee hee! Nipples! Am I the only one who thinks this is funny? Oh, shit. Now I'm thinking about mom-2-B's nipples. I need more Sangria."

But to be honest, if "Baby Bingo" was the worst thing I had to contend with -- and it was -- then it wasn't such a bad shower. No one talked about episiotomies, at least, not at our table. And there were quesadillas!

There were gifts a'plenty. Seriously, a long table PILED with gifts. And many more huge ones on the floor. I sat there looking at the vast landscape of pastel blue wrapping paper and realized that, unless we wanted to be there until the baby's christening, someone was going to have to help move things along.

And that someone was me.

After mom-2-B opened each gift, I took it from her, put it back in the bag/box and onto another table. What? What people want to see is the unwrapping -- no one wants to watch her refold the adorable outfit, cram it back into the box, struggle up out of her chair and put the box on the table. No one. I was performing a public service. I even cleaned up the wrapping paper! I'm a goddamn hero, people!

There were many gorgeous handmade gifts, which are always my favorite because I can't even fathom the work that goes into that. Writing a good blog can sometimes take over an hour, but sewing a quilt? Knitting a jacket? These things are waaaaaaaay off my gratification meter.

One time, I bought a little cross-stitch kit. I was going to make cute, little Santa ornaments for my family. Each Santa was about 3" x 2". I got halfway through the first Santa and lost my mind. So I put it away for several years, kidding myself that I'd go back to it, but I never did. So I threw it out. There were five different colors of white in Santa's beard! FIVE!!!

The mom-2-B's mom made a quilt, a boppy cover, a cradle, an armoire, and a three-foot tall wedding-type cake made entirely of diapers and baby toys. It blew my mind. I didn't even know they were Amish!

So you'll have to forgive me. I know you were looking forward to a scathing post about an excruciating baby shower, but the material just isn't there. Of course, don't assume for a minute that I won't dread and moan and rend my garments at the prospect of any future baby showers. I stand by my curmudgeoniness!

Posted at 06:30 AM | Comments (1)

March 07, 2008

Impending Placenta-Fest of Doom

After months of dread, the object of my dismay finally arrived in the mail yesterday. A baby shower invitation. And even worse? I'm not already busy that day.

Dear Christ, but I hate baby showers.

I mean, my sisters' showers weren't bad because a.) I had something to gain personally from them, i.e. a niece or nephew to whom I could teach bad habits, and b.) I had a hand in picking the menus.

What is with baby shower food? Here are the five main ingredients of baby shower food:

1. Chicken salad.
2. Ham salad.
3. Egg salad.
4. Cucumbers.
5. Cream cheese.

It's like they're feeding us bland, pureed food as if we were the babies!

And if keeping down your lunch wasn't hard enough, what with it all being in pre-chewed form -- someone always has to start in with the birth stories. The longer and bloodier, the better. And as much as I don't want to hear about your episiotomy, I'm sure the first-time-mother-to-be is even more horrified. Find other ways to bond, ladies! I'm trying to choke down a sandwich over here!

And as long as I'm bitching, they'd better not make me participate in any baby-themed games.

One time, they had taken the labels off a dozen jars of baby food, and we had to guess what they were strictly going by color. It was a real eye-opener. That's the day I learned that Spam is not technically considered a baby food.

But nothing was more crass than The Diaper Game. That's when the hostess melts different candy bars in diapers, and you have to guess which candy bars they are. No, I'm totally serious -- I've actually played this game. With other adults. Sober.

Well, at least the father-to-be says that the restaurant the shower is at has good margaritas. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's his sole motivation for attending. That, and all the placenta talk, of course.

Posted at 12:01 PM | Comments (5)

January 31, 2008

No Children, No Cry

There are many reasons why I don't have children. The main one has always been: I don't want some parasitic growth hanging off my leg for 18-22 years. Kids are smelly and weird and noisy. They break your stuff. And considering that, often the biggest dicksmacks are born into the nicest families, you're not guaranteed a good return on what is a GARGANTUAN investment.

The existance of Nephew, Girl Child, Boy Child and The Spare has had some effect on my personal anti-reproduction stance. Oh, they're totally noisy and weird and expensive, but they are also adorable and clever and hilarious.

Of course, not having my own children is still a good idea because I would homeschool them and make them do chores and learn table manners and go without the latest gadgets that all their friends have, so they would hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhate me.

Like Jerry does now.

One of the other bad things about being a parent is it makes you say stuff like, "Because I said so!" and, "What did I just say?" and, "If I have to tell you ONE MORE TIME...!" In short, it kind of forces you to be an asshole, and that's one thing that no one needs more of from me.

This weekend, Jerry came to stay because his parents went outta town to celebrate their anniversary. And I don't mind taking care of Jerry because, at 12 years old, he's completely low-maintanence. Just turn on the t.v. and remember to feed him every few hours -- voila! Child-rearing made easy.

The other reason that Jerry is no bother to have around is that, long ago, I seared into his brain two indelible truths: One, Nanny is not to be messed with. And two, Nanny is not to be argued with. Once he learned these -- and got past being three years old -- we got along like peas and carrots. Since going against the grain was only going to earn my wrath, he gave up and became an angel.

But that was then, and he's twelve now. In the seventh grade. So I shouldn't be surprised that he tested me this weekend, but I kind of was because it's been nearly a decade since our relationship has been anything but smooth and uncomplicated. I guess I didn't see the fledging testosterone-monster coming.

Sunday's activities broke down like this: Husband had to attend church and then a post-church meeting. Younger Step Daughter got dragged along to church. Jerry, being in confirmation class, is required to attend both Sunday school and church every week. I had to pick up Joe and attend a doll show.

What.

Barbie is my god. Have we forgotten this?

Since Sunday school starts fifteen minutes before Joe's bus arrives three blocks from church, I had plenty of time to drop Jerry off and get cash before meeting Joe. After Sunday school, the plan was for Jerry to meet Husband and YSD in the church pews by the choir for the second service. Simple, no?

Apparently, I wasn't paying attention all the times Jerry's Mom, K, told me about the trouble she's having getting Jerry to attend church and Sunday school and confirmation classes without a huge fight. I guess I thought that was her problem, not mine.

I am brilliant, yet not infallible.

At 12:30, my cell phone rang. I was deep in vintage Barbie territory at the time, so I hurried into the hallway, so as not to be The Huge Crack Baby Talking Loudly On My Phone In The Middle Of The Show. Doll shows tend to be pretty subdued, and any loud noises or sudden movements are frowned upon.

It was YSD calling me to inform me that she and Husband couldn't find Jerry, and he hadn't showed up for the church service.

PISSED doesn't even begin to cover it. That he would pull that shit when I wasn't around to beat him -- DAMN, that was frustrating!!! I mean, the reason Husband is so cool about watching Jerry while I'm off galavanting with my Gay is because Jerry is normally A Model Child! If he's gonna start being a teenager, that's going to curtail my social life! And people, Wenchie don't play that.

I hung up with YSD and immediately called Jerry's cell phone. No big surprise -- he didn't answer. I then called him home, just in case he'd... caught a ride home... for some reason. I don't know. I was really just putting off having to call his Mom and tell her that I lost her son.

Thank God YSD called right back and let me know that they'd found him, so that my panic could turn to rage because that's an emotion I'm much more familiar with. Oh, AND? He was up in the gym playing basketball when they found him.

So. Dead.

I had YSD hand her phone to Jerry, whom I told, in my scariest voice, "You are so on my poop list. You and I are going to have a serious talk when I get home."

Granted, shit list loses some of its oomph when watered down to poop list, but I'm hoping that having to live In Fear Of The Unknown for four hours had the desired effect and instilled dread and doom in his adolesent heart. Because, aside from my lecture, that's all the punishment I was going to have time to inflict because I was taking him home right after dinner.

When I finally got home -- one vintage barbie and vintage outfit richer -- Jerry got the following scolding (and I'm paraphrasing, of course):

"I am sooooooooo not happy with that little stunt you pulled at church this morning. You were told exactly where to meet Husband and YSD, and you blew them off. They were there and had no idea where you were. And I don't believe for a minute that you were helping out in the nursery. If you were, then they wouldn't have found you playing basketball in the gym. And why were you playing basektball when you should have been actively looking for YSD, since she was your ride home?! I can't believe you were so rude to my husband and YSD. I expect you to treat them with the same respect that you've always treated me. I can't believe I'm even having to say this to you. You've never pulled anything like this before. I am so disappointed. You do anything like that next time you're here, and you're grounded. No t.v., no phone."

I'm exhausted just typing that. It's such a bore having to be the bitch. I hate that crap. But I knew I had to nip it in the bud or I'd be dealing with even more of it in the future. Parenting -- what an annoyance. No wonder my parents are one cherry short of a Manhattan. (Although, I secretly suspect that they're only pretending to be insane, in order to exact a little revenge...)

He wanted to flee with his older brother as soon as the lecture ended, but I wasn't letting him go that easily. I sent him downstairs to watch t.v. and stew for a while, and when he came up for dinner, I acted like nothing had happened.

I'm sure he'll hate me for a while for being so strict, but that doesn't mean I have to hold a grudge on him. Over, done with, gone. I made him a nice dinner and sent him on his way.

Tah-tah, Teen Jerry! See you in April! Please forget to pack the shenanigans when you come!

Posted at 12:08 PM | Comments (1)

January 21, 2008

Wild Harvest Chicken

Husband wanted chicken pot pie for dinner last night, so I sent him to Jewel for the ingredients. Dude comes home with Wild Harvest Chicken, called so because it is:

American Humane Association Free Farmed Certified

"Meets the American Humane Association standards for farm animals which require that animals be raised in ways which reduce stress, and with adequate shelter, comfortable resting areas, sufficient space, proper facilities and the ability to express normal behavior."

What. The. Fuck.

People. These are chickens.

What do they need "comfortable resting areas" for? So they can kick back after a long day at the steel mill? Do they really want me to believe that chickens need ways to manage the "stress" they feel from spending hours pecking at the ground?

These are CHICKENS, for the love of God!

For this I'm paying $4.34 a pound? Because my chicken became plump and delicious in a vibrating recliner? Is that really necessary?

I rolled my eyes so hard, I think I sprained my retina.

Now, I can't remember the last time I was anywhere near a live chicken -- and I'd like to keep it that way, being no fan of things winged and feathered -- but Husband worked on a chicken farm for a while growing up.

Which, right there, that makes me laugh. I mean, me and my friends worked at McDonald's or the local movie theatre or Fannie May or what-have-you. But Husband and his friends worked on chicken farms, they harvested corn, they tilled fields, and they thought it was normal. That just cracks me up.

Anyhoo Husband worked on a chicken farm, so I will bow to his authority on all things chicken. And he said that chickens are the meanest, smelliest, noisiest creatures God ever put on this earth. He hated that job.

Judging from his testimony, I believe that chickens are the last animal that we want to see "expressing normal behavior." Normal for chickens is mean, smelly and noisy. I want to know that the chicken I buy was properly caged and repressed while waiting to find "adequate shelter" in my stomach.

Posted at 05:12 PM | Comments (5)

January 09, 2008

No Comment

Channel 5 had two vans parked in front of my Starbuck's this morning. Yes, my Starbuck's. I walk in, and everyone is like, "Norm!" And the caffiene monkey starts my order before I even get to the register.

And I enjoy such order in my life. I like my desk paper-pile-free. I like my closets organized by size and my cupboards by color. I park in the same space every morning. And my coffee order rarely strays from Venti Cafe Vanilla Frappucinno Light, No Whip.

I like my mornings quiet and as void of human interaction as possible.

The last thing I want to see at 7:00 a.m. is a pertly-dressed, orange-skinned woman smiling enthusiastically and standing next to a t.v. camera, which is shining a brighter-than-daylight beam directly into my corneas. Especially before I've had even a sip of caffiene.

I managed to avoid Pert Orange Lady on my way into the store because she was accosting a woman walking her two dogs, who told her, "I don't want to be on camera looking like this."

And looking at her, I couldn't blame her. But I thought about it and came to the conclusion that, on weekdays at least, 7:00 a.m. is pretty much the perfect time for me to be on camera. My make-up is flawless. My hair is newly-brushed. My clothes are void of crumbs and spillage.

Taking into consideration how good I looked at that moment, I began thinking about what I would say on camera, as the girl made my drink.

"What are they asking people about, anyway?" I asked her.

"Hillary."

Oh, for fuck's sake. Of course they are. I decided against getting anything to eat because I didn't want to puke it up.

Exiting the building, my vanilla bean-specked magic elixir in my hand, keys ready in the other, I saw that Pert Orange Lady and Camera Beast were standing right behind my car. There was no escaping them.

Why did I want to escape them, you're wondering? Because I don't enjoy talking politics. Ever. To anyone. While talking religion can sometimes have an undercurrent of shared spirituality, even when people disagree on the specifics, politics is based on Control, Power and Hatred.

People are too entrenched in their team and beliefs. One can grow and change in their ideas about God, but one rarely undigs his or her heels when it comes to Liberal vs. Conservative. So I simply refuse to engage. I'm not going to change anyone's mind, no one is likely to change mine, so why step in a big pile?

I have many friends who, I know, have political views that differ greatly from mine. And I adore them anyway. And I want them to continue to like me anyway. Group hug!

That's why I rarely bring up politics on my blog. In fact, I think I've mentioned it only once before, in passing. I'm just making an exception today because I can't think of anything else to write about. And because it's so rare that I turn down an opportunity to be on t.v.

The Pert Orange Lady perked up when she saw the I was, by necessity, making a bee-line directly for her. Apparently, she was having a hard time stopping people to chit-chat on their way to work. Imagine that.

"Good morning! Can I ask you a quick--"

"HAAAAAAAAATE HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" I sang loudly.

She couldn't get away from my car fast enough. Crazy singing lady with the big gas-guzzling, carbon-footprint-enlarging SUV might run her over.

Posted at 09:53 AM | Comments (3)

December 17, 2007

Pioneer Woman

Dear Jackass Neighbors,

Having lived in Chicago all my life, snow is nothing new to me. It doesn't take me by surprise. It doesn't ruin my day. In fact, I rather like it. It's lovely.

So don't think I'm a newbie to the midwest when I say that shoveling snow sucks. And shoveling six inches of really heavy snow sucks hairy abominable snowman balls.

Six inches. You know, like the amount of snow covering our town this weekend. Six inches. Like the length you hope your tiny penis will one day reach.

Don't pretend like you didn't see me out there at 6am, shoveling me entire driveway single-handedly so that I could drive to Jewel and get milk for my sister's childrens' breakfast. Don't pretend like you didn't notice that my house was one SUV short this week.

We live on 100-foot lots. Therefore, none of you four dinguses were more than 500 feet from me. There was plenty of early morning light reflecting off the MOUNTAINS OF WHITE SNOW. You saw me, asshats!

You, with your noisy, smelly, efficient snowblowers. You saw me, strugging to toss each huge, sodden shovelful of snow. You saw me stand to ease my aching back after every row. God, I was like a damn pioneer woman out there.

Except that my pioneer husband wasn't out back chopping wood while I was shoveling a path to the outhouse. He was in Indiana teaching a class at Purdue, unavailable to do his snow-clearing duty.

I didn't get married so that I could shovel snow. Or mow the lawn. Or clean the gutters. I got married so that I'd NEVER have to do those things again! That's Man-Work!

What really irritates me is this: If YOU were out of town, and it was YOUR wife shoveling your driveway and MY husband outside with a snowblower, there is no way he would have let her finish the job single-handedly!

So I raise my aching arms to the keyboard to say this: If you aren't going to lend a hand to your neighbors in a difficult situation, if you aren't going to band together against the forces of nature, move the hell out of my neighborhood.

And don't frickin' wave to me anymore, either. I don't want to see you nodding and smiling at me and my dogs this summer, like this winter never happened. You're dead to me.

Love, Wenchie

Posted at 11:42 AM | Comments (2)

September 21, 2007

You Look Like a Monkey, and You Smell Like One, Too

I got Marty the BEST!!! birthday card.

On the front is a very somber-looking, goth cartoon chick, and it says It's your birthday.

On the inside, it says Well, it was. You were asleep for part of it and tomorrow is just another day in the dark parade. The parade where the candy is pain.

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA--

*breathe in*

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

The minute I stepped out of the Hallmark store, I called Heather and read it to her voicemail and cackled like The Queen from Snow White.

I wonder if they make Christmas cards in the same vein?

Marty read it and laughed heartily, and then the laughter turned to crying because it hit too close to home. And then he opened the awesome presents that I took five minutes out of my life to pick from his Amazon Wish List, and that dried his little tears.

I always get him awesome presents because his birthday is right before mine, and I want him to get me awesome presents. Like Heather, I can just get her crap because her birthday is in... I don't know, March? So by the time my birhtday rolls around, she has forgotten what I got her. Ta-daaaaaaa!

That's my Birthday Wish List to the right there. Which will turn into my Christmas Wish List after October 30th. Shop early, shop often! I included items for every price range, because I'm thoughtful that way. So even those of you living in Poor Town can pay homage to me.

Heather, I'm lookin' at you.

Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (2)

September 17, 2007

Blacklisted

Something quite distasteful arrived in the mail over the weekend, my darlings. It was an invitation to my 20th high school reunion.

Mind you, I'm not disgusted by its appearance because I can't believe it's been 20 years since I was in high school. It has certainly felt like 20 years, and indeed, the more time I put between myself and that most nauseating of eras, the better.

No, I'm merely horrified by the number of bad memories it awoke it my brain, which usually prefers to keep itself occupied with thinking about what I'm going to have for my next meal, fantasizing about my chiropractor, and figuring out which box of crap to list on eBay next.

The list of people on the Reunion Committee itself is a list of People Who Didn't Know Wenchie and Hated Her Anyway. It's difficult enough to be different in high school (the horror!) -- try being different and poor.

And by "poor" I mean "my parents were still married and my mother didn't work, so there was no need for them to placate their guilt by buying me every damn thing I wanted." Yes, welcome to Poor Town, indeed. Population, me. Living in an affluent neighborhood is difficult if your parents don't stake their own self esteem on flaunting their affluence.

So yeah, weird and "poor." Add to that the rumors of lesbianism and sluttery, and I wasn't exactly in line for Homecoming Queen. Apparently, I was attempting to disguise my closet lesbianism by sleeping with every male in the school who would have me.

Which is ironic because there was only one male in the school who would have me. My boyfriend of a year and a half, which hardly makes me a slut. The rest of the guys, I don't know, thought it would be cool to date me briefly and claim to have had sex with a lesbian? Such a badge of honor! Best porno plot ever!

But I digress.

I'm certainly not going to the horrid event. Rule of thumb being -- if I didn't like them enough to keep in touch with them, why the fuck would I want to see them now? Also, I had many more friends in grades other than my own, i.e. Heather.

I am, however, filling out the little questionairre and mailing it back. My personal info will go into some little directory that all attendees will receive at the door (and all non-attendees can purchase). I will not be purchasing one; however, I have this morbid curiosity to see if some blast from the past might drop me a line.

Mind you, I have no desire to see any of my old flames. And they'd better not be stupid enough to contact me, lest I get ahold of their phone number and/or email address. I'm a petty, spiteful woman, and no score is too old to settle.

It would just be funny if some freak I haven't talked to in 20 years decides to drop me a line. Bloggably funny, hopefully.

In addition to the usual information, the Reunion Committee wants to know my favorite high school memory. And honestly, I'd have to say it was getting to miss my graduation ceremony because I was accepting the Illinois Poet Laureate Award from Gwendolyn Brooks.

(Oh, c'mon, like you didn't write poetry in high school!)

But that would sound too much like I'm rubbing my quasi-celebrityhood in the faces of all those fuckers who blacklisted me from the poetry magazine just because I threw a Coke in WG's face during lunch period. He totally had it coming! You should have heard what he said to me! I'll give you a hint -- it had to do with spelunking and my vagina. See? Had it coming!

Hmmmm, maybe that was my best memory...

Or perhaps it was the time that MM pulled my hair during Art class, so I punched her in the face, and the ring I was wearing cut her lip, so I looked like a total badass! That was awesome. People I didn't even know were congratulating me. That bitch had it coming for a decade.

She was really nice to me after that, in typical, cowardly bully-fashion. But her boyfriend wasn't too keen on me, so I was blacklisted from the V-show ensemble cuz he was Junior Director or some such shit.

Jesus, what didn't I get blacklisted from? Oh, yeah -- track manager. My friend, DB, wanted to meet hot junior and senior guys, so she made me be a manager for the varsity track team with her. Ironically, while she was flirting to no avail, I was learning how to tape up an ankle really well, to the point that several key hotties wouldn't let anyone but me tape their ankles.

One uber-buff, highly sought-after shotputter was actually interested in me, but my grades started slipping, so Mom blacklisted me from managing track.

I sense a trend.

I guess I'm going to leave that part of the questionnaire blank. Which, in itself, pretty much sums up exactly how I felt about high school. Thank God I'm an adult now, so I can surround myself only with people who think I'm cool and pretty.

Posted at 04:04 PM | Comments (4)

August 15, 2007

The Dress Code

What's more awkward than having to attend your husband's ex-wife's aunt's 92nd birthday and ending up sitting at the kiddie table?

Nothing.

Not one damn thing.

Oh, wait! Yes, there is! Showing up in pants and loafers (because Husband said it was FINE) when the size 2 ex-wife and your pocket-sized step daughters are all wearing black cocktail dresses and strappy sandals. And all have long, flowing hair.

WANTED. TO. DIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, how I wish I were willowy and petite and demure. Instead, I'm "statuesque" and "Rubenesque." Call it what you want, people -- I'm a friggin' amazon.

And even if I stopped eating solid food today, I'd never be petite. I've got the shoulders of a linebacker. I'm just big-boned! screams my inner-Cartman.

Oh, sure, small women have their insecurities, too. The darling Audrey Hepburn, it is said, used to bemoan her too-long neck.

"Oh, woe is me and my slender, graceful, gazelle-like neck!"

Yeah, BOO-FUCKING-HOO, Audrey, you goddamn adorable pixie!

Tonight, the 92nd birthday celebration continues with a dinner cruise on Lake Michigan. Starting at 7:00 p.m. Which means another late night because I'll be stuck on a boat, and my dream of turning into a mermaid has yet to come true.

Well, I don't want to be under-dressed again, so I emailed Ex and asked her about the dress code. She hasn't decided what she's wearing, yet. I'm sure it's hard to narrow it down from the forty things she must have in her closet because she's been the same damn size 2 since high school. But she said "dressy."

And we all know what "dressy" means, don't we, boys and girls? It means Wenchie has to go shopping because Wenchie thinks career clothes are yoga pants and t-shirts with a necklace, and holiday clothes are yoga pants and hoodies. "Dressy" is something that I've structured my life around carefully avoiding.

Not wanting to stick out like a nasty toe that has its nail coming off, I found a black, A-line skirt, which I will pair with my white, cashmere twinset and some black, wedge slip-ons. Can't go wrong with black and white, right?

Of course, this probably means The Petite Triplets will probably all wear pink, but whatever. Heather approves of my outfit, and that's what really matters. That and an open bar.

Heather my Personal Stylist made sure that I will not be embarassing myself.

H: what purse are you using?

PW: Oh, yeah, I guess I can't use my current aqua blue leather with brown strap, can I?

H: no. do you have a black one?

PW: I have my small, black Coach one!

H: perfect. now what about a splash of color?

PW: Hadn't even thought of that. Um, I have a silver necklace with a big, red stone? Or should I use my pink Coach purse instead?

H: black purse, big red stone

PW: Thank God for you, Heather.

But then Ex emailed me to say that the coordinator of the party, auntie's favorite nephew-in-law, will be wearing khakis and a polo, so she's wearing a casual summer skirt.

PEOPLE! I don't HAVE a "casual summer skirt!" For the love of God, I just get my shit together, and they change the dress code! What is this?!

Screw it. I'm sticking to my original plan. Better to be over-dressed than have to shop for a summer skirt when the only thing on the racks is fall clothes.

I'm so glad that I'm related to a bunch of slobs. These issues just don't come up when we gather with my family. Jeans are perfectly acceptable apparell to everything but weddings and funerals.

I have a cousin who thinks that the overalls-and-no-shirt look is okay to wear to someone's house for dinner. Think I'm kidding? Ask Billi.

Now, there's just one appearance-related decision to make. Do I shave my legs, or just continue to milk the shave job I did on Saturday?

Posted at 11:48 AM | Comments (6)

August 02, 2007

WHAM!

*sigh* I did it again, people. I was forced to open a can of whup-ass at the movie theatre. I almost got the can taken away, too, because the Flashlight Monkey thought I had brought my own food in.

Billi and I went to see "The Simpsons." To the left of us, teenaged boys. Behind us, toddlers. In front of us, teenaged girls. It was the original Axis of Evil.

During the opening pre-credits bit, the girls started taking photos of themselves with their camera-phones. "This is us at the movies! Don't my bangs look awesome? Tiffany, your lip gloss looks soooooooooooo shiney from the flash!"

Dear God, save us all from teenaged girls who can't get enough of themselves.

What are they gonna do? Look back on those pictures when they're 80 and be like, "Remember that day? That was right after I bought those jeans that make my butt look so good, and right before Amber and Jason broke up. Ahhhhhh, those were special days."

After the third photo, when it was clear that, ONCE AGAIN, I was going to have to be The Bitch, I leaned over and said loudly, "I hope you're not going to do that through the whole movie because it's really fucking rude."

So they all clicked their tongues at me and rolled their eyes. And stopped.

The people around me were, of course, grateful. But it really irritates me that I'm the only one who ever says anything. That's the whole point of Society, people! To shame everyone into line with our judgements!

Throughout the movie, there was, of course, the usual texting and tittering and leaving the theatre a million times, probably to go take photos of themselves with the life-sized Simpsons statues in the lobby. Fine, whatever. I'm not gonna freak-out at every little infraction.

(YET. But the day is coming...)

But their talking eventually got really loud. They were totally using their Outside Voices.

Let me point out here, by way of comparison, that the toddler had only spoken once, and the teenaged boys had done nothing but laugh quietly at the appropriate times.

Ladies, when I prefer the company of toddlers and a teenaged boys to yours, you have ceased to be human. You are now Supernatural Creatures of Fathomless Doom, spreading darkness and obliterating hope wherever Daddy's on-board G.P.S. takes you.

Tired of their high-pitched, skull-withering voices, I leaned over to the girls and said, very loudly, "Oh my God, will you. SHUT. UP."

And they were all, "What? God! I'm so sure." And then they shut the fuck up. Which is good because I still had a half a bag of popcorn left, and it might have slipped out of my buttered fingers.

Again, the people around me nodded their solidarity, including the teenaged boys. I'm pretty sure one of them was Jason who, at that moment, realized just how annoying Amber really is.

As soon as the movie was over, the girls wisely sprinted out of there. Although I was kind of disappointed. I always have a speech prepared in case one of the little miscreants stays to confront me.

I end with this plea, my darlings: As society gets ruder and ruder, we have to take a stand. We have to stop standing idly by in the face of rudeness, just because we're too embarassed to say anything. Why should we be embarassed? We're better than them!

I know it's hard to retain your dignity when everyone else around you is chewing the furniture and peeing on the carpets. It's easy to think, "Well, everyone else is being an asshole. If I'm not an asshole, I'm going to get trampled."

Don't become an asshole, people. Speak up!

Join W.H.A.M.: Wenchie's Hellbent Advocacy for Manners. Stand with me, and together, we can turn these cretins around!

Posted at 01:04 PM | Comments (11)

July 27, 2007

Souring On eBay

Dear Asshole Who Took a Month To Send Me My Watch,

If you're so busy running your huuuuuuuuuuuuge eBay business that you don't even have time to go to the goddamn post office once a week, then perhaps you shouldn't list so many items at one time? Just a little selling tip from me to you, Sparky. Perhaps you bit off more than you could chew with the Internet Get Rich Quick Scheme and should go back to selling insurance.

I don't even want the fucking watch now. And since you sent it after I sent four (unanswered) emails, and since the last one I sent you told you not to bother, I'm not dropping the complain I filed with PayPayl. So there. You suck.

* * * * *

Dear Skanks Who Are Bitching About Their Packages After One Week,

I don't know where you're fucking packages are. Ask your stupid mailman. Or better yet? Go smoke a bowl and mellow out. It's only been a week since the auction ended. And six days since you paid. And five days since I shipped it. And one of those days was a Sunday. Four days is awfully fast for getting your panties so tightly knotted that they're tugging on your pubes.

What do you think -- that I haven't mailed the packages, yet? That I want to keep this shit sitting around my house any longer than is absolutely necessary? Clue time! I'm doing this to get rid of my crap!

Check out my 100% positive feedback from 752 customers, and maybe learn that I'm not a spiteful ogre toying with what little money your husbands make down at the gas station, okay?

* * * * *

Dear Bitch Who Hasn't Paid Me,

Are you unclear on the concept of eBay? Here's a refresher -- you bid, you win, you pay. Reeeeeeeeaaaaaaal easy. Even a flat-headed simpleton like you should be able to figure it out.

I clearly state in my auctions, PAYMENT DUE WITHIN FIVE DAYS OF AUCTION END. You've doubled that period of time, and I've been more than patient, so how 'bout at least clearing all the cigarette ash and moon pie crumbs off your keyboard and answering one of my emails, huh?

* * * * *

Love (to lock you all in a closed car on a hot day),
Wenchie

Posted at 05:19 PM | Comments (2)

June 12, 2007

Wenchie's Run

Remember that movie "Logan's Run," where life was perfect because people were only allowed to live until they were 30? (And until I looked it up just now, I didn't even know Farrah Fawcett was in that movie. I just remember Michael York. Sorry, Farrah, I'm sure your hair looked fabulous!)

I'm telling you, that is totally the way to go.

I'm only 37, and my body has been falling apart for years. Since turning 30, I have...

1. Developed allergies, for which I take three different drugs every day.

2. Had my metabolism grind to a screeching, ass-expanding halt.

3. Discovered the joys of adult-onset acne.

4. Undergone major surgery.

5. Injured myself by running across the street.

I could go on, but I'm starting to tear up.

The point is, if someone had killed me at 30, I would have died at the top of my game... and, more importantly, the top of my physical appearance.

Most recently, it's my knees that have been giving me trouble. At first, I thought it was a by-product of my as-yet-unhealed sprained ankle, so I ignored it for six months. In the words of that great philosopher, Homer... Simpson, "I am so smart! S, M, R, T!"

While Husband and I were checking out the barn a couple weeks ago, something happened that convinced me I should quit being a guy and just friggin' tell my doctor already!

See, my knees don't bother me when I'm just walking around. Not a bit. Stairs give me some trouble. The more I do, the worse it gets, especially the left knee.

But the real epiphany happened when I was climbing a completely vertical ladder to the hay loft. I got two rungs up, and it felt like someone was hammering nails directly into my kneecaps. And being the rocket scientist that I am, it dawned on me, "That's probably a sign of real trouble."

So when I was at my latest appointment with Dr. Hottie, I told him all about my 83-year old knees -- where they hurt, when they hurt, crap like that. I was lying down at the time, so he grabbed my left ankle and brought it up to my face. You can imagine the cry of agony that followed.

Mind you, I've always wanted to have Dr. Hottie throw my ankles behind my ears, but I kinda envisioned that we'd both be naked and panting at the time.

[Gimme a moment to go to my Happy Place... Mmmmmmm...]

Dr. H: Your hamstrings are tight.

PW: Well, duh.

Dr. H: Do you ever stretch them?

PW: Of course not. What the hell does that have to do with my kneecaps?

Dr. H: [insert overly technical explanation of how hamstrings are connected to some piece of cartilage or something directly behind the kneecaps]

PW: Well, I'm sure that made sense to you. Dude, I've never stretched my hamstrings in my entire life. Why is this happened now?

Dr. H: I dunno. Because you're old?

PW: Nice.

Dr. H: Surgery is always an option.

PW: I'm not having knee surgery!

Dr. H: Then stretch your damn hamstrings!

And I pay him for this abuse. That's the part that kills me.

Moral of the story: Always go to a doctor that's older and in crappier shape than you.

Posted at 01:54 PM | Comments (2)

June 07, 2007

When a Felon IS Engaged In His Employment

I got in my car the other day, and I noticed that it looked... cleaner than usual. Oh, waitaminute -- it's less cluttered because I was ROBBED!

ROBBED, I tell you!

Someone dared to board and pilliage the S.S. Explorer! Doesn't really jibe well with my piratey persona. How embarassing.

The booty the little bastards made off with was CDs, a leather CD case, and a small book. Now, let's examine this.

The leather CD case I understand. It was nice. However, you can get one at Target for, like, ten bucks. I don't even remember what CDs were in it. I think it was a Beatles complilation two-disk set, and two Gilbert & Sullivan CDs that Marty burned for me -- "Iolanthe" and "Ruddigore." Normal people wouldn't posess those CDs on a bet, let alone steal them! I've been robbed by snooty fags!

I also had -- and this will be most missed -- my "Pirate of Penzance" CDs, in their original case, with libretto, by D'Oyly Carte. FUCKERS! Those things are, like, thirty bucks! If you can find them!

Now, I can only hope that the little shits will be listening to light opera about fairies, ghosts and pirates, and it will dilute their insatiable lust for crime, but that's not bloody likely. They'll keep the case, pitch the CDs in it (you can't pawn a CD without a case), and pawn the "Pirates" set for about two dollars.

Now the book. The book was "How Far Will You Go?" It's a bunch of thought-provoking questions that I keep in the car for long road trips.

What the hell are they going to do with that? Pawn it? Get to know his fellow felons better with it? "Okay, dude, here's one. What is the biggest lesson you ever learned from your father?" "Um, I never met my father."

But perhaps more interesting is what they left behind.

They left about five dollars in change that I still have in the little coin holders, despite the fact that I got an Ipass six months ago. (For those of you who don't live near Illinois, an Ipass is a small device kept in one's car so that Gov. Blago can rape us for tolls more painlessly. This is what you get for voting democratic.)

They left a cute, big plate shelf I bought for Billi. Hard to miss. Although I suppose teenaged hooligans don't display many plates. Not like the old days.

They left the two big atlas map books, one for Illinois and one for Wisconsin. Very helpful! Especially considering they'll probably be on the lam soon.

And most stupidly, they overlooked a $150 suede Hobo International purse that I left in the car to remind me to take it in to be cleaned. (Yes, I'm too lazy to clean it myself, despite the fact that I don't even have a job. Shut up. These nails don't paint themselves!)

Obviously, the thieves were teenaged boys because anyone else in the world would recognize suede and the financial opportunity it presents at the pawn shop. Duh. But I'm SO ETERNALLY GRATEFUL they are retarded because I got the purse for thirty bucks on eBay, and it's soooooooooo kewl.

The weird thing is, I always lock my car. ALWAYS. Even if I only leave it parked in front of an abbey to run in for ten seconds, I lock it. It's habit. My car is never, ever unlocked, so how they got in is a mystery to me. There are three possibilities:

1. They happened to check my car on the One Day EVER I left it unlocked overnight.

2. They check my car every single night and finally got lucky.

3. They jimmied the lock.

I know what you're thinking. 'Now, Wenchie, why would a thief check your car every single night?' Because he lives next door to me, and it's convenient.

To the south are the awesome-est neighbors ever. They take in our mail when we're gone, keep their yard nice, and once the husband got out of the shower to lend me some nutmeg. They're what every neighbor should be.

To the north is Damien. His father is incommunicado, and his grandmother is raising him while his mother works 23 hours a day. His "friends" all drive Hummers, Mercedes and Porsches and think that midnight is an acceptable time to drop by on a school night. He's a total drug dealer, and the cops are over there every six months.

I'm sure it was him. And now I have to be extra vigilant about what I leave in my car. Ooooh, I think I'll leave him a note!

Dear Drug-Dealing Bastard Next Door,
In the end, the pirates turn from their life of crime and get rewarded with 17-year old pussy. Listen, learn it, live it.
Love, Wenchie

And I have to remove the change from my coin holder. In fact, I'm going to do that right now.

Today's lesson is: Just say NO to opera!

Posted at 03:24 PM | Comments (2)

October 16, 2006

The Curse of the Brown Pants

If you want to retain your sanity -- and your friends -- never, ever utter these words:

"I just have to go to one store, and I know exactly what I need. I don't even have to try it on, so it'll take, like, 30 seconds, I swear. Then we can go eat lunch."

Apparently, these words are actually a secret spell that unleashes an ancient, time-sucking curse.

I unwittingly chanted these words on the way to Forth & Towne today with New Girl, who was starving and wasting away to nothing (because she's 22 and didn't have her oatmeal that morning, so most of her ribs were showing because she actually has a working metabolism).

They had every damn size but 12, so I asked the saleslady if she had any in the back because these particular Vocabulary pants are not a seasonal item. They are a staple. They are there ALWAYS. This particular style, this particular brand. So wouldn't you think they'd had tons in stock? Nope -- no 12.

So can you order them for me?
Well, I can see if they have them at another store, and they can send them to you?
Great!
For five dollars.
Whatever.
Why don't you try on a pair of 12s in a different color, just to make sure they fit?
Good idea.
Okay,... hmmm,... not in the black,... okay, and the grey,... hmmm,... we seem to be all out of 12s!
That's weird.
Let me see if we have any of the 12s in any other color in the back.
Alrighty then.
...Nope, no 12s in back, either.
Well, if I get them and they don't fit, can I return them here?
Sure!
Okay, let's do that then.
I'll call our store in Algonquin.

Soon after she got some schmoe in Algonquin on the phone, another woman came up to the register, and saleslady started helping her! Mind you, at the time, employees out-numbered shoppers in the store and, indeed, the entire mall.

So she was describing the pants while trying to entice the other shopper into their frequent buyer program or whatever. Finally, chick on the phone came back and had the pants in stock, so saleslady, naturally, PUT HER ON HOLD to help the woman who showed up well after I did.

Well, my pissy incredulity must have showed on my face, so she went back to giving my information to the woman on the phone while collecting the other woman's information for their points program. I'm probably going to start getting her mail now.

I have two beefs with this saleslady. One, I was there first. Finish helping me before you start helping someone else. It's simple -- we all learned it in kindergarten. And it's especially important for this particular saleslady because of my second beef, and that is that she was completely incapable of any decent multi-tasking.

Doing two things half-assedly is not multi-tasking. Doing two things well is. It's called What Normal Women Do Every Minute Of Every Day. Bitch multi-tasks like a guy!

Then she asked me how I wanted to pay, and I handed her a big wad of cash I had gotten from the ATM specifically for the purchase of these pants.

And she's like, "Oh, I can't do cash over the phone. I need a credit card."

THEN WHY DID YOU ASK ME FOR MY CREDIT CARD INSTEAD OF IMPLYING I HAD ANY OPTIONS?!?!

*pant* *pant* *pant*

For the love of all things pure and rainbow-colored, I just wanted some goddamn brown pants; New Girl was losing her battle with scurvy under a display of cableknit sweaters; and the saleswoman couldn't pay attention to ANY of the seventeen pieces of information she was supposed to be dealing with.

And the really funny part is? I now know who the other woman at the counter is because she gave her email address, and she clearly has her own website. So I looked it up and, sure enough, it's her.

But I'm not giving it to you because it's not her fault the saleslady was a retard.

Did I mention that the saleslady finished with the other woman before she finished with me? Yeah. Stupid bitch. It was the most ridiculous bit of customer service I've ever seen. Abbot and Costello are confused and weeping in their graves right now.

I'd better get my damn pants, soon. 'Cuz I spilled nail polish on my other pair.

Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (2)

September 19, 2006

Depp Is a Poser

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's Talk Like a Pirate Day. Grrr, argh.

I'm so disappointed in myself. Every year, I swear I'm going to make a big deal out of it, and every year, I totally wiff it.

It seems everyone remembered but I. Even Marty remembered and sent me two comic strips, Order of the Stick and Nodwick, who also remembered.

I'm the worst pirate ever. I might as well just give it up and start collecting butterflies.

No, no -- don't try to cheer me up; it's true. Daisy's pirate costume is tucked away in the basement somewhere. I'm not wearing my sword necklace. I don't even have one of my Barbies dressed like a pirate.

Thank God pirates have no honor, or I'd be obliged to throw myself in front of a cannon or something.

What's even more distressing is that I was on the forefront of this whole pirate movement. I'm not just another Johnny-Depp-loving sheep. I've been a Pirate Wench for YEARS before the first movie ever came out! I should totally be on top of this!

And since we're on the subject, Depp gets all the credit for starting the movement, but that's only because he's a hugely-talented, filthy-rich, impossibly-sexy box office draw. People should be buying lunch boxes with MY picture on them! But then, all great artists are unappreciated in their own time. My genius will be discovered when I'm dead.

Does anyone use lunch boxes anymore?

Also? I got my tattoos waaaaaaaaaaaay before everyone and their mother started getting them. Over fifteen years ago! When only bikers and dykes and dyke bikers got tattoos. So there!

God, it is SO unfulfilling being so much cooler than everyone else. (No offense, my darling chewtoys.) You'd think it would be awesome, but it sucks. Everything I do becomes embraced -- and therefore, cheapened -- by the masses.

Talk Like a Pirate Day, indeed. It's not some affectation you can assume for one day and cast aside the next. It's a way of life, people. And you're either in it, or you ain't.

Here's to you, my fellow Pirate Wenches, wherever you may be.

Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (4)

September 12, 2006

Open Call

I was just asked, for the billionth time, "What are you going to do, now that your friend Nicholle is gone?"

I don't really buy their faux-concern. They might as well be commenting about the weather, for all they care about my mental state. Nor do I have any sort of cognative answer for them, so I've just been answering with, "Die."

And then it occurred to me -- does everyone in this company assume I have no other friends? I mean, sure, Nicki is my BESTIE, but not to the exclusion of all others. New Girl is adorable and just ripe for apprenticeship in The Ways of Bitchery. And really, I just couldn't ask for the women in my very own department to be any cooler. I hang with them... when they let me.

Wait. Do I have no other friends here? Is that a company-wide seret, to which I am not privy? Oh, dear.

There's only one solution.

I'm holding an open call for auditions to be my new Cubicle Comrade. My BFF in Business. A Lily Tomlin to my Dolly Parton.

I don't have a questionairre prepared or anything. I guess I'm just waiting for someone to Wow me. But I will give you a few guidelines.

I suppose my needs are mostly dietary: When we go out to eat (as we will, at least once a week), I would prefer to get something and split it. Portions are just too huge in restaurants. So here are the things we cannot eat: seafood of any kind, mushrooms, onions, califlower, cilantro, jalepenos, olives, pork.

Also, you can't dress very well. Now that Nicholle has gone, and taken her unwashed hair, wrinkled t-shirt and Target jewelry with her, I am dangerously close to being Worst Dressed Employee. The only people standing in my way are the few who wear golf sweaters, shop exclusively in JC Penney's Sag Harbog dept., and who think that seasonally-themed appliques on their clothes are okay for people over the age of seven.

I don't always have to be the center of attention, but I can't have someone in tailored business suits, Prada shoes and perfectly coiffed hair making me look even more slovenly than I already am. A half-hearted collection of dark clothing from New York & Co. and the clearance racks at Coldwater Creek would really work best for my second in command.

A bitter hatred for all of humanity is a must. If your soul has long since fled you, leaving behind a dark and empty shell, you're one of the few people I can stand having lunch with. Also, no morals whatsosever -- I don't appreciate being judged.

A nice plus, but not a necessity, would be a completely insane set of in-laws to dish about. Possible topics would include: alcohol abuse, inability to function in any social situation, adultery, age-inappropriate clothing and questionable parenting skills.

So, yeah, if you or anyone you know seems to fit these qualifications, give me a buzz on extention #2928. It's a pretty attractive position, and I'm sure there will be dozens of applicants, so if you'd like to bake something to sweeten the deal, I'm totally open to bribes. No carrot cake.

Couch auditions are, of course, always welcome.

Posted at 01:30 PM | Comments (2)

August 31, 2006

A Different Kind of Terrorist

For Nicholle, on our last day of working together.

I don't normally do socially-relevent-quasi-political stuff because it's boring and doesn't read well a week later. However, I feel compelled to address this particular issue because it covers two of my greatest hates: flying and people.

So. Let's recap. Planes were crashed, soldiers were deployed, tweezers were banned, statues were toppled, plots were foiled.

And where does that leave us? Getting up at 4am for a 10:00 flight and standing in line for three hours while some surly "trained inspector" confiscates a Chapstick from 57-year old Beatrice Jorgenson from White Bear Lake, Minnesota, while somewhere below, the baggage handlers break the lock on my suitcase to steal my $500 digital camera (with all my vacation photos on it) because I'm not allowed to carry anything on with me.

I don't feel safe from terrorists. Do you? I'm just getting butt-raped by a different kind of terrorist. The kind that keeps me from flying, not because I'm afraid of blowing up, but because I'm afraid of blowing a gasket.

No, the added "security" does not make me feel better because all the people checking my bags look like mindless drones who WISH we, the flyers, would all die so they wouldn't have to be bothered.

I've always hated flying, and now I can add another facet to my multi-dimensional fear of flying. I have to take my shoes off and walk IN MY SOCKS where billions of other people have walked IN THEIR SOCKS. And no sock in the world is enough barrier between my pampered tootsies and other peoples' toe jam.

Frankly, it's waaaaaaay more likely that I'll get some itchy, oozing rash from one of my fellow Americans than be killed by terrorists.

And what's more, the government is now supplying little footie socks for people in sandals who don't want to walk on the bare floor! Well, I say, FUCK! THAT! If you're too stupid to know you have to wear socks to the airport, then you don't deserve to be catered to. These should be your options:

1. Go home, so we don't have to wait for you to take off your shoes, put on the little socks, take off the little socks, and put on your shoes. The lines are tedious enough already. If you are ADDING to the length of time other sock-wearing people have to wait, you don't deserve to go anywhere. In fact, you probably shouldn't even leave your house. Ever.

2. Walk around in your bare feet on the filthy fungi-floor. Hopefully, you will contract a flesh-eating bacteria so, next time, this won't be an issue because you won't have feet.

This is my life's motto: Stupid people need to be punished, or they will never learn.

I also always pack my stuff in clear, plastic baggies because, when people root through my stuff, I don't want them touching it with the hands they just touched a billion other peoples' nasty underwear with. And so, you know, it's much easier for them to find what they're looking to steal.

Hmm. I seem to have many other issues besides flying.

Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (6)

August 21, 2006

Getting In My Car Never Fails To Piss Me Off

Dear Idiot at the Corner Who Won't Make the Right Turn Despite the Obvious Lack of Oncoming Traffic In the Right Lane:

I'm onto you, bitch.

I know you have no intention of turning into the far right lane, the lane into which, given your current position, you should legally be turning! I know you're special.

Too special to obey traffic laws. Too special to pay heed to the myriad of cars idling behind you.

I can tell you're special because, even while in heavy traffic, you cannot be indisposed to the no doubt dozens of people with whom you must be in contact at all times via cell phone.

I know you have to pull into the far left lane, in order to more easily facilitate your trip to Dominick's to stock-up on Weight Watchers frozen lunches for the week. So why shouldn't you make the hoi ploi wait while you search for an opening in three lanes of rushhour traffic?

I'm sure you have all the time in the world, and you want to finish your cigarette and your phone conversation before arriving at your destination. And God forbid you miss the end of your favorite Bon Jovi song. But some of us are in our cars because there's some place important that we have to get to.

I hate you and everything you stand for. You're what's wrong with America. You're the reason the world hates us. And your successful turn into the far left lane is proof that the terrorists have already won.

Posted at 01:55 PM | Comments (2)

August 17, 2006

Dear Shadey McParkerson:

I guess this week's theme is "Strangers Who Piss Me Off."

Upon returning to work from the Post Office, since my parking spot close to the building had been taken, I decided to park at the far back of the lot, in one of the few coveted Shade Spots. There's not much mature foliage around this building, so shade is hard to come by and vied over, in the summer months especially.

I got a spot on the edge of the shade, but since I'm not Sacajaweeuh or Pokahontus (I'm not as fluent in Apache as I used to be), I didn't know if I was going to be in more shade or full-on sun when I came back out at quittin' time.

I would have gotten a spot more in the middle of the shadey area, except for the fucknut whose car was straddling two spaces. Because, you know, he doesn't want anyone opening their car door into his 1997 Honda.

Well, I was in Full Burn Mode after the Post Office, so I got my pen and little pad of paper out of my purse, and I wrote him a note:

You park like an ASSHOLE!

Then I stuck it facedown under his driver's side windshield wiper.

Hee! It still makes me giggle!

I know it doesn't accomplish anything. I know Honda Boy is going to keep on being an asshole. But lemme tell ya -- I made the trek back to the office with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, and that doesn't happen very often.

Posted at 02:59 PM | Comments (4)

August 16, 2006

Also Pissing Me Off...

Dear Person Who Parks Their Car At the Curb Right Outside the Post Office Doors:

You selfish prick.

I know you think it's okay because you're "just running in to get stamps" or "just running in to drop off a package." But you know what?

We're ALL "just running in!"

No one goes to the Post Office to browse. No one picks up a Starbucks on the way over because they're going to just hang out. We're ALL there to do some mindless, 30-second errand.

JUST. LIKE. YOU.

Those parking spaces twenty feet from the door? Are for everyone. You, too! We're all special!

So you don't have to park right in front of the door, making your car an obstacle for both drivers and pedestrians. Because the next time you do?

I'm keying your fucking car.

Get over yourself.

Posted at 01:30 PM | Comments (5)

August 15, 2006

Heather Calls Me "Movie Xena"

Well, I was Bitchy, Cranky, Crotchety Old Person this weekend at the movie theatre. It was awesome.

Husband and I went to see "Lady in the Water." Say what you like about M. Night Shyamalan, but I like him. I like his movies, I like his acting. I even like his pretty, pretty eyes. So just deal with it because this isn't about the movie or M. Night.

It's about teenagers. Really, really annoying teenagers.

Now, if you've seen "Lady in the Water," you know it's all about mood. Creepy, eerie, mystical. So it's often very quiet and dimly-lit. It doesn't over-power you -- it sucks you in.

If, that is, you aren't being distracted by really, really annoying teenagers.

I usually attend movies on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday nights, particularly because I don't like people, and I want my movie-watching experience to involve as few of them as possible. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw a movie on a weekend.

Hee! Just remembered something funny. When Husband and I went to see "Troy" (please don't mock me -- I didn't know), there was a couple who brought an infant with them. An infant. It's only the opening credits, and already the kid is fussing and making noise.

Since my Super Bitch costume is really hard to get into, I normally give people a few minutes to stop their annoying behavior on their own. But not the woman behind me.

No, she was all over that couple with, "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!"

BWAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

The couple quickly spirited the infant away from the Crazy, Swearing Lady, while I neatly folded the Super Bitch costume and reverently handed it to her, bowing in acknowledgement of her superior bitch powers.

Ah, good times.

So, there we were, all settled down for the movie with our popcorn and Twizzlers (*Dinner of Champions*), when four teenagers (two boys, two girls) sat down in front and to the immediate right of us. No cause for immediate panic. I'm not so old -- yet -- as to believe that all teenagers are reprehensible slime, so I didn't think much of it.

Until the movie started, and they all whipped out their cell phones and started send text messages.

"Why, Wenchie, what's wrong with that? It's not like they were talking. Why would that bother you?"

First -- it's the principle. If you don't want to watch a movie, do not go to a movie theatre. It's really quite simple. I do not want to climb rocks; therefore, I do not go rock climbing. See how that works?

Secondly -- take your cell phone, go shut yourself in a dark closet, and open it up. Those things are bright! Brighter than you think! I'm serious! Do it right now!

I was trying ever so hard to get into M. Night's vision, but those little bastards kept burning little holes into my retinas, constantly with the texting and the phones and open, close, open close. It was like a swarm of blue fireflies in my peripheral vision. SO annoying.

I gave them some time to settle down, and when they didn't, I leaned over and whispered, "Would you guys put your cells phones away, please? The light is really annoying. Thanks."

See? Completely calm and polite.

And the older boy goes, "We're sorry, ma'am," in a tone of voice that said, "Shut your hole, grandma."

But whatever. They stopped. For a little while.

And then they started up again when, apparently, one of the girls got dumped via text message. She started crying and ran out of the theatre, and one of the boys ran after her. The two left immediately whipped out their phones and started texting the news to the entire Chicagoland area.

More. Blinding. Light.

Then the other two returned, and they all started talking about what an asshole Tyler is, or whatever.

By this time, Husband smelled the smoke coming out of my ears, so he tried to be my hero by leaning over to the kids and going, "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

*sigh* Never a good move. It immediately became a joke to the kids, who started shushing everyone else in the theatre and each other and all that shit.

Finally, I leaned over and said, in my outside-voice, "Hey! Either turn off your goddamn phones or get the fuck out of here, because you're not watching the movie anyway, and I'm really sick of your shit!"

Husband wanted to die, but the brats were thoroughly shamed, for much longer than I thought they'd be. They only required one more, "Shut the fuck up!" from me during the remainder of the movie. Isn't that sweet?

See, this is why swearing is an important part of one's vocabulary. Because if I'm anti-social enough to loudly curse my head off in a public venue, maybe I'm just nuts enough to throw down with the cast of "Dawson's Creek."

And they sure ran outta there once the movie was over.

This is why I love Netflix.

Posted at 01:31 PM | Comments (7)

May 23, 2006

I Hate People

I really do. I hate them.

Just so you know, if I've ever had to share the road with you, or walked near you in a mall, I've sent glaring hate-rays your way.

People are basically rude and don't give a shit about anyone around them. I, on the other hand, was raised to use my "inside voice" and stay out of other peoples' way in public places. I don't tailgate, and I don't cut people off.

Does this make me a superior human being? Yes. Yes, it does.

Nicholle and I were shopping at Local Huge Upscale Mall, and hating on all the people while planning our All Pink Bachelorette Condo (for when our husbands have finally had it). I finally used the mongo gift certificate that my amazingly generous Head Boss gave me for Christmas and invested in $140 worth of grown-up skin care products from Sephora. (By God, they had better be good.)

[The gift certificate also bought him the privilege of me not not doing an entire blog about how he does all the homework for his 17 year old daughter, who does not, in fact, have Down's Syndrome.]

Then we went to Jimmy John's for a couple o' sammiches, and since JJ's is way popular and only has seating for eight, Nicholle and I went and sat on a nearby bench to snarf. When we got up to leave, I noticed that I was sans Sephora bag. NOT. GOOD.

We ran -- okay, we walked quickly, let's be honest -- to Jimmy John's, and I panted (hey, it was several yards away!) to the guys behind the corner, "Did anyone turn in a shopping bag?"

"A Sephora bag?"

"YES!"

Oh, my beloved toner pads! My cleanser! My exfolient! Don't scare Mommy like that!

PW: Wow, that was really nice of them. I guess this means I can't be hating people for at least a half an hour.

N: My faith in humanity has been momentarily restored.

PW: Hmmm... Mine may be compromised slightly by that pink velour jogging suit and, more specifically, the tanorexia it accentuates.

N: I love how her friend is wearing flats, as if the gauchos didn't make her legs look stubby enough.

PW: And what the fuck is with high schoolers carrying Coach purses?

N: Seriously. Who buys a $500 purse so their brat can carry around her driving permit and Bonnie Bell lip gloss? She's just gonna leave it in someone's back seat anyway.

PW: It's totally cute, too. I have no qualms about knocking her down, if you'll grab the purse and run.

N: So... I guess we're back to hating people.

PW: Yep.

N: That was quick.

Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (2)

May 19, 2006

Reasons I'm Never Having Children

1. They just throw up, like, anywhere. Not in the toilet. ANYWHERE.

2. "Mommymommymommymommymommymommymommymommy!"

3. I would blog about them, and they would hate me for it.

4. I would blog about them, and I would hate myself for turning into Dooce.

5. I'd have to start cooking real meals instead of just popcorn for dinner.

6. Puberty.

7. They have no respect for personal space.

8. I would home school them and make sure they are trained in all forms of weaponry and self-defense, and they would hate me for it.

9. I might have to occassionally consider Husband's opinion on how they should be raised.

10. They would want to touch my Barbies.

Posted at 02:51 PM | Comments (2)

May 10, 2006

Come Play With Us... Forever

It's that time of year again -- The Season of the Twins. Yes, it is as ominous as it sounds.

I will be a prisonor in my own home all summer, May through September. Which you wouldn't think would happen in a neighborhood where old people take walks after dark, there's a pastor across the street, and the man next door once got outta the shower to find me some nutmeg. But it does happen. And one day the pastor and nutmeg guy will be telling reporters what a nice, quiet neighbor I was.

There are lots of kids in our neighborhood, including the requisite teenaged boy who apparently broke the bass dial in his car and can't turn it down and who certainly doesn't know anything about the paintball splatters on my garage door. But in general, they're all pretty good kids.

Except for the twins, Vito and Vinny or whatever. They're five years old, and they won't leave me alone.

They're like those twin little dead girls from "The Shining." Without the dresses. Or the Exploding Blood Elevator of Doom. But the wan, parasitic expressions are dead-on. Forgive the pun.

These boys see my car from down the block as I'm coming home from work, so by the time I pull into my driveway, there they are. Waiting for me. And as soon as I open the car door, the questions start.

"Where's your... the guy who lives here?"
"You mean my husband?"
"Yeah, him."
"He's at work."
"Oh. When does he get home?"
"Not until much later."
"Oh. What are you doing?"
"Going inside to start dinner." (Lie.)
"Oh. Can you let Daisy out so we can play with her?"
"Well, I don't let her out in the front yard cuz there's no fence."
"Oh. Can we come in and play with her?"

What the fuck? Didn't they ever learn about Stranger Danger? Don't invite yourself into anyone's house, kid! If they're not already a homicidal maniac, you'll probably drive them to it.

These kids make me dread coming home. I resent their endless questions, their eagerness, their neediness. And I know this makes me an evil, Satan-worshipping, puppy-eating, light-extinguising, flower-whithering, rainbow-squelching Nazi, but when I get home after work, I just want to be left alone. To build my giant sun-blotting-out machine. Is that so wrong?

Oh, also? They ring my doorbell. Over and over and over. And I have to answer it because they know I'm there, and they will just keep ringing.

Sometimes I go out of my way to approach my house from the opposite direction, and maybe they won't see me! Or if they do, I'm so sneaky that it'll be too late, and I'll be inside before they get to my house, and then I can just pretend I don't hear the doorbell because if I didn't see them, they're not there.

Of course, I would never hurt them or be mean to them. I just want them to go away.

One time, Husband and I were going out for dinner. It was still light out, so he reminded me to make sure those twin boys weren't behind the car before I pulled out. Like I'm driving on my permit or something.

So I'm backing up, and I go, "THUMP-thump."

And Husband goes, "You know, when I was little, my uncle once backed over one of the neighbor's kids and killed him."

Oh, for fuck's sake. Of COURSE, he did. Because every time I am being funny, Husband knows someone who got killed that way.

He's like the Dad from Freaks and Geeks -- "My uncle had lots of kids in his neighborhood. Know what happened to them? THEY DIED!"

He's gonna make a great 80 year old man.

Posted at 02:01 PM | Comments (1)

April 26, 2006

Reasons Why Sleeping with Heather Is Better Than Sleeping with Husband

1. The only snoring comes from Daisy.

2. My precious, precious sleep isn't interrupted at 3am by chilly, wandering hands.

3. No farting.

4. I don't have to cling desperately to the covers when she rolls over.

5. Her underwear is much cuter than Husband's.

6. Making the bed in the morning is so easy! We just slip out of the top, and voila! The bed is a neat as before we got in it! Because we don't kick and flail and toss and seizure while we sleep!

* * * * *

And on a completely different note, I have a promise to make to you people.

If/when I ever get a book deal or magazine interview or something because of this blog, I will never, EVER write tedious posts like:

Oh, so sorry I haven't posted in a while! I've been on the phone for hours with my Agent/Manager/Satanic Representative every day lately! My life has been so hectic since I got all discovered and famous, I haven't had any time to pay attention to you, the little people who made me who I am today. Must go -- the photographer is at my door, and then I have a meeting with my editor! Tah-tah!

Vomit.

Yeah, cuz that's entertaining or interesting in any conceivable way to anyone but my Mom.

And yes, I'm bitter, but that's part of my charm.

Just had to get that off my chest.

If my dreams come true, and I get published for realsies one day, I vow not to mention it until it actually happens, and then only once. I'll link to it and be like, "Oh, by the way, here's a book that might not be a huge waste of your time to read." But only at the bottom of a long post about pubic hair grooming.

Posted at 12:30 PM | Comments (3)

April 18, 2006

There's Something Wrong With Me

Now there's an opening for all my critics, eh? [And by critics, I mean family. Mom's rolling her eyes right now going, "Where do you want me to start?!"]

No, seriously. We were in the Happiest Place On Earth (a.k.a. Disney World), and here's me and my family:

At the gallery
Husband: Look at this gorgeous original cell from "Beauty and the Beast!"
Me: Look at this two-foot statue of Maleficent!

At the parade
Boy Child: Look! It's Pooh Bea'!
Me: Look! It's Ursula!

Shopping
Billi: Look! A snowglobe with all the princesses!
Me: Look! A snowglobe with all the villians!

Getting temporary tattoos
Billi: I want Goofy!
Husband: I want Mickey!
Me: I want Snow White's Evil Stepmother the Queen!
Dad: I want Tinkerbell!

Okay, so there's something wrong with Dad, too. But at least he was caught up in the festive mood. Clearly, I'm in need of (more) professional help. I went to Disney World, and of all the souvenirs I bought, only TWO don't have a pirate theme, and the princess car-antenna isn't even for me. It's for Nicholle's Buick. (I know -- big spender, ain't I?) Plus a charm bracelet. You get to pick from all these different Disney-themed charms, but there were no pirate or villian charms. Go figure.

Um, perhaps because the bracelets are geared towards five- to ten-year old girls, Wenchie?

What's your point?

So here's my booty. The pink thing is Nicholle's.

I didn't get Heather one cuz she doesn't have a car.

I must ponder on the origin of my fascination with evil. Over a nice, tall glass of kitten blood.

Pirate Pooh Bear!

Posted at 12:38 PM | Comments (6)

April 12, 2006

To Kill a Robin

Ah, Spring. When a young man's fancy turns to drunk-dialing his ex-girlfriends, and Charlie Brown's fancy turns to his pathetic baseball team. And Wenchie's fancy turns to cold-blooded murder.

Ah, Spring. The daffodils, the robins, the warm breezes, the beginning of road construction.

I know it's a sin to kill a mockingbird, but is it a sin to kill a robin?

You're all thinking -- Ah, robins, those charming, rose-breasted heralds of warm weather. What monster could possibly concieve of doing one harm?

This monster. Right here, sitting at this computer. Whilst at the window over her right shoulder, not five feet away, a robin has gotten it into its damn fool head that it can fly through glass and, indeed, will not give up, despite the fact that is hasn't work the first katrillion times.

Yeah. There's a goddamn robin, sitting on the fence three feet from my office window, repeatedly flying headlong into the glass. This has been going on for a week now, and it's driving me friggin' batshitty.

And speaking of shittiness, my window and windowledge are covered in bird poop, plus all kinds of unspeakable, unidentifiable bird-mange-smudges. It's so disgusting. If I took a photo and showed it to Nicholle, Queen of Bird Flu Paranoia, she'd have a stroke.

[Hey, Nicholle, I think I just hit on a way to get that long-term disability leave you've been longing for!]

This glass-ramming goes on all hours of the day. Early morning, mid-afternoon, late evening. Doesn't matter. Also doesn't matter if my blinds are up or down. This bird just looooooooooooves smacking his noggin against this particular pane of glass.

Causing me to speculate -- does it have some sort of neurological disorder? Or was it just born stupid? Or is it some sort of robin hazing ritual, devised by his little birdie friends?

*sigh*

What's the life-expectancy of a retarded robin?

Posted at 01:59 PM | Comments (3)

April 05, 2006

Sleep Study

I am bilious with rage this morning, boy and girls. BILIOUS!

(And the reason for my absence yesterday will soon be apparent.)

While growing up, I was taught to have respect for people who are sleeping.

On Saturday mornings, while Mom and Dad "slept", Billi and I would creep downstairs, careful to skip the steps we knew to be creaky, to watch cartoons. And we knew better than to make any noise, lest there be an abrupt, angry end to our beloved cartoons.

Mom suffered from migraines for years. And just looking at the poor woman suffer in her darkened bedroom -- ugh, she looked so miserable. Even as bratty little girls, we had enough compassion to keep quiet.

For decades, my father took a nap every, single night after dinner. And then he'd stay up 'til midnight. I don't know anyone else who does this, but it worked for him, so whatever. Picture the love-child of Archie Bunker and Brian Dennehy being woken up early from his nap. Pretty damn scary.

As a person who probably suffers from some as-of-yet unnamed sleep disorder, I value my sleep GREATLY. And it has been a long, hard struggle trying to get my new family to understand the importance of my sleep and the skill of BEING QUIET. I believe it is a life-skill that should be taught to everyone. In gym class, or something.

Yesterday, I was doing another sleep study. A daytime one, to try to discern if I have mild narcolepsy. They had me try to nap five times, and if I could fall into REM three of those fives times, then that's the benchmark for narcolepsy. Apparently.

I had fewer electrodes on my head this time, which was nice. And no tubes in my nose. And the nail polish remover worked wonders getting the spoo outta my hair! Thanks, Lori!

I fell asleep three outta my first three naps, and I got to REM during two of them. Of course, then they wake you up right away, so it's very unfulfilling.

About an hour before my fourth and most crucial nap, some... people arrived at the office, which was weird because I was the only person getting a sleep study, and the doctor was not in the office -- just the sleep test guy. Who, by the way, had serious B.O. issues.

These people included a toddler. Someone brought a toddler to a place where people are trying to sleep. In strange beds. With wires attached to their heads. A fucking TODDLER.

When Mr. B.O. came in to get me settled for my fourth nap -- The Nap That Would Determine Whether Or Not I Have Narcolepsy And Can Get Treatment And Not Be Exhausted All The Damn Time -- I said to him, "I'm never going to be able to sleep with those people making all that noise."

He blew it off like, "Oh, you always think you can't sleep, but then you do."

But I persisted, "Dude. Seriously. That kid's voice is going to keep me awake."

And then it occurred to me -- it's probably his kid. He and I were the only ones there, and I'm pretty sure I have sired no illegitimate spawn, so it had to be his.

And this calmed me. I was confident that, it being his kid, he wouldn't be embarassed asking his wife or whomever to close the door or keep the kid quiet or whatever. While he was working. At work. In a doctor's office.

I am a stupid, stupid woman.

I was exhausted lying down for the fourth nap, yet every time I thought I might drift off to LaLa Land, that fucking kid would shriek or cry or scream or do whatever it is that toddlers do. Loudly.

I was practically in tears when Mr. B.O. came in to "wake" me from my NON-NAP. And he confirmed that, indeed, I did not sleep at all that time.

I said, "I told you -- that kid kept me awake."

He kept quiet, which was confirmation enough in my mind that, indeed, the kid was his. AND he was a shitty parent. AND he was the shittiest sleep study administer EVER!!!

WHO BRINGS A FUCKING TODDLER TO A PLACE WHERE THE ENTIRE POINT OF THE PLACE IS SLEEPING FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE TROUBLE SLEEPING?!?!

And I know I've way surpassed the acceptable limit for F-Word Usage today, but I'm just that livid. I'm making a follow-up appointment as soon as possible, and Dr. Sleep is getting a piece of my mind about the quality of his staff.

I spent MY vacation day and MY money to be diagnosed in his office, only to have the whole test compromised by a shrieking toddler. Dr. Sleep has one option here: Take my word that I would have slept that fourth time and give me some goddamn relief, because I am NOT taking another day off for another test, and I am NOT going to walk around tired for the rest of my life just because some parents are asshats.

So I got home and, over dinner, told Husband all about The Shrieking Toddler Incident, as it has come to be known. I was about two minutes into my rant, and he's all, "Just calm down. Let it go."

RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can imagine my reaction, no? The details are inconsequential, but it came packaged in a blue-streak of cursing that made the entire cast of "Deadwood" go, "Holy shit! What the fuck was that?" And I was armed with a fork.

This morning, my boss came in and actually laughed at how tired I look. Lucky for him, I don't have the energy to relatiate, and there are no forks nearby.

Moral of the story: Keep your toddlers out of adult movies, out of fancy restaurants, out of sleep study offices, and -- most importantly -- away from the Wench.

Posted at 11:16 AM | Comments (4)

December 15, 2005

Show Me On the Ornament Where Santa Touched You

Santa Claus is one scary mother-fucker. Seriously. He makes reindeer fly -- textbook witchcraft. He sees you when you're sleeping?! Gah! I can hardly close my eyes in December; I'm too afraid I'll open them and Santa's face will be right there, one inch from mine, eyes wide open, his Southern-Comfort-breath hot on my face.

Oh, most of you have bought into the whole benevolent toy-giver thing. And I bet you'd get into a van if someone offered you candy, too, huh? No? Then why are you accepting gifts from a being who defies all known laws of the universe?!

A clever few have figured it out. But they can't exactly go to their local newspaper and have them print a story -- "Santa Is Evil." Noooo, the danger is too widespread. So they try to get their message across is more subtle ways, hoping to get the facts through our brainwashed, nog-soaked skulls. Listen to your Christmas ornaments, people -- they're trying to tell you something!

Behold:

Husband and I thinned the herd of ornaments this year, while we decorated the tree. There was lots of:

"Is this yours?"
"I've never seen it before."
"Well, it's not mine."
"Meh. Pitch it."

But I had to take a photo of these before they went into the garbage. Clearly. Oh, where to start?

With the big one on the left, naturally. Do I have to point out what's wrong with a man who raises him arms and legs when you pull a little ball hanging between his legs? I hope not. Let's move on, shall we? Before we all need therapy.

The one in the middle almost changes my mind about Santa. He's putting a naughty kid into his bag. I don't remember that part of the Santa legend -- abducting the naughty children after the gifts are distributed to the nice ones. But I gotta admit, this is a practice I can firmly stand behind. In fact, I'm starting my own list.

You know, nothing says Christmas Spirit to me like a frog peeking out from behind a mushroom. Because, you know... um... frogs are green. And mushrooms, er... well some mushrooms can make visions of sugarplums dance in your head... I guess. Oh, I give up. There's just no justification for that thing.

In case you can't see it clearly, the ornament in the bottom right-hand corner is Santa... with a sheep coming out of his beard. Well. There's something you don't see every day. I just... I'm speechless. Did Santa invite the sheep to stay there? Did the reindeer kick Mr. Wooly out of the barn? Or rather, is Santa's beard infested with sheep? Neither scenario makes it okay. Sheep don't belong in facial hair. They belong on my plate. With some rosemary and a dollap of mint jelly.

And this concludes today's lesson. Please scour your own trees for these warnings from benvolent ornament-makers. God bless them, every one.

Posted at 02:48 PM | Comments (2)

December 12, 2005

I Have To Buy Grown-Up Clothes

Much of the reason behind Husband's buy-more-clothes comment is the fact that his new company's Christmas party is tomorrow night, and I have to be there, a la Glamorous Arm Candy.

And I don't wanna goooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

There's gonna be all hoity-toity people there from the Mayor's office and shit -- yes, THEE Mayor. Richie M. himself. Kill me.

Now, I'm flattered that Husband thinks I'm good-looking enough to be arm candy. And I'm flattered that he wants me to be there, despite the fact that I'm sure he's sweating the inappropriate comment I'm apt to make to absolutely the wrong person.

But I'm just not designed to be arm candy, people. I'm designed for jeans and sneakers, and little else. Glamorous is just not in my genetic make-up. Billi got all the glamour genes, and that's just fine with me because I got all the important genes, like parody-writing and making fun of people.

I've had to buy an entire outfit for this event. First, I got a floor-length velvet skirt from Marshall Field's. Then I slapped down the $16 for one pair of Ultra-Control Top nylons from Victoria's Secret, which means I can't go to the bathroom all night, lest I put out an eye or something.

The quest for the perfect top is proving fruitless. Well, I found the perfect top -- TO DIE FOR -- but of course, it was only in a size 6 petite. Don't make me laugh. The only choices out there seem to be spagetti straps, no straps, 30 lbs. of beading, faux fur, or mother-of-the-bride.

I found two Liz Claiborne tops, so I have two fallback positions, lest tonight proves pointless, also. One is a basic white blouse, French cuffs, very classy. The other is a V-neck black sweater, MINIMAL bead detailing. And while they're both very nice, I was hoping to make more of a statement.

Maybe I'll wear antlers. Fuck it, I should just go Naughty Santa and be done with it.

Heather is taking me shoe-shopping tonight. And by taking me, I literally mean holding my hand and pointing to what I'm going to buy. And I will follow her advice blindly because I'm so intimidated by anywhere that isn't Shoe Carnival.

After the shoe-shopping -- assuming that it takes us less than two hours to find dressy, black shoes THAT I CAN STAND IN without needing a double amputation -- she's gonna take me on one last hunt for The Perfect Top.

I'm thinking black, striped, silk blouse and lots of cleavage. She's thinking cap-sleeve, empire-waist, jewel tones. I expect to hear lots of this:

W: This makes me look pregnant. What about that one?
H: Elvira called from 1985 -- she wants her blouse back.
W: Well, the green one shows my tattoo. Husband will kill me.
H: Why don't you just buy a fucking opera cape and take me home?!

Posted at 02:56 PM | Comments (6)

December 09, 2005

PANTIES Is the New VAGINA

As some of you may have heard on the news, the midwest got some snow yesterday.

Who am I kidding? Of course, you heard! SNOW IN THE MIDWEST! SEVERAL INCHES! I'm sure they heard about it in Bahrain, for Pete's sake! Notify the National Guard! We're gonna need tents and bottled water over here!

When did we get so pathetic that snow in the midwest became something to freak out about? When did a little slush become a reason to do 10 miles an hour on a straight-away? When did we start thinking that weather is something that only happens to other people???

It's December! In Chicago! There's going to be snow, people! What are we -- Floridians?!

Yes, it was the first real snowfall of the season. Yes, it happened just in time for the evening commute. Yes, there were actually several inches of accumulation. And yes, -- hold onto your panties -- THAT'S NORMAL.

It usually takes me 20-30 minutes to drive home from work. Last night, it took me an hour and 45 minutes. Because the fucktard at the front of the line lived in the Congo all his life and had never seen snow before yesterday.

I spent an hour and 45 minutes in the car with an insane, old Sicilian woman I work with. Because she's too scared to drive in the snow. And you know what? THAT'S TOTALLY AWESOME! I applaud her! If you can't handle the amount of snowfall we got yesterday, PLEASE CARPOOL UNTIL MAY!

Thank God the old lady had cookies in her purse, or we might have starved to death.

Nicholle really had the right idea. She tried waiting the storm out at work while surfing the internet, until about 7:00, when she decided, "I'm just not dealing with this shit." She checked into a hotel, went shopping across the street, bought a new sweater, washed her undies in the sink, and had a breakfast of: scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, lemon poppyseed muffin, and juice. Then she drove about 15 yards to work this morning.

Let's see. Slightly damp panties vs. stuck in a car with a crazy Sicilian for almost two hours. Yeah, Nicholle definately made the better choice.

Now she's gonna kick my ass for writing about her panties. Hee! I just like saying panties!

Posted at 01:46 PM | Comments (5)

December 08, 2005

Call Me "Princess Kissyfur"

So we all know that I think Christmas letters are totally gay, and we all know why, as I covered that last year. Yet, because I went and set precedent, I was obligated to write another one this year. Now, I always try to test the limits and try new things in my writing, and I was desparately searching for that little extra-special-something that would set my Christmas letter apart from all the rest. Thank Baby Jesus, my muse Heather came up with it.

"Write it from Daisy's point of view!"

Ah, leave it to Heather to take an already gay idea to the next level of gayness. Once, writing from a pet's perspective was the sole territory of cat owners, like Queen Kissyfur. But I have ventured there, my friends, and broken down the barriers on behalf of all the canine-inclined (and canine-curious). I have traveled to the other side... to bring you this:

To my two-legged and four-legged Family & Friends,

I just love this time of year! So many good smells in the house – cookies and visitors! Well, I’m another year older – three and a half – but I refuse to stop acting like a puppy! This year has been so much fun, with all the swimming in Door County over the summer. My other favorite place to be is Grandma & Granddad H.'s 20-acre farm. I run around like a crazy dog until my human cousins get too tired, and then I go inside to get spoiled by Grandma and Granddad. Thank goodness they're dog people! Now, on to the people I live with.

Having merged his company last year, Dad has been busy whipping this new, larger company into shape. I do believe he has used an actual whip on more than one occasion, but it's nice to see him doling out the injuries instead of receiving them. We're proud to announce that 2005 has been completely Emergency Room Free for Dad! He even managed to avoid injury while helping the men of the family re-roof the Door County log cabin! He has also resurrected his singing career and is adding his much-needed tenor voice to the Chorale for their Christmas concert.

Mom is in the Chorale, too, and it's nice they have something they can do together, especially now that Dad has some competition for her heart (other than me). Mom is madly in love with her very own, oh-so-cool personal computer. Besides it being much easier to put photos of me on her blog now, Mom has also started a sort of hobby-business, selling things on eBay for friends and family (for a small percentage, of course). In fact, it's been so lucrative that she was able to purchase her most vintage Barbie yet -- a 1963 #5 Brunette Ponytail!

Urban college life seems to really agree with Ophelia. As a mere freshman, she made First Chair French Horn in the orchestra! Some of the upper classmen got their noses bent out of shape about it, but they were quickly won over by her talent and charm! In her free time (ha ha), Ophelia is still working two jobs – at [clothing store], and as hostess at [local] Restaurant. And she still manages to have lunch downtown with Dad several times a month.

Case has picked up yet another instrument -- guitar -- and is in a band with some of her friends. They somehow find time to practice when Case isn't scoring ALL the goals for her soccer team, or working at the dentist's office, or marching with the band at football games. She even got to go downstate with the marching band when [high school]'s football team made state finals! They didn't win, but that's not the band's fault.

Plans for 2006 include Mom and Dad’s trip to Disney World with Mom’s family, a new car for Dad, some vacation time with the girls, and more swimming and relaxing up north. And no emergency rooms! Be good to yourselves in 2006!

Consider yourself greeted in a festive and holiday way.

(Thank God this only happens once a year. It takes nearly that long for me to feel clean again.)

Posted at 11:10 AM | Comments (5)

November 29, 2005

Nuttin' for Christmas

Are you guys familiar with the song "Nuttin' for Christmas"? It was written in 1955, and the only reason I know of it is because it's on the Dr. Demento Christmas Album. It's charming little diddy about a young lad who has strayed slightly from the path of righteousness.

Anyhoo, the Chorale that I sing with has it in the Christmas program this year. We needed a few light things to balance out the Schubert and the Buxtehude. The words are a bit out-dated:

Nuttin' for Christmas

I broke my bat on Johnny's head;
Somebody snitched on me.
I hid a frog in sister's bed;
Somebody snitched on me.
I spilled some ink on Mommy's rug,
I made Tommy eat a bug,
Bought some gum with a penny slug;
Somebody snitched on me.

Oh, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
Mommy and Daddy are mad.
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

I put a tack on teacher's chair;
Somebody snitched on me.
I tied a knot in Susie's hair;
Somebody snitched on me.
I did a dance on Mommy's plants,
Climbed a tree and tore my pants,
Filled the sugar bowl with ants;
Somebody snitched on me.

Oh, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
Mommy and Daddy are mad.
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

So you better be good, whatever you do,
'Cause if you're bad I'm warning you,
You'll get nuttin',
You'll get nuttin',
You'll get nuttin' for Christmas.

Cute, but definately archaic. I mean, what the hell is a penny slug? So K decided that we needed new words -- if not for the concert, then at least to freak the hell outta the director at the dress rehearsal. And guess who she asked?

This is what I came up with:

Nuttin' fer Xmas, 2005

I stole a car and sped through town;
Somebody snitched on me.
I stabbed to death a circus clown;
Somebody snitched on me.
I dissected the neighbor's pet,
Snuck a gun on board a jet,
Searched for porn on the internet;
Somebody snitched on me.

Oh, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
Mom and her boyfriend are mad.
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

I handcuffed Susie to a chair;
Somebody snitched on me.
Stole her cash and shaved her hair;
Somebody snitched on me.
I farted during Sunday mass,
Went kung-fu on Tyler's ass,
Smoked pot during English class;
Somebody snitched on me.

Oh, I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
Stepmom and Daddy are mad.
I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas,
'Cause I ain't been nuttin' but bad.

So you better be good, whatever you do,
'Cause if you're bad I'm warning you,
You'll get nuttin',
You'll get nuttin',
You'll get jack-shit for Christmas.

An instant classic, if I do say so myself!

---

If you don't know what gift to get for Christmas for your friends and family, try Christmas gift baskets! A huge selection of holiday gift baskets as well as various fruit baskets and great gifts for people at the office or your favorite teacher!

---

Posted at 10:37 AM | Comments (9)

November 16, 2005

Doncha Wanna Fanta?

People! I do NOT like going to the bathroom at 2:30 and finding a bit of BBQ sauce from lunch on my chin! WHY WOULD YOU NOT TELL ME???

I hate you all. Punks.

Making me walk around with BBQ sauce on my face for two hours. Assholes. You think that's funny? Huh?!

Oh, and God forbid I should eat a spinach salad! I might not find out until I brush my teeth that night!

You know what? Restaurants should have little mirrors in the booths so patrons can check themselves before leaving. Or a little handmirror at the table or something.

And? It should be socially acceptable to tuck the tablecloth into your collar.

And speaking of horribly awkward segues about people spilling food on themselves, Nicholle dripped Chef Boy-R-Dee on her sweater and then dabbed it with Fresca.

This just in: Fresca is not Club Soda.

Posted at 02:43 PM | Comments (4)

July 08, 2005

Implement the Necessary Communication Plan

Today, boys and girls, we are lucky to have a Guest Submission from occassional commenter, Garrance, of JELLO! fame.

Inspired by the fucktardedness of the Stewards of Electrical Resources post, Garrance felt compelled to share his own tale of workplace electrical savings implementation.

The following is a survey that Garrance received from The Home Office of the Huge Upscale Department Store that he works for. This memo was issued to ALL the stores because ONE store -- Garrance's -- consistantly overrides the lighting system.

See, Garrance is in charge of all the displays at said store and often arrives at work at 4am. When it's dark. And there are no lights on. So instead allowing Garrance to change the timers so that the lights go on WHEN EMPLOYEES ARRIVE, the Home Office's solution is to, instead, be complete assholes about the whole thing.

Hence, the following email survey memo thingy, entitled:

ELECTRICAL SURVEY Making it a habit...

The intent of this survey is to ensure that each store is aware of the cost savings steps to be implemented within each store and to provide a checklist to assist in making these actions a habit every day.

Please complete the following checklist for your store. If these action points are not something your store completes consistently every day, implement the necessary communication plan and owners to ensure that these actions become an integral part of your everyday activity. The goal is to have every store im compliance every day by July 1.

To indicate your response to each item, place the cursor arrow on the box corresponding to your response and left click. RETURN THE SURVEY BY FRIDAY, JULY 1.

Okay, then there's a chart. Picture it, if you will. The first column is a column of Electrical Savings Habits:

1. Turn off all manual light Switches when room not in use (offices, employee lounge, training room, etc.)

2. Turn escalators OFF 30 minutes after store closing

3. Turn escalators ON 30 minutes prior to store opening

4. Turn of PC at end of the day

5. Turn off POS terminals at the end of the business day

That column is followed by two other columns, entitled

Currently Do This Every Day

and

Will Consistently Do This Every Day

each with Yes and No boxes for checkmarks.

Unfortunately, there is no column for I Have Absolutely No Intention of "Implementing" This, Now or Ever, You Stupid Cow.

My favorite part is "implement the necessary communication plan." This is something Alfred says to Batman. This is not how normal people talk.

Also? The font used is Comic Sans. I just can't take Comic Sans seriously. It's a kiddie font. Now, Garamond or Bookman Old Style I totally respect. But Comic Sans? Geez, you might as well make all the O's into smiley faces for all the authority it conveys.

Clearly, the memo was either typed up by the 19-year old summer intern. Or the cutsie font is meant to soften the edges of what is otherwise an utterly condescending steaming-turd of a memo.

Husband never turns off lights. Anywhere. Ever. I've also come home to find the bathroom fan still on and the back door standing wide open.

I'm totally drafting a memo.

With little boxes for him to check, like I Do This To Get Back At You For Nagging Me About All the Half-Empty Diet Coke Cans I Leave Around the House and Will Never Do Because I'm Distracted Thinking About When We Can Have Sex Next.

Posted at 02:14 PM | Comments (4)

June 24, 2005

Weather Is For Weathermen

Fuck, it is HOT today! I hate summer. Seriously, don't talk to me about cotton dresses and lemonade and sailing and getting a tan. Hot sucks. I'm sweating under my boobs. Understand?

My poor air conditioner can't even keep up with how jungle-hot it is today. I have it set at 76, but the indoor temperature is 81. EIGHTY-ASSCRACK-SWEAT-ONE DEGREES! That's just not right.

I didn't marry a rich man so I could sweat. I wanna go from my air-conditioned house to my air-conditioned car to the air-conditioned restaurant to the air-conditioned theatre.

Weather is for poor people. And farmers. And... weathermen. NOT FOR ME.

Posted at 07:52 PM | Comments (2)

May 09, 2005

Yes, for God's Sake, I KNOW!

I spelled congratulations wrong ON PURPOSE, people! Do you think I don't obsessively triple-check my entries before I post them?! What part of anal-retentive do you not understand?

I admit, the occassional spelling goof does get by me, as I have yet to achieve perfection. But I do strive for it, and I think it shows, most of the time.

So do you think I wouldn't have caught a misspelled word in a one-word title?! Where's the faith, people? Where's the love?

In the show "Wicked," during the part where all of Oz is celebrating Glinda's engagement to Fiyero, they have a banner that says "Congratulotions!"

And I thought, "Hee! They said lotions!"

Hence my title. Now get off my back.

Posted at 07:54 AM | Comments (5)

March 17, 2005

The Thing About St. Patrick's Day

See, the thing is, it annoys me. Especially living in Chicago, where the South Side Irish love themselves almost as much as they love telling everyone that they're South Side Irish. And by telling, I mean -- shouting at you while poking you in the sternum with their forefinger and sloshing green beer on your shoes.

Great. You're Irish. Does that really warrant so much hoopla? Do you really need to jam it down my throat? Cuz really? The green satin jacket with the Irish flag on the back gave it away. Here's a cookie.

Uh huh, and now all the Irish people are jumping all over me going, "