November 20, 2011
Awesomeness & Wonder
Five days 'til Black Friday! If you're like me, you've seen the last of the inside of ANY STORE that sells anything besides groceries or lunch, at least until about mid-January.
I will not step foot in any retail store to do any Christmas shopping. I don't care how damn good the deals are -- I cannot be enticed. It is worth the price of shipping for me to be able to shop at my computer, far, far away from other human beings.
Black Friday begins that special time of year when I (metaphorically) clasp my fellow man to my bosom and say, "I hate you all. See you next year."
Having said that, and in order to prove that I am not a TOTAL asswipe, I now present...
WENCHIE'S GIFT-GIVING GUIDE OF AWESOMENESS & WONDER
A few suggestions on what to get those people on your list who have everything, those ungrateful brats of yours, or your favorite aunt.
1. Archie McPhee & Co. -- Super Awesome since 1983! See? They have awesome right in the header! They also have Last Supper After Dinner Mints, the Jane Eyre Action Figure, and more bacon-related products than www.bacon-r-us.com! Great stocking-stuffers for all ages!
2. Okay, seriously, what do you get the person who has everything? A Dining Table Ping-Pong Set! Because everyone loves ping-pong, but no one wants their home to reflect the ambiance of a college dorm! It's the perfect solution to the age-old stuggle!
3. A CD of Face-Melting Ragtime played by Martin Spitznagel! The name says it all.
4. Various and sundry products from Clear Light: the Cedar Company! Now your home, your hair and your dog can all smell like that wardrobe in Grandma's spare room where she kept Grandpa's WWII army uniform! Ahhhh, good times.
5. Vosges Bacon Chocolate Chip Pancake Mix! Who can say No to breakfast when all three main food groups are represented?!
6. If you know a human being who personally owns a vagina, then you know a human being who has been on a life-long quest to find The Perfect Mascara. Indulge her flight of fancy at Sephora, with either of their huge mascara collections -- Laststash or Give Me Some Lash. Either way, the look of gratitude on her face will be hilariously pitiful.
* * * * * * *
So you see? I'm not a complete ogre. Just a partial ogre.
Now, if you want to know what I want for Christmas -- and at least half a dozen of you should be giving it some thought -- I have conveniently provided some items in the sidebar. Click early, click often!
Posted at 06:50 PM | Comments (2)November 15, 2011
Take Back Thanksgiving
Okay, people, I want to start a new protest movement here in America, called Occupy Thanksgiving.
Human microphone! Test! Test! Test!
What do we want?
Not to have to spend Thanksgiving with people we don't like!
When do we want it?
Now!
What do we want?
Not to have to spend Thanksgiving with people we don't like!
When do we want it?
Now!
My cousin-in-law is a cop, and has been for a long time. He said that Thanksgiving is the day with THEE HIGHEST NUMBER OF REPORTS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE out of the whole year! Thanksgiving! The day we're all supposed to be holding hands and being grateful for everyone at the table and smiling adoringly by candlelight!
And do you know why? Oh, don't look at me all quizzically -- you know damn well why. Because your father is a drunk, and your mother is hooked on painkillers, and your father-in-law is a racist, and your cousin is a socialist, and your uncle is a pervert, and your aunt is a born-again Christian, and your little brother is a vegan! THAT'S why! None of these assholes are going to get along with each other no matter WHAT the seating arrangement is, so why torture ourselves?!?!
Family is so over-rated. There. I said it. And I know I'm gonna take some flack for it (especially if Mommie Dearest figures out how to use the Comments section), but there it is. AND YOU KNOW I'M RIGHT! And you know that I know that -- deep in your heart -- you agree with me, and you are wishing that I would invite you over to my house for Thanksgiving, so we could sit around in our fat-pants and be TRULY THANKFUL for once -- thankful that we don't have to sit next to our mother-in-law because what is that smell?!
C'mon, I want a show of hands. How many of you are going to be sitting at a table of Thanksgiving, looking around and thinking, I am just so very grateful that my life has been touched by each and every person here?
If you raise your hand, you are either:
1) Liar, liar, pants on fire.
2) Spending Thanksgiving with just one other person.
3) The luckiest damn person in the country.
And I mean that. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, and you think you may stop reading my blog because I have taken it to new heights of bitchery, then please -- stop whatever you're doing, raise your hands to the sky, and bless His Almighty Name! And then go play the Lottery because you are clearly on a roll with the good fortune and such.
But if you do know what I'm talking about, then join me! Let's get our signs made and picket in front of our own houses!
"Thanksgiving is NOT too big to fail!"
"There was no Jack Daniels at the first Thanksgiving!"
"I'm a human being, not a blurb in your gratitude journal!"
"I'm part of a family, and I'm mad as hell!"
"Close corporate tax loopholes, tax religious groups, end the wars, legalize weed, and kick Aunt Tanya the fuck out of your house!"
"Make love, not stuffing!"
"I am part of the 99% of people who can't stand at least one member of my family!"
You get the picture.
Let's join together and get serious about not having to get together. And no tie-dyed shirts or face piercings, okay? If we don't have credibility, this movement will never get off the ground.
Posted at 05:30 PM | Comments (3)November 10, 2011
Why I Hate Charles Dickens
Okay, I don't hate him personally. I'm sure he was a nice man who had tea with his elderly neighbor lady once a week and tipped his chimeny sweep really, really well.
BUT.
I don't know how this hack came to be known as a writer of "classics" because his words makes me want to die. I've read some real crap in my day, but "A Tale of Two Cities" wins the prize for Book That I Read The Least Of Before Leaving it on the 'Free' Table At Work. I couldn't make it through the third chapter.
Here's why:
1. He is the king of the run-on sentence. Like, every paragraph is just one really long sentence. I'd start reading, and then I'd have to skim and figure out where the verb is, so I'd have a clue what was going on. And invariably, I'd lose interest or fail to follow his train of thought before I got to the end of the sentence, so I'd have to start over. Sooooooooooooooo tedious.
2. The names. Dickens' character names. UGH. They are about as imaginative as a grade schooler's. Like when The Girl Child named her goldfish "Swimmy." I get it, Mr. Dickens! The names describe the characters' personalities! How very creative! Mr. Krook! Mr. Smallweed! Oh, how droll!
3. Despite his inability to reach the end of a sentence, Mr. Dickens' is a master of giving everything away in the first couple paragraphs of a chapter. I know exactly what's going to happen after the first page, so there's really no need to read any further.
Example. Thanks to Netflix, I am currently torturing Husband with Masterpiece Theatre's "Bleak House" on DVD because if there's anything I love even more than torturing Husband, it's a BBC costume-drama mini-series.
Now, at the heart of "Bleak House" are two questions: Who are Esther's parents, and who stands to inherit the Jarndyce fortune? Thanks to Dickens' very thorough exposition, I had both these questions answered within the first twenty minutes of Episode One (of fifteen episodes). * Having figured that out, I'm basically just in it now for Lady Dedlock's dresses and the tall-windowed houses and the pastoral landscapes.
Oh, and Gillian Anderson. Damn, but Agent Scully is acting the SHIT out of Lady Dedlock! She takes ennui and rocks it!
"Bored to death with this place. Bored to death with my life. Bored to death with myself."
Her character is tortured by secret regret and guilt, but instead of playing it over-the-top LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THE DAMN MOVIE WHO IS BASICALLY A ONE-DIMENSIONAL CARTOON CHARACTER AND/OR SERVES NO PURPOSE EXCEPT TO SYMBOLIZE ONE TINY-YET-OBVIOUS THING, she plays her part close to the vest and is incredibly nuanced and very sympathetic.
In short, high school students, rent the movie, or buy the cliff notes, but do NOT -- under any circumstances -- waste precious hours of your youth reading anything by Dickens!
Same goes double for "The Great Gatsby" and "Wuthering Heights." Christ, those people were swine!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* SPOILER ALERT! Esther's parents are Lady Dedlock and the transient who dies in the first episode. Also? No one gets the forture because it all goes to pay fifty years of legal fees. And everyone rides happily ever after on a sled named Rosebud. Duh.
Posted at 06:12 AM | Comments (1)July 05, 2011
Hot Is Not Hott
I'm officially sick of the word hott. Except when applied to Dr. Hottie, of course, because what the hell else would I call him? By his real name? *pfft* Not.
So. The oppessive, lethargy-inducing heat of summer has hit Chicago. Clearly, someone has pissed off Mother Nature because that bitch has a vendetta! Oh, right, it was probably me, burning those plastic water bottles to heat my bath of sheep milk and virgin blood.
The over-75-degrees heat is particularly distressing to me because I am a sweater. And no, I don't mean that I am a wool-blend cableknit. I mean that I sweat. Profusely. Whenever it's not the dead of winter. I don't glow or perspire -- I projectile sweat like an animal running for it's life. I am, essentially, seared in my own juices.
Please, don't be jealous. I know, it's soooooooooo sexy.
Even when I was in high school, 5'8" and 125 lbs., I still leaked fluids like my Dad's old '46 Dodge truck. Know why? Because I inherited that bastard's sweat glands, that's why! And you know where? On my upper lip! I call it The Sweat Moustache. Am I making you horny?
So it only makes sense that our 25-year old air conditioner would pick NOW to keel over and die. Fucker. It's like my own home is conspiring to make me as unattractive as possible. I'm sweating, my rosacea refuses to behave, and my hair is frizzy. Why don't I just install florescent lights in all the rooms and just complete the ugliness?
Apparently, we have a freon leak. (Wait -- maybe that's the reason Mother Nature hates me...) Yup. The A/C man noticed that we have no freon. Like, none. Which is bad, so he refilled our freon tank.
Since it'll take about a week for us to get appointments for estimates, decide who we want to use, and actually get the guys in here to install it, I asked A/C Guy how long the freon would hold out for.
"Well, it depends on whether or not you have a leak, how big it is, and where it is. Could be a few days, could be a month or so."
I feel like I'm living with an inoperable brain tumor. I could die tomorrow, I could live another few months. Who knows? I just gotta take it one day at a time, and live each air-conditioned day to it's fullest. Because tomorrow, the A/C may die. And I will inevitably follow, drowning in my own sweat.
Oh, and? Our fridge will most likely soon follow in it's freon-deficient footsteps. Like a longtime married couple, the fridge will decide it just can't live without it's cooling soul mate and meet it in Things That Chill Stuff Heaven, where they will look down on me and laugh, knowing that, when I die, I'll be going someplace even hotter.
Posted at 06:44 PM | Comments (2)June 25, 2011
That's the Night That the Lights Went Out in Georgia
I live in a fairly affluent town. I'm not bragging; I'm just setting up the story here, so bear with me and don't go getting all huffy like I'm trying show off. With the way my hair has looked this week, I have no case for being uppity, but I'll get to that in a bit.
So, I live in a fairly affluent town. Granted, I live in the ghetto section with all one-story houses and small yards, but we pay some pretty hefty property taxes. Therefore, I DO NOT expect my property to be plunged into darkness every damn time the wind blows. And yet, it is, although usually briefly -- just long enough to make me have to reset all the damn clocks in the house.
On Tuesday morning, the weather people predicted severe thunderstorms and hail, to begin at 7:00 that evening. Well, it held off until 8:30, and then it KICKED US SQUARE IN THE NUTS. Luckily, I was able to hit Finish Order on Zappos.com before the lights started to flicker and my computer had a stroke. Because I need some grey sandals to go with the grey skirt that the automated, order-filling email-robot at J. Jill has assured me is on its way.
Anyhoo, the lights went off and on a few times... and then stayed off. And once the power outage hit the five minute mark, I knew we were in for the long haul. Immediately, I stopped beating myself up for being too lazy to go shopping after work, so my fridge wasn't full of soon-to-be-rotting groceries.
Husband got out the battery-powered transistor AM radio that he keeps around for just such ocassions, and the little man in the box told us to go in our basement because there was a tornado warning in our area. The up-side of that was that it's nice and cool in our basement, and with our A/C not on -- and with Husband's COMPLETE INABILITY to keep the back door closed -- it was rapidly getting quite warm and sticky in the house.
[Seriously! Why can't the man keep the damn door closed?! I told him TWICE! But no, he had to keep going out on the back porch to watch the storm, leaving the back door open to let the increasing humidity encroach on our disapating air conditioning. It's like he was deliberately trying to make me miserable! Pfft! See if I make him awesome meatloaf dinner again anytime soon!]
I wheedled away the time trying to send texts. From my basement. During a raging storm. With little success. But it kept me amused and from bludgeoning Husband to death with a flashlight.
Well, the storm raged itself out pretty quickly, and the rain was down to a drizzle, but the lights didn't come back on. Husband brought out the camping lantern (Can you believe we even own a fucking camping lantern?! Must've been a wedding gift or something.), and I was at a loss for what I could do by lantern light. It would have to be something I could do within three feet of the lantern and didn't require any technology. Suicide entered my mind as an option, but I changed my mind when I remembered that I had fudge in the house.
Then I remembered that, earlier that day, I had been sitting at my desk with my legs crossed like a man (ankle on knee), and I noticed that my brown leather sandals were looking dry and worn. Heavens to Betsy! That simply won't do!
I got out my shoes and my beeswax, and I slowly rubbed beeswax into the leather, restoring some of it original luster. Do you believe that shit? Waxing my shoes by lantern light! Practically darning my socks by the fire! I'm a pioneer woman! Except not exactly like a pioneer woman because I got bored after finishing only one of the shoes and went to bed.
Bed sucked. No A/C. No fan. Ick, ick, ick. Husband stayed in the basement to keep an eye/ear on the sump pumps, so he was nice and cool. But that's too much like camping for me, and I'd already had enough faux-camping for one night. I set the alarm on my cell phone and proceeded to toss and turn and sweat. And it's a good thing I thought to set my phone, too, because by morning, the power still hadn't come back on.
You see where this is going. You know how I felt about primping and preparing in my dark, hot, electricity-deficient house. But I'm going to bitch about it anyway.
I took a cold shower, not because our water heater is electric, but because I was projectile sweating. Even after the shower. Oh, what joy. Love to sweat through my deodorant before even getting my bra on. Makes me feel so feminine. Needless to say, I put off getting dressed until the last possible moment, lest I needed to find a new outfit before I even got a chance to brush my teeth.
But my biggest worry was, of course, my hair. In world where power tools are necessary to achieve the bangs perfection set forth by Xena and Gabrielle, the thought of appearing in public without the use of either hairdryer or straightening iron chilled my soul.
The greeting I gave my co-workers on Wednesday morning was to sternly inform them NOT to look at my hair. Which is very drama-queen-ish and of course makes them immediately look at my hair to see what I'm trying to hide. But I had to address it, lest they think for a MOMENT that I had looked in the mirror that morning and thought, Awwww, yeah, baby -- THIS is the look I'm going for!
On the other hand, the wingy, wonky bangs at least distracted them from the fact that I wasn't wearing any eye shadow. I know -- can you believe I had the courage to leave the house? I should get a parade or a medal or something. At least a cookie.
I did manage to get some eyeliner and mascara on my eyelids, but mastering the subtlety of eye shadow requires better light than the stripes of orange coming through my blinds. Yes, my darlings, weep with me. I did my make-up by the light of the sunrise. Much like those women on the American frontier, having to get their eyeliner straight while being jostled around in the back of a covered wagon.
I just... I don't think I can talk about it anymore. Going to work with my hair in a wet ponytail, my bangs doing everything but lying perfectly flat. Entertaining my modern brain by lamp light. Showering in the dark.
Bottom line -- it was like camping in my own home. Camping. In my home.
*wimper* Hold me, Heather.
April 27, 2011
Happy Administrative Poor-fessionals Day!
Let's all celebrate our inner Joan Holloways and make someone in the office cry!
"Connie, you had better bring me some goddamn coffee, or I will sharpen my pencil in your cootchie."
You know what I love about Administrative Professionals' Day? Not a damn thing. I hate that I am old enough to remember when it was still called Secretaries' Day. I hate the bitter disappointment that inevitably comes with it. And I hate that no one is going to give me a Joan Holloway Barbie.
I mean, my God -- if any human being ever came close to Barbie's actual proportions, it's our Joanie!
At work, I continue to be underwhelmed by Vy's warmth and friendliness. She refuses to fawn over how awesome I am. I just wanna shake her by the shoulders and say, "Don't you know who I am?! Every executive in the building would give their eye teeth to have me!"
I guess I'm just not used to working for someone who plays absolutely everything so close to the vest. And my reaction is downright pathetic. I hang on every smile, every chuckle, every teensy inquiry as to how my weekend went. I'm considering asking PhD Boss to pass her a note during study hall.
Do you like Wenchie?
___Yes ___No ___Kinda
Gag me with a spoon. The final decision being that, yes, they are posting my job, and yes, I am going to have to interview for it.
Well... I guess I don't have to. I could just tell them to suck it. Walk outta there Jerry McGuire style.
WHO'S COMIN' WITH ME?!
I'll bet I could get at least one person.
But worse than no adoration at all would be the perfunctory #1 Administrative Assistant coffee mug, or flowers obviously purchased at Jewel on the way to work. Although a mug of coffee purchased on the way to work would be nice...
People, if you are lucky enough to have made the decisions in your life that led you to have a support staff person, be awesome to them today. Yes, I know. They get paid. It's their job. They should have finished college instead of dropping out to become a full-time waitress because they didn't want to have to keep seeing their stalker ex-boyfriend in the halls of the local community college.
But remember, we work their asses off, too, and we, most always, get zero respect. And we are awesome people who do a hundred things a day for you that you aren't even aware of, and then go home and do a hundred awesome things you're even less aware of.
Best gift you could give us? Hand us a twenty, tell us to buy ourselves lunch, and you'll see us tomorrow morning. Because that's what we really want. Time off, and not to have to eat lunch with you.
And fellow poor-fessionals -- buck up, little soldiers. You know I love you. And if you can't find it within yourself to channel some Joan today, remember that Jane Hathaway is also perfectly... adequate.
March 28, 2011
Bacteria Is Just the Frosting on the Birthday Cake
What the hell is wrong with you people? And by "you people," I mean Americans. Your work ethic is retarded.
You are such self-important martyrs that you go work all sick and germy and contagious, and you're like, "No... I'm okay... I just really have to... answer these emails."
And then you stay all damn day -- despite everyone, including your boss, telling you to go the hell home -- coughing on everything and touching common area surfaces with your bacteria-laden hands.
Memo to sickies: No one is impressed. No one thinks you are awesomely taking one for the team, or dedicated to the mission statement, or whatever it is you're trying to prove. Everyone is just looking at you sideways, thinking, If I get sick this week, I am going to piss in his coffee.
So, yeah, thanks Asshole Who Came Into Work Sick On Friday. And special thanks to Asshole's Asshole Boss Who Made Asshole Come Into Work Because He Had Ordered A Cake For Asshole's Birthday. I'm not even kidding.
I'm sick now, courtesy of The Asshole Duo. Started yesterday with a sore throat and general ennui. Woke up this morning fully congested and sporting a pair of swollen neck glands. My head hurts. My back hurts. My teeth hurt.
Not even two months into my new job, and I'm already having to take a sick day. Great. That'll make a fantastic impression. Also? I had better not be sick for more than two days because that's the amount of sick days I have available. Nevermind that, on January 15, I ended my other position with eight sick days still on the table. Those went away when I moved to a different position with a new contract. Thank you, workplace, for finding yet another way to screw me over!
I'm dead tired but afraid to lay down because I know my sinuses will slam shut the second I get horizontal. And then I'll have to breathe through my mouth and wake up with an even sorer throat and a mouth as dry as Bea Arthur's elbow skin.
So I'm staying home. I will keep my infectious fluids to myself and single-handedly attempt to break the cycle of arrogant martyrdom.
Bitch, whine, moan.
Posted at 09:39 AM | Comments (3)November 08, 2010
The One-Footed Bird On My Head
Having just turned 41, and with my current lifestyle, I am now most likely closer to my death than I am to my birth. So it's about time that I start crabbing about my failing health. And since my I Had My Appendix, Six Inches of Intestine and a Mass the Size of an Orange Removed from My Abdomen story is now more than six years old, I'm going to crab about my headaches.
I was never really a headache person until recently. Sure, I got stomach flu at least once a year, and I got a sinus infection every November, but I never got a headaches unless they were from dry-heaving or infected sinuses. (Wow, this post didn't take long to get really disgusting, did it?)
Since marrying Husband, I've only hurled once, I think, and only had one sinus infection. However, I've developed these nagging headaches. Now, don't read too much into that. I'm not insinuating that Husband is the cause of my headaches. Let's face it -- it's probably PhD Boss.
Or more likely, it's the neck injury I sustained while hauling tree branches -- what, two years ago now? It's just never healed and stayed healed. And I feel like the slightest little thing brings it back to life.
It starts as a tightness in my shoulders, either from sitting hunched over a computer all day, or from cleaning my entire house in one day like a crazy person. Sadly, neither of these events are what you would call infrequent.
Then my neck gets sore on the left side, and I have trouble turning my head. Inevitably, the headache starts -- a dull ache all over my skull, at first.
The real joy comes when the vague, all-over pain becomes very concentrated on the left side of my head, like a steel cable, going from my left eyebrow over the left side of my head, down the back of the left side of my neck, and into the muscle on the top of my left shoulder. It's so bad that my head, neck and shoulder are so tender, I can't even touch them.
And it's exactly the same every time. Like a giant bird of prey, perched on my head, but he's missing his right foot.
This time, it lasted from Friday morning through Sunday afternoon. In fact, my neck is still very sore as I write this, but at least the pain is gone from my head.
And I can hardly stomach the level of whining of doing here, but I'm secretly hoping that someone will comment and say, "I/my sister/my cousin/my boss had the same thing, and this is how to get rid of it!"
I tried chiropractic therapy (i.e. the loving hands of Dr. Hottie), and that certainly improved things. At least my left arm doesn't hurt or go numb anymore, scaring me into driving myself to the E.R. because I think I'm having a grabber. And when my neck started acting up again, I had Bowen Therapy, which was awesome and had a seriously corrective effect on my posture. Not a twinge in the neck for weeks!
But then The Spare came to spend the night, and as is the way with fearless four-year old boys, he hurt himself. I picked him up and ouch. Why, hello, Mr. Burning Neck Tendon. I didn't miss you at all. Why did you come back?
All last week, I felt the lead-up to The Main Event. My shoulders hurt. My neck was more and more stiff each morning. Finally, the raptor dug it's talons into my head Friday morning, and didn't let up until Sunday afternoon.
Let's be honest, that's kind of a ridiculously long time to have a headache. And since Headache = No Cooky & No Cleany from Wenchie, Husband has started to nag me about calling my doctor to make an appointment.
And I really should stop being such a guy about it and just schedule a damn appointment. The thing is -- I don't want to. See, I know lots of people who suffer from headaches/migraines/whathaveyou, and I've never known a doctor visit to be some miracle cure for them. I guess, even though I love my G.P., I have very little faith in the medical community as a whole to cure headaches.
I'm afraid that they'll want to dose me up with some expensive drug whose most common side effects include searing gas pain and loss of the ability to match pitch. Or worse -- they'll want to do surgery. I can't have that, people. Because neck and/or back surgery always leads to more neck and/or back surgery, prescription painkillers, addiction and finally, death by accidental overdose. How lame.
So, yes, I am officially one of those idiots who doesn't go to the doctor because I'm afraid to know what's wrong with me, and I'm just going to suffer until I die of a brain tumor. Lame and stupid.
And at my funeral, the pastor will say, "You know, Wenchie always loved doing her Arnold Schwarzenegger impression -- It's not a tumor. And ironically, it was a tumor. Please turn to hymn number 327."
Okay, I was wrong -- that'd be kind of awesome.
Posted at 06:03 AM | Comments (4)September 23, 2010
An Open Letter to the Women Who Work on the 10th Floor
Look, ladies.
We all have to share this bathroom, at least until October 11th, after which some of us will be using it for crying. And soon after that, 50% of us will be leaving, and perhaps it won't be so much of an issue.
But until the day when there are fewer of you annoying the watery, corn-laced shit out of me -- or I get mercifully released from my position directly adjacent to the bathroom -- I have a couple requests.
1. Shut the fuck up when you're in the bathroom. I know it seems like the bathroom is a wonderfully clandestine place to hold a conversation about your menopause symptoms or your sister's asshole husband, but it's not. The place is floor-to-ceiling ceramic tile. Lindsay Lohan's va-jay-jay echos less than the tenth floor bathroom! And don't be fooled just because my cubicle wall is a foot and a half higher than a standard cubicle wall. It is not a sound barrier. Trust me. I know that you forget I'm within earshot because I'm hidden behind the fabric wall, but just try to think of me as God. You can't see me, but you know I'm always there. Oh, also? Speaking a language I don't understand doesn't mean that I can't hear it. Just like ignoring me doesn't make me invisible. Are you seeing a pattern here?
2. Do NOT, under any circumstances, use the handicap door-opener if you are not in a wheelchair. Here's the problem. When you use the handicap automatic door-opener (or H.A.D.O.), it takes for-fucking-ever for the door to open and close. That means, if I sit down to pee, and then you use the H.A.D.O. to enter the bathroom, I have to hold my pee for two minutes until the damn door is closed again so that PhD Boss doesn't hear me peeing. That is just way more intimacy than I'm ready for. Oh, also? Same holds true even if I'm not in the bathroom. Because I don't want to be sitting at my desk and have to hear someone else's intestinal affliction. If you are grunting, moaning, or otherwise verbally-lamenting your toilet sojourn, it's time to rethink your diet.
In short, there is no privacy in the privy. Please adjust your lavatory habits accordingly.
Love, Wenchie
Posted at 06:36 AM | Comments (1)January 19, 2010
And We Liked It!
When I was young, we didn't have the fancy-schmancy nail polish colors like they do now. And I bring this up because The Girl Child's new favorite color is lime green (not kelly green, not sage green, but LIME green), and she has managed -- despite my years of training -- to get her hands on a bottle of lime green nail polish.
Green? Are you kidding me?! Back in the day, if you wanted green nails, you first had to paint them with Liquid Paper and then color them in with green marker. Neon green highlighters worked the best.
And if you wanted your jeans fashionably worn to pieces? You couldn't just pay some designer $180 to do it for you. Oh no. You had to do it yourself. For a truly broken-in look, you could spend hours in front of the t.v. watching The Kenny Everett Show with a nail file and a pair of jeans from Lerner. (It was LERNER back then -- none of this pseudo-urban New York & Co. crap! And we liked it!) Or if you were lazy, you could just cut a couple holes with scissors and run them through the laundry once to fray the edges. (Also works with cut-off jean shorts!)
And you know what's weird? I drew on my Lee jeans and my Keds white canvas tennies with ballpoint pens all the time, and I don't remember my Mom ever yelling at me for that. Seems like something a snotty teenaged girl should get yelled at for, doesn't it? "Your father works hard to make money to buy you clothes, and you go and RUIN THEM???" Nope. Not once.
So where was I going with this? Absolutely nowhere. Just got me thinking because I haven't done my nails in WEEKS, and it's like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. So I was deciding on a color, when I remembered that Billi told me about Girl Child's new nail polish, and I was thinking, "She'd better not show her face in my home with green nail polish on or she's getting a pedicure RIGHT THAT MINUTE."
But now it's too close to bedtime so I'm just -- Jesus Christ on clearance, how do you stand me?
Posted at 08:00 PM | Comments (2)January 14, 2010
A Letter to the Chick at My Doctor's Office
Dear Chatty Co-Ed,
Just in case you are stupid enough (and I think you are!) to continue to pursue a career that puts you in constant contact with the public, I'd like to help you out with a little contructive criticism.
Shut your fucking mouth.
Because I don't live in a cave, I noticed and recognized your SIX pieces of Tiffany jewelry the minute I walked in the door. You really didn't need to point them out to me. In fact, you'd better thank whatever god will claim you that there were witnesses, or your shiny silver would have been in the bottom of my purse.
You know what? If you have enough money to be buying yourself multiple pieces of Tiffany jewelry, then you DO NOT get to complain to ANYONE that your horrible mother actually expects you to start paying for some of your own upkeep. Don't kid yourself that I was listening sympathetically. I was only smiling and nodding because I was picturing myself gouging your eyes out and shoving them down your throat.
What makes you think I give a shit about you and all your new clothes (some of which still reside, in the bags with tags on, in the back of your car since before Christmas)? Are you TRYING to make me hate you? You know who washes all your piles of clothes? YOUR MOTHER! Pay her some fucking RENT, ya little shit!
Look at me. I have crow's feet. I wear sensible shoes. I have some grey hairs in my bangs. I am quite obviously a GROWN UP. For me to commiserate with your spoiled, ungrateful ass, I would have to defy all the known laws of the universe.
I have a mortgage. I have a stressful, low-paying job. I have a dog on THREE medications. I have one stepdaughter in college and the other one getting married. And I only have one piece of Tiffany jewelry.
And you know what? I wouldn't trade my life for yours for all the shoes at the Coach store. You know why? Because everyone forced to spend more than two seconds with you knows that you are a worthless, self-centered, ignorant insect who does nothing but accumulate useless crap and doesn't make one bit of difference to anyone or anything around you.
Don't talk to me. Don't whine to me. Don't gimme your little pouty face. You know what? I'm done trying to be nice to you. I liked you better when you were scared of me, so we're going back to that. Buckle up, bitch.
Nice sparkly headband.
All my love,
Wenchie
November 27, 2009
The Importance of Consistancy
To the shock of all, not only am I not doing some lame things-I'm-thankful-for post, I'm not even going to start talking about Christmas, yet. No, I'm still obsessing about the horror of Halloween. Namely, the Tootsie Roll Variety Pack of candy that I bought.
The fact that the Tootsie Roll Variety Pack has Dots in it -- for no apparent reason -- pales in comparison to this:
I am one of those freaks who loves the non-chocolate variety of Tootsie Rolls. There are orange, lime, lemon and -- inexplicably veering from the fruit theme -- vanilla. The vanilla Tootsie Roll comes in a blue wrapper, as seen on the right in the photo above.
Now, one might assume, according to the color, that the Tootsie POP, shown on the left, is a vanilla Tootsie Pop. But NO NO NO NO NO! One would be WRONG. For the BLUE Tootsie Pop is RASPBERRY.
I cannot get my mind around this.
First of all, the blue-wrapped Tootsie Pop is a very recent addition to the Pop line-up and is, therefore, unnecessary, unfamiliar and utterly frightening. I don't want exciting updates, people -- I want consistancy. I want good old fashioned reliability. I am forty, and anything that strays from the norm upsets my bowel schedule.
Even more disturbing is the fact that the raspberry Tootsie Pop and the vanilla Tootsie Roll share a color. Is pink not good enough for the raspberry Tootsie Pop? There are no watermelon or cherry Tootsie Pops, so it's not like pink was taken! I don't understand this decision to assign the same color to two completely different flavors!
I want whomever is responsible to step-up and take his flogging like a man. I'm tempted to write a letter to the company, but I'm sure that Grandpa Simpson has already done so. Now you kids help Wenchie find her purse.
Posted at 06:03 PM | Comments (1)November 04, 2009
I Don't Wanna Hear It
Well, it's getting to be That Time Again. I feel compelled to compile a list of the things I don't want anyone to say to me ever, ever again.
1. I'm not ready for winter.
2. It got so cold out!
3. Seems like just last week it was in the 70s!
4. I hate winter.
5. Cold enough for you?
6. Is it summer yet?
7. I can't believe it's so cold out!
8. Aren't you cold?
9. When is that global warming going to kick in?
10. I think this cold weather is because of the global warming.
Suck it up, people! You live in Chicago! Unless this is your first winter here and you moved here from the equator, this is not new. Coldness is not a surprise. But let's review, shall we? Just in case some idiots need a refresher course.
Spring in Chicago = flash floods.
Summer in Chicago = jungle-like humidity.
Autumn in Chicago = absolutely perfect but ridiculously short.
Winter in Chicago = bitter, freezing, deathly cold, and that's without he wind chill factor.
There. See what I did there? Now you are unable to be caught off guard. Huzzah for you!
And as long as I'm satiating my anal-retentive need to make lists, here are the few exceptions to my Never Talk About The Weather rule:
1. If it is wamer in Anchorage, Alaska, than it is here.
2. If the snow on the ground, without drifting, measures four feet or higher.
3. If you are having to scrape ice off your car in August.
4. If it is hailing big enough pieces of ice to render one unconscious.
5. If it is hailing frogs.
6. If it is raining blood.
7. If you have only ever seen snow in pictures.
8. If you are homeless and could die from cold.
9. If you are an honest-to-God farmer with a working farm and depend on mild weather in order to feed your family.
10. If you are an autistic savant and your one area of expertise is weather.
If none of these apply, then you can either shut up or move. Those are your only two options.
Now go put on a sweater.
Posted at 03:29 PM | Comments (4)October 12, 2009
Totally Copping To the Fact That I Suck
As my current state of Being My Workplace's Bitch continues to shred my soul, and a general state of ennui encroaches upon all other aspects of my life, I continue to ponder the question: what the hell is going on with my blog?
Most workdays, I can barely manage having any civil, mono-syllabic communication with Husband. I'm sure he's walking on eggshells from day to day, wondering if he's going to get Chipper Wenchie or Dark Cloud Wenchie. I don't envy him.
It's not like I'm bi-polar or clinically depressed or anything. I just feel trapped in a way I never have before. At least, when I was married to a drunk, I had the option of divorcing him. Which I did. But my only option here is finding another job, and, well, I'm going to need a helluva lotta luck for that to come true. Which is also scary -- having to rely on fate and not merely on my exceptional skills and experience.
Ah, yes, we come to the real reason I'm so scowly-faced lately -- lack of control. It is at the root of all the perceived evil in my life. Learning that I can't control other people, only myself, was a pretty easy lesson for me, and one I embraced. At least I had the option of doing something.
But now I face a situation where the only thing I can control is how I deal with the problem, emotionally, and that is NOT easy. I am too easily enraged by people who don't acknowledge and reward my worth. And it makes me feel stupid, like a child stomping her feet on the playground crying, "It's not fair!"
Lame. Especially lame when I have it better than so many others. I have a job, I get a paycheck, I work with nice people, my commute is short, I don't do any manual labor. My glass is half full, and it's a constant struggle for me to see it that way. God, I totally suck.
Then I think about The Great Depression, and both of the World Wars. People had to toil like animals to keep their families together, to keep some semblance of a life, to not starve to death. Now THAT's hardship. How embarassing that I'm constantly whining about being underpaid. I'm sure I'm not instilling any confidence in Husband that I'll be able to tackle anything life throws at us.
I've never been good at sucking it up, but I'm trying. I'm new at this, so cut me some slack, eh? As for my blog, posts may be shorter for a while. But they WILL NOT CEASE. My blog will always be half full!
P.S. Yes, in the previous post, I really did refer to Stella and Daisy as "well-adjusted and well-behaved." I was working on a sliding scale. Compared to a lot of the dogs in my neighborhood, my dogs wreck the bell curve.
Posted at 11:49 AM | Comments (1)September 29, 2009
Nothing Spectacular
Oh my God, my sweet-baby flying monkies. I have missed you soooooooo much. The department I've been "temping" in since June is kicking my ass so hard! And when I typed "temping," I even paused in my typing for a moment to make the quotes sign in the air because that is how NOT-temporary my "temping" job is this time!!!
Basically, I am in a permanant position. One that would still BE a permanant position -- with good pay and full benefits -- had the woman filling it before me not gotten an offer she couldn't refuse. Was she fired? No. Was she down-sized? No. She merely ran for her life. So technically, the position is still a position.
Let me offer here to difference between a Position and a Temp. A Position is when someone comes to work every day, five days a week, receives a salary and benefits. A Temp is someone who is brought in to either a) help out with a specific project, with a specific end date; or b) cover about 50% to 75% of a Position until someone permanant can be hired.
So, boys and girls, when is a Position NOT a Position? When some poor sap like me is doing it for shit pay, no benefits, and hourly floggings. Then it's a "temp" job, by H.R. standards, because of a "hiring freeze" that H.R. is currently enforcing. (Yes, another pause for vicious air-quotes because their "freeze" is quite selective.) The bottom line is -- I Am H.R.'s Bitch. You should see the tattoo they made my get!
I know what you're thinking -- Well, Wenchie, ya loopy broad, why don't you just quit, since the money you're making barely covers gas to and from work, lunches with work friends, and blog fees? Because, my darling chew-toys. Husband got laid off in June.
MIND YOU. Husband did NOT get fired. Husband got laid off because he was the newest person at the company. THE ONLY REASON. He is a fucking deity in his field, and he WILL get another job... as soon as one of the three companies who want him get their act together and get him a damn offer.
*deep cleansing breath*
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am stuck in a department that has had it's personnel and budget cut by 40% -- and here's the rub -- WITHOUT CUTTING ANY PROJECTS, RESPONSIBILITIES OR EVENTS! There is no math in the world that can make that equation balance. Even I know that, and I got a D in math!
And what does this all mean for me? Basically -- indentured servitude. Working harder than I've ever worked in my life, for the kind of money I was making at the beginning of my secretarial career. Sheer suckitude.
So that, my dearest love, is why the blog has been a black hole lately. I can't blog at work; hell, I don't even have time to check my personal email at work. And once I get home, all I want to do is eat, watch a little t.v., and stagger to bed (and not in the good way).
But for you, oh snuggly angels, I will try. I will try for twice weekly. Because I wuv ooo.
And from my Mom:
Okay! It's been 23 days since you've blogged. I hope you are not ill or have left the country or the dogs have locked you in a closdt, or----------------- GASP!!! You've run out of things to rant about. I do follow you on FaceBook, but have seen nothing spectacular lately. God Bless.Posted at 02:03 PM | Comments (1)Love, Mommie dearest
August 16, 2009
Another Commercial I Hate
D'oh! Forgot one.
The One Where They Give Away a Puppy
I'm wondering if anyone else thinks this is as weird as I think it is.
There's this website design company that advertises on the radio, "Let us design your website, and we'll give a puppy to a family in need!"
Now, let's look beyond the obvious what-the-fuck-does-web-design-have-to-do-with-puppies-? and get to the crux of the matter -- why the hell would you give a puppy to a family in need?
When I think "family in need," think of the single mom who's working for minimum wage and can't afford Christmas presents for her kids. I think of the man who got laid off, and no one is hiring, and he has to move his wife and kids in with his parents. I think of the family who has to decide between paying the electric bill or buying groceries because their hometown industry has dried up.
Granted, the stress of falling on hard times can make one long for the unconditional love of a dog, who doesn't care if you didn't go to work today, or didn't look for work today, or didn't come home until 2:00 a.m. smelling like Mogan David and horses.
But perhaps -- and I know I'm going out on a limb here -- just perhaps, bringing yet another living, breathing, eating creature into the home of a family in need isn't quite the most well thought out decision. They'd quite literally have a better chance of improving their financial situation if they took their last twenty dollars to a casino than if they got a puppy.
And another thing -- where the hell are they getting these puppies?! No reputable breeder is going to give a living creature to a bunch of people who can't afford healthcare for themselves, let alone vaccinations and check-ups for a dog.
Wait a minute. Perhaps it is a Korean web design company, and they mean for the family in need to eat the puppy...?
[Please direct all hate-mail to piratewenchdotorg@yahoo.com. Thank you.]
August 13, 2009
Commercials I Hate
The One Where People Describe Colors of Paint with Music
I wouldn't want any of that music in my house. Jazz, classical -- UCK! Don't they have some paint that sounds like the Beatles' "Rubber Soul" album? I'd use that in my basement, which currently sounds like the theme song to "Sanford & Son."
The One with the Tagline "Building a Smarter Planet"
Well, it's about time we humans engineered a smarter planet because Earth is just a moron! Seriously, it's embarassing. I was at an intergallactic conference, and at the opening icebreaker, everyone was like, "I'm from Venus!" "I'm from the Dog Star!" And I was like, "Yeah, um, I'm from Earth." Nothing but awkward stares.
Posted at 10:53 AM | Comments (0)June 03, 2009
Must Love Dogs
In perusing the job ads on Craigslist, I came across the following creepiness:
Personal Assistant needed to work closely with stressed account executive. The ideal candidate needs to have excellent computer skills and be proficient in MS Office components especially excel and power point. Will need to anticipate and be attentive to the needs of this exec as well as willing and able to relieve pressure related to day to day stress of business. The situation requires the applicant to be flexible and open minded. The ideal candidate should have:* Energetic/Friendly Personality
* A professional but intimate demeanor
* Attractive and fashionable appearance
* Excellent communication skills (written and oral)
* Knowledge of Microsoft Office Products
Respond with Resume and Photo
Anyone with a brain can see that this guy is looking for a secretary to diddle. Knowledge of Microsoft Office comes AFTER "attractive" and "intimate?" Ick. I will not be applying.
Found another ad that looked very promising, until I read: You must also like animals, as we have a dog.
Really? I "must" like ALL animals? What if I don't like cats and birds, but I like dogs, meerkats and owls? Can I still work there? I already hate these people.
Do I have to LIKE your dog in order to work there? What if it's annoying? Can't I just promise not to kick it? Or must I pet it and let it drool on me? What if I pet the boss and let him drool on me? Is that a fair trade?
Will I be required to WALK said dog? Pick up its poop? Does it bark incessantly?
What kind of dog? Is it old? Is it incontinent? Is there hope of it dying soon? If it eats my purse, will you buy me a new one? Even if it's Coach?
Is the dog required to like all humans in order to be there? Can I bring MY dogs?
Yes, I have dogs. Yes, in general, I like dogs. But I do not now, nor have I ever required anyone to like them, pet them or find them adorable.
Can the dog in question sign for packages and cover the phone when I'm in the bathroom? I'd like to see the dog's resume before we discuss my salary.
Posted at 03:26 PM | Comments (1)February 07, 2009
The Headache
Everyone hates being sick. I mean, duh. Okay, there were a couple of times that I was kinda glad to be sick because it got me out of something that I really didn't want to do. But few things suck more than drowning in your own snot, so I'm going to stand by my opening sentence.
I've had a headache since yesterday. And since I'm a freak of nature, my headaches do not respond to medication. Not Exedrin, not Motrin, not Advil. Nothing, so don't ask.
I think I have some weird sort of deficiency in my body because painkillers never work on me. When I was in the hospital after my surgery several years ago, they gave me a morphine drip that I could control, as long as I waited at least 15 minutes in between doses.
That's supposed to be, like, nirvana, right? A morphine drip? Yeah, but no. The first day, I hit that baby every 15.5 minutes, and it didn't even take the edge off. Didn't make me groggy. Didn't make me hallucinate. Didn't do any of the cool things that really powerful painkillers are supposed to do.
The nurse came in the next day, looked at the machine and asked me why I had stopped using the morphine. So I told her it didn't work. They gave me vicadin, but that just made me dizzy without killing the pain.
Knowing this, I'm glad I never had kids because I would be all about the epidural, and if it didn't work, I would probably take it out on my children for the rest of my life.
Anyhoo, I have one of those headaches that hurts when you bend over. Or move. In any way. And it moves around my head, which is completely retarded and probably not even possible.
It's not a migraine. It's not terribly debilitating -- just enough to be a constant annoyance and remind me that I could be making doll clothes with Joe today but instead I'm remaining perfectly still. It's an I'm-getting-a-cold-and-I'll-be-horribly-sick-tomorrow-if-I-don't-sleep-all-day-today headache.
But I don't mind the pain nearly as much as I mind NOT DOING EVERYTHING I COULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW.
I could be dusting my house because I have two dogs and my house gets visibly dusty incredibly fast. I need to clear all surfaces of tchotchky, wipe them down, and then wipe down the tchotchky before returning them to their rightful places.
I could be vacuuming, including getting the hose and attachment so I can vacuum under the furniture because that's where everything hides that makes my eyes water so badly every morning.
I could be painting a shelf for my guestroom.
I could be lying down that blue rug in my guestroom, which would necessitate lots more vacuuming, and possibly some floor-washing.
I could be writing a real blog entry instead of bitching about my headache and filthy house.
I could be going to Paulina Meat Market or Hot Doug's.
I could be planning our March trip to Wooster, Ohio. Yes, really.
I could be updating my resume so that I can apply for the job I'll be temping in come Monday.
Whenever I don't feel well, I suddenly become Ambitious Girl, and I'm all like, "This could be the day that I start the novel that I'll become famous for, but I can't because I have a headache!"
I would be the suckiest pioneer woman EVER.
I'm so spoiled. If I feel like crap, we'll still eat. I don't need to make the bread and kill the chicken and shuck the peas. I just need to find the strength to throw a pizza in the oven.
The clothes and dishes will get washed, by machines. I don't need to mend Husband's pants because he has five other pairs in the same color. I don't need to weed the vegetable garden or water the livestock. I can just sit around and have a headache.
Which is exactly what I intend to do. And tomorrow, I will clean the entire house top to bottom, including all the cobwebs and inside the closets.
And I wonder why my friends hate coming over.
Posted at 11:25 AM | Comments (0)November 13, 2008
Oh, Miss?
Is there anyone worse than a waitress trainee?
Well, there probably is. Like people who commit genocide or drive under the speed limit. But when you're hungry, a waitress with her head up her butt quickly moves up the list to near-Hitler status.
I knew she was new when I saw her "uniform." The uniform for wait staff at this particular establishment is a white, button-down shirt and black dress pants.
Our waitress was wearing a white t-shirt over a Beatles t-shirt, and black velour track pants. So, basically, she wore to work what my step daughter wears to sleep in. I can't even find it in my heart to forgive a fellow Beatles fan -- she was that skanky.
I can only assume that it was her first day at work, and she'd hadn't time to buy the appropriate clothes. That's the only reason I could excuse her employer for letting her dress that way. I mean, if I want to eat in that kind of atmousphere, I'll stay home, throw on some sweats and eat cereal, standing up, over the sink.
First, it took her forever to come to our table. She got our drink order right, but the owner had to serve the saganaki that Sue and I had ordered. Granted, it involves fire, but when I waited tables, I could to three at a time, balanced on one arm. Half a glass of brandy, one swipe of the lighter, and half a lemon. Viola!
Halfway through devouring melty, melty cheese, Sue and I placed our orders. I got a hot dog. Seriously, they have those all-beef, Kosher hot dogs. God bless the Jews. Sue ordered "a grilled chicken salad sandwich."
Sue said that she enjoys chicken salad when she's out because it's one of the few things that she's too lazy to make for herself at home. So she was excited to see a cheese-topped chicken salad melt on the menu.
Half a life-time later, the waitress brought out my dog and... a salad with some diced chicken on top.
Uh...
Trixie?
This isn't what Sue ordered.
Apparently, she hadn't heard the SANDWICH part of the order.
Sue: I guess I should've known something was wrong when she didn't ask me if I wanted fries or cole slaw, but she remembered to ask you.
PW: And yet, she didn't ask you what kind of dressing you wanted -- which would have tipped you off -- so I don't think her moments of clarity are at all consistent.
Sue: Yeah.
PW: Have some of my fries while you wait.
So I was unspeakably rude and started eating my hot dog in front of Sue because I didn't want it to get cold. Ten minutes later, Trixie came back and set down on front of Sue... a grilled chicken breast sandwich.
Not a grilled chicken salad sandwich. A grilled chicken breast sandwich. So she got the sandwich part, but forgot the salad part.
Our eyes met across the table, but Sue graciously waited for Trixie to leave before speaking.
Sue: This isn't what I ordered, either.
PW: I know.
Sue: Did I order wrong?
PW: I heard you say grilled chicken salad sammich. I certainly would have remembered you saying breast.
Sue: Maybe I should have said melted. Was I supposed to say melted? I'm pretty sure I was clear.
PW: I knew what you were talking about. I'm guessing that she's not familiar with the menu.
Sue: Well, I'm going to eat it because I'm starving.
PW: Awwww, we'll give her a shitty tip, honey.
And we did.
Posted at 04:00 PM | Comments (1)October 29, 2008
The Butt of the Old
People. My ass hurts. From painting.
I know what you're thinking -- "Um, Wenchie? I think you're doing it wrong..."
As you know, because I am selfish and cruel and enjoy testing the boundaries of my marriage, Husband installed a chair rail in my office at home. The bottom third of my office is painted pink. Don't be jealous.
I had to mask off the bottom half of the room with that blue tape. Then cut it in. Then paint it. Then help put up the chair rail. Then paint the chair rail. I spent a lot of time sitting on a small, wooden stool about 8 inches off the ground.
I'm 5'9". I'm not an athlete. I'm not built for sitting on a small, wooden stool about 8 inches off the ground. Sitting on a normal chair is one thing, but a small stool -- well, the last 6 inches of seating oneself is really just a controlled fall, isn't it?
Not only did I have to get up and down from the stool many, many times over the course of several days to get this or that tool or whatever. I had to get up and move the stool over a couple feet every time I finished with the part of the wall I was working on.
Now, I don't know how many times I got up and down from that stool, but my ass knows. And it's screaming at me. Every movement in my body is painful. I blink, and my ass hurts. I may be turning 39 tomorrow, but my butt has rounded 40, left 50 in the dust, curtly nodded at 60, and is rapidly approaching 70.
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurts.
Posted at 01:30 PM | Comments (3)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 (3)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 (1)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 (4)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
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?!
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 ChristmasI 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, 2005I 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