August 08, 2008

Car Trouble

Last night, Husband and I had Sue, Heather, Spikette and Mr. Spikette over for dinner. (I really need a name for Mr. Spikette. He deserves better.) Sue cooked, and Heather brought salad and dressing. Homemade dressing and bagged salad, that is.

As you may recall, Heather lives in the city and doesn't have a car. The woman has three TiVos and seventy-four pairs of black shoes, but no car. Not that I'm judging! Oh, who am I kidding -- I'm totally judging! She's a FREAK!

So Heather took the train and walked across the street to get bagged salad at Dominick's, where I was to pick her up. It's literally five minutes from my house, so it's no big deal.

UNLESS, of course, you are having dinner with Husband, Mr. and Mrs. Spikette and Sue. Then it's a Big Fucking Cirque Du Soliel Grand Finale! Don't try to pick up Heather from the Dominick's without a net, people! I'm a trained professional!

Let me explain. And mind you, the following conversations took about 30 seconds. However, I will be obsessing about them for DAYS.

Heather texted me from the Dominick's that it was time for me to come get her because she had knocked down an elderly woman during the course of her Salad Emergency, and management wasn't buying her story. So I grabbed my keys, entered the garage and hit the garage door opener.

Behind my car were parked not one but TWO cars.

PW: You guys both drove here?

Mr. S: I have to go to rehersal right after dinner.

PW: You live two minutes away! You couldn't drive them home?!

Mr. S: Shut up.

PW: You are so on Al Gore's shit list. [to Husband] Honey, gimme your keys.

H: Why?

Was he asleep during the preceeding events? Funny, he looked conscious...

PW: BecauseIneedtopickupHeatherandSpikettesareparkedbehindme!

H: Both of them?

Oh. My. GOD.

PW: Yes. Where are your keys?

H: [HUGE eye roll and sigh] I have to clean off the seat first.

PW: I can do it.

H: Noooooooo, I'll do iiiiiiiiiiiiit. [slumps toward the door, dragging his feet, having suddenly turned into a thirteen-year old girl]

PW: Oh, for God's sake!

What could that man possibly have in his front seat that I couldn't clean it off myself? I mean, I know most people have, like, a couple CDs and maybe some directions scribbled on a Post-It. Did he think me incapable of tossing that crap into the back seat? Or did he have something...

Was there poo? Did he have something disgusting to clean? Was it going to be a long, involved process that he was hoping to put off for a few months?

Or perhaps there was something there that I was physically unable to lift, like a sofa bed? Or a china cabinet? Or a corpse?

PW: Heather's salad is going to wilt before I get to Dominick's! She can sit in the back seat!

H: I'd have to clean that out, too.

PW: Oh, for fuck's sake! Forget it! [to Spikette] Gimme your keys.

Sp: Um... whyyyyyyyyyy...?

At this point, I literally exploded into a thousand little, tiny shards of frustration and rage, causing a rift in the time-space continuum, which then allowed Captain Picard to reunite the particles of my body and make me whole again.

Sue: Just take my car! I think I have enough gas...

No sarcastic comment for Sue, as I often keep driving for days after my gas light goes on.

PW: Spikette, just gimme your keys.

Sp: I'll drive.

PW: No! We won't eat until midnight if you drive!

Sp: ... [clearly uneasy]

PW: I'm not going to crash your car. I'm a better driver than you!

For the love of all that is holy, it's not like she drives a Beemer or a vintage Mustang or something! It's a fucking Saturn station wagon!

PW: GIVE ME THE KEYS!!!!!!!!!

Sp: Fine.

And I was finally, blissfully out the door and off to get Heather. I didn't even move Spikette's seat or adjust any mirrors, lest she burst a blood vessel in her eye or something.

Heather hadn't even gotten her seatbelt buckled before I started in on The Impossible Odds I Had To Circumvent In Order To Obtain A Drivable Vehicle Jeebus H. Pole-Vaulting Christ! At the end of the story, I stopped to catch my breath.

H: Are you done?

PW: NO!

H: There's more to the story?

PW: No, I'm just going to repeat everything over and over until we get there! And then you can't mention it to anyone.

H: Because you're going to blog it.

PW: Of course.

By the time we pulled in my driveway, we were laughing that ugly-laugh where you're practically crying. I opened my front door, and Heather goes, "Aaaaaaaaand, scene."

Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (1)

July 04, 2008

God Bless Wisconsin

"Keep pressure on it! Stop looking at it! Keep the napkin on it!"

It was like driving a five-year old to the clinic.

Except... wait.

"Where's the clinic?" I asked Husband.

PJ was driving because it was her car. I was in the front because I get car-sick. Husband was in the back because he had a gun-related injury.

"You don't know where the clinic is???" PJ asked incredulously.

"Well, in the 38 and a half years that I have been coming up here, I've never had to GO to the clinic... until I met Husband."

"Really?" said Husband. "I think it's in the same building as the library. You know, by the Community Center."

"Oh, that's right! PJ, take a left here."

So PJ dropped Husband and I off at the Clinic/Library, and then went to pick up our steaks for dinner. Husband had ordered six, inch-thick ribeyes from the local rancher/slaughterer/butcher. (I know -- could Husband get any more manly? It's almost like we had never planned a vacation around an Amish Quilt Show!)

We went inside and immediately started bickering.

"Hi, my husband needs stitches."

"No, I don't. It stopped bleeding. See?"

"Don't drip on the carpet. It looks new."

"I'm fine."

"Why don't you let the doctor be the judge of that?"

"I don't even know why we're here."

"Would you keep the napkin on it!"

Tactfully, the doctor stepped in with, "Why don't you let me take a look at it. I'll be able to tell right away if you'll need stitches or not." She lifted the napkin. "You can check in with Donna and then come right to room number one."

I tried to look as smug as humanly possible while I filled out the forms for him. Meanwhile, Donna had a question of her own.

"So how did you injure your thumb?"

Husband and I looked at each other.

Being from Illinois -- and, more specifically, the Chicago area, i.e. The Kingdom of Daley -- Husband and I have been trained to believe that guns posess a life of their own, often jumping out of closets and from behind bushes randomly killing people, and therefore should only be owned by crazy people and criminals. We knew we were going to jail for touching one.

"Well," I began. "We were at the shooting range..."

The nurse smiled and nodded knowingly, "Ah. I see. You can go on back, Mr. Husband. The doctor is waiting for you."

And that was it.

No sirens. No police reports. No interrogation. No body cavity searches.

In Wisconsin, as long as you don't "accidentally" shoot your no-good brother-in-law, gun-related injuries don't even warrant a raised eyebrow or sideways glance.

I love those darn cheddarheads.

So here's Husband's badge of brazen machismo.

The silver lining to this whole ordeal is that, if Husband hadn't needed emergency care, I might have gotten an even worse sunburn that afternoon.

My badge of brazen idiocy.

Posted at 10:58 AM | Comments (1)

June 26, 2008

I'm So Proud!

Forget the quilting. Forget the shopping. Forget the antiqueing, the singing, the impeccable fashion sense. Forget everything you thought you knew about Husband because...

Husband has a gun-related injury!!! How incredibly macho is that?!

Last weekend was our annual four-day vacation with my cousins, Egrau and Ramone, their spouses, J and PJ, and their dogs, Karma, Zoe and Ava. That's eleven creatures in one cabin, and we were still out-numbered by the guns in J and Ramone's arsenal!

Our "Hillbilly Weekends," as they have come to be known, consist of four primary parts:

1. Eating.
2. Sleeping/napping/"resting our eyes."
3. Drinking
4. Shooting.

(There are also secondary activities like shopping, reading and arguing, but they are mere incidentals.)

So we were at the shooting range, shooting targets. Targets that consisted of spinners, silohouttes, empty helium tanks, plastic milk cartons filled with water... and Barbies.

That's right, I said it -- Barbies. And Kens. Every time we go up, I thin the herd a little because there is nothing funnier than a naked Ken doll riddled with the holes left by 22s. Especially when Ramone lets me use his rifle, and I nail Ken dead-on, so that his torso splits apart, and his leg flies ten feet.

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

Sick, sick, sick.

And yet, while we are sick, we are not crazed, gun-toting maniacs. J is a police officer, and Ramone, too, has extensive weapons training. They always make sure we know how to use each gun safely and correctly.

DISCLAIMER: Husband's injury is in no way due to faulty training, safety or supervision.

He's just a little dim.

Anyhoo, there I was, reading my book, having tired of mayhem and destruction and wanting to finish my 341-pg. novel (which I did).

PJ and Egrau were sitting with them, when one of them said, "What? What happened?"

I looked up at Ramone and Husband (J had left on an emergency big-pottie run), and they were looking at the gun Husband was holding. I didn't understand why the shooting had stopped, until I saw a big splotch of blood on Husband's hand.

My first thought was, "Oh, dear God. Ramone shot Husband in the hand."

But then I thought, "Well, that's unlikely. Ramone is a stickler for gun safety. He'd never do that."

And then I thought that I had accidentally included Western Barbie in the target group, and he had outdrawn Husband.

Still perplexed at what was going on, I walked over to where the guys were standing. Husband took the gun out of his right hand, and blood began to drip from where the thumb meets the hand.

"All right," I sighed. "Get in the car."

[For some backstory on how many times -- and for what reasons -- I've had to drive Husband to the E.R., read parts One, Two and Three of "Husband's Bizarre Illness" and the Three-Stooges-esque comedy of Mr. Drillbit.]

"Really?" he whined. "It's not a big cut. It'll be fine."

"Well, you can bleed for an hour while I nag you, and then we can go. Or you can just come now."

Ramone said, "Yeah, you should probably go."

Well, that clinched it. Because when I say something, it's meaningless. But when anyone other than me says THE EXACT SAME THING, it is suddenly Husband's gospel.

Welcome to wedded bliss.

More soon.

Posted at 06:29 PM | Comments (0)

June 16, 2008

The Important Book for the Bride To Be

By Room 220

Sue's friend Becky is getting married soon, so all Becky's teacher-friends had their classes do little projects for her. Amy's 1st grade class did structured paragraphs of what can only be described as brilliant prose. The ensuing levels of cuteness and sincerity had even this embittered wench blinking back the tears. (And admiring the fact that they have much better handwriting than Billi.)

For instance...

The important thing about a bride is she is beautiful. The bride has a white dress. She has gloves. She bride has a crown, too. The bride likes to dance. The bride dances a lot. But the important thing about a bride is she is beautiful.

The important thing about a wedding is sometimes they may kiss. They dance the conga line. The children play childrens' games. We eat cake. They throw money all over. But the important thing about a wedding is sometimes they may kiss.

Is that not the sweetest thing you've ever read?! I have to go brush my teeth because they feel so fuzzy!

Of course, you're always going to get the little diva with the ulterior motive...

The important thing about a flower girl. The flower girl throw the flowers. The flower girl is a very hard worker. The flower girl wears a dress that is red or blue. The flower girl gets a present to ride in a limo.

I think someone is gunning for a position in Becky's wedding party, eh, Katrina...?

Hmmm. I think Achmed's parents may be a little right-wing.

The important thing about a wedding is there's a man and woman getting married. There is a wedding cake. They throw flowers. There is food to eat. But the important thing about a wedding is there's a man and woman getting married.

Adam married Eve, not Steve, right, Achmed? I'm actually for gay marriage myself, but I do wonder who the hell is going to do all the housework in that situation.

I'm sure this one is Becky's favorite...

The important thing about a wife is she has a baby. She has to take care of the baby. She cooks the food. She takes of the family. She cleans the house. She has to clean everything. She works all lot. But the most important thing about a wife is she has a baby.

Well, Becky, you might as well just kick off those strappy espidrills and get in the kitchen right now. Your life is over, if little Juan has anything to say about it.

Of course, this one is MY favorite...

The important thing about a husband is he sees a girl that he loves. He marries the girl. He can ride her to her house. He may kiss her. He could dance with her. But the important thing about the husband is he sees the girl that he loves.

He can ride her to her house?! Give that child an A+! In twenty years, he is totally going to be my fourth husband.

Posted at 06:11 AM | Comments (1)

March 19, 2008

Wenchie Unplugged

I complain about Husband alot on this blog. Mainly because, as his wife, it's my God-given right. But also because it's fun.

But today, I'd like to stay a bit from my usual evisceration of my beloved to list some of his good qualities. Mainly because he deserves it. But also because I don't want you thinking I'm retarded for staying bound to this weirdo.

1. He understands the importance of family. Even my family.

2. I went shopping and came home with a Coach bag, and he didn't even ask how much I spent.

3. He doesn't even bother with hints and guessing. He just asks, "What do you want me to do for Valentine's Day?" And then he does it.

4. He's cute. Which really helps because I'm shallow.

5. We have two dogs, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've had to pick up poop.

6. He thinks my butt is adorable. Regardless of size.

Unfortunately, I can't find any reasons for the bigger question -- why he stays with me.

Posted at 07:32 AM | Comments (4)

February 01, 2008

Wenchie vs. Nylons

As I watched the White Scourge of the Midwest fall outside my cubicle window yesterday afternoon, I had this conversation with Heather via I.M.:

[By the way, Meebo lets you chat without having to download software onto your work computer -- check it out!]

PW: It's a bitch outside.
PW: I'm really hoping they close the building early, and then just LEAVE it closed until Monday!

H: yeah. liek that'll happe.
H: n
H: sorry. trying to type and hold a pen at the same time...

PW: don't worry - I speak Heather
PW: last time it snowed 5 in., they closed early and didn't open until, like, 10:00 or so the next morning. which was awesome
PW: and tonight we're expecting EIGHT

H: damn. sweet.

PW: I know!
PW: The person who makes the decision must live far away or something

H: that is genious.
H: it takes me an hour to get home no matter what, and they don't seem to mind if I come in late, or early, or on time, or whatever.

PW: at my old work, the guy making that call lived 5 min. away, so he didn't give a crap

H: I hate that
H: my last job, at IEC, they NEVER EVER cared about weather.
H: because the guy lived walking distance away.
H: fucker.

PW: fucker

H: ha!

PW: oh, tomorrow, I have to attend a staff-only-plus-spouses/partners dinner for Husband's work at the Bumblefuck Country Club

H:

PW: 28 miles away
PW: and I have to be there by 6:30, in rush hour traffic, so if Google says it takes 42 min. I'm gonna have to leave at 5:00 or something
PW: and drive to fucking Bumblefuck in the snow, in rush hour traffic
PW: to have dinner with strangers
PW: in a skirt

H: wear pants. and a low-cut top, or no top, just a bra and jacket.

PW: and I'm not even sure I OWN nylons, and I'm not going shopping in this weather
PW: Husband said that one lady's partner hates these functions, too
PW: I'm like, "Partner as in lesbian?" He goes, "Yes." I said, "Awesome. We're sitting with the crabby lesbians."

H: nylons? in this century? what happened to good old fashioned tights?

PW: don't have any of those either
PW: Yeah, I may do pants
PW: with black sheer blouse and black shelf-bra tank
PW: and my sword necklace
PW: so everyone gets the right impression of me right off the bat
PW: "Yes, I'm a bitchy, pirate hooker who'd rather fall on her sword than be here. Nice to meet you. Where's the bar?"

H: the perfect dinner date!

PW: exactly

You know, I live my live in a specific manner that ensures that I never have to wear nylons/tights/pantyhose/whatever you want to call those demonic strangulation devices. So thank God that He intervened and dumped a Rhode-Island-sized load of snow on Chicago.

(Sure, the one prayer of mine that He answers is about snow. Figures.)

Since my conversation with Heather, my work building has announced its complete closure for the day, and Husband has decreed that it's too dangerous for his precious, delicate angel to be driving to Bumblefuck this evening.

Nylons: "You got away this time, Wenchie! But I will return! Mark my words! I WILL RETURN!!!"

Posted at 10:59 AM | Comments (4)

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 17, 2008

Fairness

This is what passes for coherent conversation in the Wenchie household.

Husband: What are you eating?

PW: [mumbling thru a full mouth] Nufeen.

H: Is that pudding?

PW: Y-- Noooooooooo.

H: Are you eating the last pudding???

PW: [sigh] Yes.

H: No fair!

PW: How is it not fair that I remembered there was one more pudding left and you didn't?

H: Your brain is younger than mine!

PW: Well,... you lose weight easier than me!

H: What does that have to do with anything?

PW: I don't know, but it really pisses me off!

H: Can I have the rest of your pudding?

PW: No.

Posted at 06:42 AM | Comments (0)

December 19, 2007

Nicki, I Thought of You

Monday, when I got home from work, there was a pidgeon sitting on my front step.

My friends. Horrified, aghast, repulsed, distraught -- none of these words can convey my feelings upon seeing a feral bird that close up, snuggling its disease-infested body against my dwelling.

Yesterday morning, the bird was gone when I left the house. I don't know where it went. Perhaps it was eaten by the coyote that frequents our neighborhood. Perhaps it crawled off to die in an area that was less exposed. I don't really care. I was just glad it was gone.

But yesterday, arriving home from work, I again spotted the offending animal, sitting in the same spot on my front step. My flesh actually crawled off my body, to O'Hare, and boarded a plane. I believe it's in Atlanta, Georgia, right now. I hope it's getting a tan.

People, that bird was sick and had chosen my front step on which to die. I can't imagine why. Perhaps it saw the slobbering mutts in the window and the myriad of flowers in the garden and thought, Ah, here is a lover of nature. Surely this house's inhabitants will take me inside and at least make my final hours warm and comfortable.

Fat fucking chance, Bird Flu! I waited until Husband came home and demanded that he deposit the thing in the garbage. Of course, that means I won't be touching him for a few days, but that's to be expected. I'm not going to risk getting The Black Plague. Especially not right before Christmas.

I'll bet you're wondering, Why did this incident make her think of Nicki? That seems rather insulting to such a lovely and eloquent person as Nicki.

That's because I know that Nicki shares my bird aversion and would have exactly the same reaction as I did: Do I get Husband to pitch the bird, or do we just sell the damn house and move?

Posted at 03:23 PM | Comments (1)

October 09, 2007

Baboon Foreplay

It's been uncharacteristically hot this October. (That's a lot of letters in that word.) I don't like hot. I don't like summer.

See, I'm a sweater. No, not a cableknit -- I am One Who Sweats. Profusely. You're so turned on right now, aren't you? It's a lovely traight I inherited from my father. Thanks, Dad!

And while we're at it, thanks for the bad knees, the near-allergic reactions to direct sunlight, and the long, thick, luxurious blonde hair.

Hey, one outta four still ain't great.

This extra month of sweaty weather we've had means more opportunities for me to break out. Specifically, I'm talking about zits on my back.

This just keeps getting sexier and sexier, doesn't it?

Oh, don't act like you've never broken out somewhere weird. Like that random pimple on your forearm, despite the fact that you shower regularly. It's not beyond the pale to assume that the occassional tiny blemish shows up on my sweat-slicked back.

Right between my shoulder blades. A spot more unreachable than the top of Mt. Everest.

And it ITCHES! It itches like CRAZY! I'm rubbing up against door jams like a rutting moose, for God's sake! It's not lady-like!

Finally, I broke down and asked Husband to pop it for me, even though I knew what his answer would be:

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Cuz it's gross!"

"I'd do it for you!"

"I know, and I HATE it when you do that!"

"If you really loved me, you would pop my zit!"

"Stop it!"

"Billi would do it!"

"Then go ask her!"

He's so mean. All those times I drive his sorry ass to the E.R., and he can't pop one little zit. What a baby.

So the other night, I guess he was feeling a bit randy. He started that oh-so-subtle thing that husbands do where they rub your back and ask if you're sleeping.

Getting minimal response from me, he started scratching between my shoulder blades and then, very deliberately, scratched off the tiny zit between them.

What can I say? He got lucky that night.

Posted at 04:57 PM | Comments (3)

October 08, 2007

I Can Bring Home the Bacon

Well, hold on to your socks people, cuz I'm about to say something shocking. Something shocking that doesn't include the word vagina, even!

Ready?

This working full time ain't so bad.

Now, now, settle down, my flying monkeys. Don't get yourselves all in a tizzy -- it leads to premature aging. I'm still the same ignorant slut you know and love.

Of course, that Husband is home to take care of the dogs and run to the Jewel at my every whim has everything to do with it.

I get up in the morning, take a shower, get the bathroom all to myself. Then I wake Husband's ass up by letting the dogs bounce off the bedroom walls until HE gets up and lets them out.

Pure. Awesome.

At lunch, I come home, make myself a sammich, survey the work he has done that morning, and offer helpful suggestions as to how he could best spend his afternoon.

Mind you, not ONCE in five years has Husband ever told me how to spend my days. Even when I was unemployed and napping every day. I don't know how it works, this delicate balance of the genders, where I can tell him what to do when he wouldn't DARE turn the tables. But by golly, I like it!

So far, he has:

1. Taken the two 7' x 3' mirrors down off our dining room wall. (I know that Mike Brady designed the whole room around the mirrors, but we just weren't feeling it.) Patched the holes, stripped off the surrounding wallpaper, and painted.

2. Stripped the hideous, faux-country, dog-gnawed wallpaper from the entire kitchen. Patched and painted all the walls but one. (We're waiting for wallpaper to arrive.)

3. Painted the back door in a satin paint because who the hell uses matte paint on a door that sees more traffic than all other doors combined???

4. Washed two-year old Halloween-prank eggs off our garage door and gave it a fresh coat of paint.

5. Installed laminate wood flooring in our t.v. room, and is now working on extending that floor into the party room.

I absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVE having him home! And he cooks me dinner! It's like I'm the husband!

"Honey, did you make an appointment with the vet for Daisy to get her teeth cleaned?"

"Yes."

"Can you vacuum this afternoon?"

"Sure."

"Oh, have you ordered the wallpaper, yet?"

"I'll do that as soon as I'm done fixing the strap on your purse."

"Can you re-tile the entryway next? I hate that white shit."

"Okay."

"I feel like Mexican tonight for dinner!"

* * * GLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! * * *

And yet, he can't seem to find the strength to walk -- literally -- FIVE FEET to the laundry basket. All his sweat-sodden, paint-stained clothes have to sit on the little chair in our bedroom.

Until five minutes after I'm done doing three loads of laundry, when he will ask me, "When are you gonna do laundry? I have a lot of clothes that need washing."

Yes, you certainly do.

Posted at 09:51 PM | Comments (2)

September 05, 2007

Worst. Day. Ever.

So it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm standing there in the Animal 911 waiting room, and the vet is showing me the X-ray where I can see the huge cluster of stones in my sweet Daisy's obstructed bladder.

My cell phone rings, and it's Husband, telling me that he's been fired. FIRED. By the same mother-fuckers who have been embezzling from the company. Fired by selfish, drunken, black-hearted, inhuman scum, for the crime of wanting to earn an honest living.

Welcome to Poor Town, indeed.

I've spent this week helping Husband clean out his desk and office, and taking my dog in for emergency surgery. It's been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. I would liken Sunday to the day I left my practice husband, without the benefit of moving into Billi and Brad's house.

So you can see how I might have been too distracted to blog. There's absolutely nothing funny about a urinary blockage or white collar crime.

Things have settled down a bit now. Daisy is home and resting comfortably, when not being sniffed all over by Stella. And Husband is very excited about starting a new company.

Unfortunately, I'm heading up north tomorrow, sans Husband and Daisy, avec Stella, Egrau and J. I know it seems cruel, but, what with being "between jobs," Husband will be home with Daisy much of the time. And I can't very well abandon Egrau and J, as it's my family's cabin we will be staying at. Have to play hostess!

I won't be back until Monday night, so I guess this week is kind of a wash as far as blogs go. I'm sorry. I'll do better next week, I promise.

Posted at 04:50 PM | Comments (5)

August 30, 2007

The Rainbow After the Flood

Ah, I love the sound of woodchippers and gas generators in the morning!

Actually, post-flood life around here is settling down. Most people have their power back, and the debris is mostly cleaned up. Here's our story.

This is the day the rains came. You can see the dark patches of water on the carpet. For once, it's actually water and not dog poop or puke. How novel! Oh, and the rolled up rug on the left? Also wet.

All the boxes piled on tables and such are full of things I've promised to eBay for various people. Methinks I've over-extended myself. For example, here is just part of the second largest Charlie's Angels collection in the U.S.

Unfortunately, dozens of video tapes got wet with muddy water. But Kelly is cool and assured me it's no big deal. Thank God! I was afraid I was going to get karate-chopped.

When the weathermen started predicting another bout of rain that would make our neighborhood, in a nutshell, uninhabitable, I started hauling stuff upstairs.

It all ended up in the dining room, since we're cavemen and often eat standing up at the kitchen counter anyway. Yes, that's Stella's little silhouette in the corner. I'm so tired of looking at that damn cage. But I think she likes being tucked away in her own little cave. I know I'd like to crawl into some unnoticable corner of the house and curl up!

While I was hauling heavy shit upstairs, Husband was working on a project of his own. He bought a couple new sump pumps, batteries and pipe, and he rebuilt the entire system.

These are the times I am sooooooooooooooooo glad to be married to him. He doesn't loose his temper under duress, and that man can fix and/or build ANYTHING.

Growing up on a farm, his parents didn't call a professional to come out and deal with any plumbing or electrical problems they had. When something needed doing, Husband's dad got a book from the library, and the whole family learned what had to be done.

Pretty damn smart, if you ask me. I'm such a sissified city girl, my only solution is to make a phone call, open my checkbook and grit my teeth.

Husband and I actually work pretty well together, when it comes to projects like this. I'm the brawn and he's the brains. I.e. I haul heavy stuff while he figures out plumbing.

Afterwards, I moved allllllllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the dry side of the room.

(The "Titanic" poster is his, okay? It was here when I moved in, and he won't part with it. Unfortunately, it survived the flood.)

Then Husband ripped up all the wet carpeting, and I moved allllllllllllll the t.v. room furniture over to the non-carpeting side of the room.

The couches were easy. It was moving all the damn books that killed me. I may have to rethink this facade of intellectualism I try to keep up...

You'll notice that there's a few feet of space between the leather sofa and the t.v., so we can still watch. I don't mind that my entire house is topsy-turvy, as long as I can sit on my ass and watch the boob-tube.

We dragged all the dead carpeting and mushy video tapes and such to the curb. Wenchie Ave., Where Floor Covering Goes To Die.

Our neighbors two doors down had it worst. They had three feet of sewer water in their basement. They literally had to throw out every single thing. A third of their worldly posessions were curb sculptures.

As if invitations had been sent out, all the lawn care guys in the county started trawling our streets for treasures. They were picking some chairs off our neighbor's pile of sewage-sodden stuff, and the guy who lived there was trying to explain to them that it was wet with sewer water, but the garbage pickers didn't speak English. It was pretty funny to watch. They couldn't understand why this guy didn't want them to take his garbage!

Since then, I've been on carpet shampooing duty. Every other day, I lay one carpet out in the driveway and go to town with the Bissel. Then I just let it lay there to bake in the sun.

Last night, we brought home 20 boxes of faux-wood laminate flooring for the basement floor. Next week, I'll show you why, along with HGTV-worthy before and after pictures!

Posted at 03:35 PM | Comments (1)

August 24, 2007

Don't Wake Me Up, Just Go-Go

Husband just can't stand to see me asleep when he's awake. I'm going to start sleeping with a stun gun beneath my pillow.

I don't know if the rest of the country knows or cares, but Mother Nature opened up a pissload of rain on the midwest yesterday. Sideways rain, green sky, no electricity -- the whole sh-bang. And this was after a whole week of wet weather.

I have mushrooms growing in my backyard. Fer reals. Stella tried to sample one, but I got it out of her mouth. Just what I need, for her crazy-ass to be tripping.

Anyhoo, the fun began at 3:30 Thursday morning when the power went out. Husband woke up the second the ceiling fan slowed down. I was sound asleep, but he felt compelled to wake me and tell me that he was going down to the basement to check the sumppump. As if I cared. He could have left for Siberia, and I would have been nothing but pleased at having the bed to myself.

Sure enough, the holding well was filling with water, so he had to set up the gas generator to run the pump. But first, he had to wake me again and tell me he was going to do it.

I'm like, "Do you need help?" I figured there must be some reason for him to wake me, right?

No. He didn't need help. There was no reason.

He set up the gas generator on the back porch, right outside the back door. So. The power is off, which means we don't have any A/C. The generator is as loud as a half-dozen lawn mowers, and the exhaust reeks horribly. But all this is no reason to CLOSE THE BACK DOOR!!! Why no! Why on earth would one want to keep out the ROAR and the HUMIDITY and the STENCH?!

So I dragged my crabby-ass outta bed to slam the back door shut.

TWICE.

Before he got the hint and kept it closed himself.

Stupidly thinking the worst was over, I had Billi bring Boy Child and Girl Child over Thursday morning to spend the night. After all, the power was back on, so why not?

Halfway through the afternoon, the sky opened up and the tornado sirens went off. As did the power. Know how much fun it is playing Monopoly in the dark with a 4 and a 6 yr. old? About as much fun as hearing Girl Child mumble, "Welcome to Poor Town."

I'm like, "Girl Child! We didn't forget to pay the electric bill! The entire neighborhood is dark! It's a power outage! Sheesh!"

Instead of making the princess eat dinner by candlelight, the kids and I left Husband behind to go to Thursday Dinner at K's, who had power. The drive there was fairly trecherous. There was tons of standing water. I'd drive through with the water splashing up as high as the car, and the kids laughed and yelled like they were in a waterpark. Meanwhile, I'm praying that the car doesn't die.

In the middle of dessert, Husband called to say that our poor, little pump just couldn't keep up with the water coming in, and we had water in the basement.

Let me give you a list of what, besides water, is in our basement:

1. Husband's home office and all his files.
2. Half of Husband's tool collection.
3. All our Christmas decorations.
4. All the stuff I have stored to eBay for other people...
5. Including the second largest collection of Charlie's Angels memorabilia in the U.S. I shit you not.
6. Our t.v. room, including t.v. and several couches.
7. Our treadmill.
8. Half my Barbie collection.
9. Our piano.
10. Lots and lots of carpeting.

In 1986, when I was in high school, part of my home town was under water for over a week. My aunt, Egrau's mom, has a photo of someone in a canoe in front of their house. We now live three blocks from my aunt, as do my parents. If it rains again today, as it's threatening to do, we're Fucked.

But back to my annoying spouse.

This morning about 3:00, the power went back on. So Husband woke me to tell me that he was going to disconnect the gas generator. Great. Have a lovely time. LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

This morning, he had to wake up at 5:00 to get to an early morning meeting halfway across the state. And being the courteous gent that he is, he left the bedroom door open and turned on every light in the house. As happy as I am that we have power again, I didn't want every, single watt of it shining in my face before dawn. I got up and slammed the bedroom door, hoping he'd get the hint.

But just as I was falling back to sleep, he woke me the hell up again to tell me that he was leaving for work. So I reemed him out. He left me no choice. And then I was too mad to go back to sleep, so I could just cry from tiredness at this point.

With the nearby river already at flood level and two to four more inches of rain expected any minute now, there will be no rest for me. As soon as I hit "Publish," I'm going to start emptying our basement.

Then we play the waiting game. What will the water take?

Posted at 11:35 AM | Comments (3)

March 13, 2007

Shaken, Not Stirred

Sleep does not come easy for me, as we all know. Blame it on feng shui, biorhythms or an overactive imagination. So last night, it was quite wonderful -- and rare -- to still be deep in dreams beyond 4 a.m.

Suddenly, I was violently shaken awake by Husband. And I’m not talking about a nudge here, people. I’m talking about WE HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!!! That kind of shaken awake. The kind where your colon leaps up to join your tonsils, and you’re sure that, if no one is already dead, someone will be very, very soon.

I bolted upright and took the earplugs out of my ears… just in time to hear the all-too-familiar sound of Daisy preparing to hurl on the bedroom rug.

Quickly, I used my powers of levitation to whisk Daisy into the kitchen, where she could puke harmlessly on the linoleum!

Wait a minute. I don’t have powers of levitation. So why the fuck did Husband wake me with such urgency? What did he think I was going to do that he couldn’t do?

I’m more than happy to share in the responsibility of cleaning up middle-of-the-night, semi-digested piles of goo. But I hardly think an impending one warrants scaring the eternal living shit outta me.

PW: Darling? The next time you crave my company cleaning up dog barf? Please don’t violently shake me awake. Okay, sweetie?

H: But! She was about to throw-up!

PW: Which, while being gross, isn’t really a life-threatening emergency, is it, my love?

H: Well… I panicked.

And then? He turned on every light in the house in rapid succession. At 4:30 a.m. Thank God there wasn’t a plane about to fly into our house because I wouldn’t have been able to see my way to the door.

Posted at 07:59 AM | Comments (3)

February 20, 2007

I Am the Lizard King!

I can do anything!

Except regulate my own body temperature. As I may have mentioned before, I'm a lizard.

These past few weeks of single-digits temps here in the midwest have been particularly hard on Husband.

(Heh-heh. She thaid "hard on." Heh-heh heh.)

PW: [snuggling up to Husband in bed] Mmmmmmm, you're nice and warm.

H: Great. [turns over]

PW: You know, you're making it very difficult for me to get cozy.

H: [moves away] You're making me sweat.

PW: You're just making it more difficult for yourself! I will snuggle you right off the edge of the bed, if I have to!

H: How can you be cold? You're wearing pants!

PW: They're thin pants!

H: God, I'm dying over here. I gotta get these socks off. They're wool.

PW: Ooooh, are they still warm? Give them to me!

H: You're already wearing socks!

PW: And your point is...?

Of course, two hours later, I woke up broiling and had to take off all my clothes. My feet were so hot that I went and stood on the bathroom tile for a couple minutes.

See? Lizard.

Posted at 08:28 PM | Comments (0)

January 10, 2007

Answering the Call of Nature

My house is disgusting. I don't even want people coming over to pay homage to Stella because my house smells like The Crazy Cat Lady died here.

Stella has had diarrhea, which is fairly common with puppies. Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus, she's happy to pee outside, but she's not going to tell you she has to go outside. You just have to guess and hope you catch her with a full bladder.

Daisy -- a.k.a. The Good Dog -- has another bladder infection. Between the two of them, we're going outside every seventeen minutes, morning, noon and night.

Now we've all seen the funny emails about How Men Get Ready For Bed vs. How Women Get Ready For Bed, and How Men Shower vs. How Women Shower. And, being a big fan of exfoliation, I can't say with 100% certainty that I wasn't the inspiration for at least one of those.

So allow me to turn the tables a bit, with 100% certainty.

How Wenchie Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.

1. Throws glasses on face.
2. Shoves feet into clogs (regardless of the presence or absence of socks).
3. Gets coat mostly onto body.
4. Clips Stella's leash to her collar.
5. Runs her into the yard.

And lemme tell ya -- if it's over 40 degrees out, I dispense with step three entirely. No neighbors are awake to see my braless, falangling boobs anyway.

How Husband Gets Ready to Take Out Stella at 3 a.m.

1. Rolls into sitting position on side of bed.
2. Scratches hair, several places.
3. Gets up and turns on bedroom lights, ignoring wailing of sleeping wife.
4. Puts on pants.
5. Puts on shirt.
6. Neatly tucks in shirt.
7. Fastens belt.
8. Looks around for shoes.
9. Asks sleeping wife if she knows where shoes are.
10. Ignores finger.
11. Remembers that shoes are in basement by couch (with wallet, phone and keys).
12. Puts on slippers instead.
13. Walks to kitchen, turning on hallway light and both kitchen lights.
14. Gets on coat.
15. Gets on hat.
16. Gets on gloves.
17. Looks around for leash.
18. Is confused because leash is NOT where he left it -- on the floor in the corner -- but is instead hanging on its hook.
19. Hooks leash to collar.
20. Takes dog outside (ignoring puddle on floor).
21. Is satisfied when Stella pees on the flagstone patio instead of the grass.

See? This is his great plan. I get more sleep when I take the damn dog out. He's trying to wear me down with lack of sleep, so I'll eventually stop making him take turns and just take the dog outside myself.

I'm onto you, Husband! Don't think I don't know.

Posted at 04:27 PM | Comments (1)

December 01, 2006

The Big Announcement

First of all, do you know how HARD it's been to keep this quiet since August (when I first got the okay from Husband)?! Oh, how I've longed to tell you, my muffins, since you are part of the reason this means so much to me! Yes, YOU!

In August, Husband finally relented to my relentless pleading and gave his blessing for me to cut my work hours to part time. That's right, I said...

PART TIME!!!

More time for blogging! More time for exercising (both myself AND Daisy)! More time for cooking decent food! More time for doing the hundreds of things Husband can't help me with because he works 1,000 hours per week to support me!

Oh, it's just gonna be so awesome for so very many reasons! *sigh* So sublimely content...

Anyhoo, I finally gave my official, written request to Head Boss a couple weeks ago, immediately after everything went down with the G.M. H.B. had to talk to the C.E.O., but his initial reaction was completely positive. Wheeeeee!

Meanwhile, G.M. is still on the warpath, so I'll feel much better when all the details are all settled, and I can stop worrying that he'll worm his way in and find some way to screw me.

Every Monday morning, the V.P.s and other such bigwigs have a meeting just to "touch base" on what's going on with the various departments for the upcoming week.

At this meeting last week, G.M. told H.B. that he wants me to distribute the mail every morning from now on. This job, for the past three years, has belonged to his assistant's assistant. But now, apparently, it's my job. Enh, no biggie. It's not hard. I don't know why the fuck the G.M.A.A. can't do it any longer, but whatever.

G.M. is clearly looking for a.) busy-work for me to do; and b.) revenge. But there's no reason I can't do it, and it makes H.B. soooooooooo happy when I'm a "team player," so I kindly agreed.

THEN, G.M. told H.B. that he would also like for me to do Switchboard Relief every other day. I HHHHHHHHHATE Switchboard Relief.

Our receptionist sits in our front lobby and mans the phones and such. She gets two 15-minute breaks per day, and a 45 minute lunch. However, she has been known to stretch those breaks to 40 minutes, and all her lunches are well past an hour long.

So, in addition to being a big waste of my time, and a big waste of company money to pay me to sit and read, it's boring, and I don't like interacting with strangers, in person or otherwise. Also? I don't type 120 words a minute so I can "direct your call."

Now, G.M.A.A. is supposed does Switchboard Relief full time, also. As she has been since the invention of the telephone. But now, G.M. wants me to do it. I can't begin to describe how fucking livid this makes me.

So H.B. goes, "Well, I just agreed and played along because he doesn't know that you'll be part time in another month!"

I totally high-fived him for that one. But now, G.M. knows that we're in talks. Luckily, there's huge shit going down regarding company changes for 2007, so he doesn't have a lot of energy to devote to my persecution at the moment.

Anyhoo, after the Monday morning meeting, H.B. went in and talked to the C.E.O of the company, THEE head guy. H.B. explained what I had asked for and that he was happy to work with me that way, and you know what C.E.O. said?

He said, "That's fine. Whatever you two want to work out between you is fine with me."

BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT A NORMAL BIGWIG SHOULD DO! Trust his underlings to do the right thing and leave them to sort out the details.

Ohhhhhhh, but not G.M. He's not gonna let me do what I want without a fight. H.B. and I will iron things out with the H.R. person, and then he'll come in and start nit-picking and find something he doesn't want to let me have. Mark my words.

Mind you, I'm not asking for anything extravagant. Just half. Half work days, half sick days, half vacation days. It's all simple and logical. But he won't want me to have it all, just on principle. I have dared to defy him so many times; I'm evading his switchboard-relief clutches (after December) -- he won't let me have it for the simple fact that I want it.

But I've anticipated this. I've got a couple cards up my sleeve, and I'm not tipping them to him just yet. He wants a fight? Bring it. I'll not be made his bitch.

Keep your eye on the Countdown in my sidebar -- that's how many full time work days I have left.

Posted at 12:14 PM | Comments (2)

November 27, 2006

The Third Time

In thirty-seven years, I have only barfed while away from home twice. And I remember both quite vividly because, when you're engaging in that graceless ballet that is blowing chunks, all you want is to be in your own home, vomiting into your toilet, and then crawling into your bed.

The first time was when I was in grade school, and, apparently, I accomplished the task while still asleep. We were on vacation at our Wisconsin cabin. I didn't even know I had ralphed until Mom was waking me up. I had puke in my hair and my ear.

That was the incident that ruined root beer floats for me. The float wasn't what had made me sick -- no, I definately had a stomach bug. But it was the last thing I had eaten before bed, and I haven't had another one in thirty years.

Our cabin is set-up in kind of an unusual way. There's main cabin, built in the 20s. And then there's the new cabin, which we still call the new cabin, despite the fact that it's older than I am. It has an extra bedroom and a bathroom (something with which the original cabin did not come equipped). The two cabins are connected by a screened-in porch we call the breezeway.

I was sleeping in the new cabin when I got sick on vacation. And I remember Dad, in the middle of the night, rigged up this clever alarm system for me with a fishing pole. All I had to do was pull it, and it would ring the dinner bell on the breezeway, and Mom would come running.

The second time I barfed away from home, I was in the E.R. with severe abdominal pain (a blog I have been promising for eons, I know). They gave me something to drink so they could x-ray my stomach or something, and it just came right back up. Fortunately, at the time, I was so stoned on a painkilling cocktail that I didn't even mind.

This weekend, Husband, Younger Step Daughter and I had a slightly belated Thanksgiving at his parents' house. Now, I really lucked out when it comes to in-laws. They are fun and kind and laid-back, and I always have a good time there. This time, the kids made and decorated gingerbread houses -- kewl!

So it was extra-disappointing when I got a huge headache Saturday evening, and it was still with me when I woke up on Sunday. However, I consoled myself that, hey, at least I wasn't spewing lava like Husband's brother! Apparently, one of the forty-seven dishes in which we had indulged in the past 24 hours hadn't agreed with him.

Ah, but Fate is a bitch, ladies and gentleman, and it had plans for me. Plans that involved prompting me to snarf down a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way back from Lafayette to Chicago.

When I started feeling nauseated, I didn't think much of it. Yeah, okay, ice cream is perhaps not the perfect lunch, but my body could handle it. After all, I've been training it with Oreos for breakfast for half my life!

But then the chills set in. Followed by the sweating. And that unmistakable feeling in your esophogus.

"Honey? I'm gonna throw up. Can you pull over?"

We were on the Indiana Skyway at the time. And if you're not familiar with the Indiana Skyway, it's about a mile in the air, and it's alwaysalwaysalways under construction. Luckily, we were on a stretch where there was actually a shoulder, so Husband pulled over.

The first gush splattered on my shoes and jeans. My awesome new Sketchers. And I remember simultaneously praying for a chance to breath, and cursing my stupidity.

Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go. So the other people on the road with us got a nice view of my partially-digested Pumpkin Pie Blizzard.

I don't think I'm be eating anything pumpkin-y for a while.

Husband is insane. He can feel like crap, then throw-up and be like, "Ahhhhhhh, much better! Can we have lasagna for dinner?"

But I hurl, and I have to don my bed jacket and take to the couch, sipping water and nibbling crackers for three days. My body has never been very happy about having to relinquish food. I get weak, spacey and shakey. And I have to walk around doubled-over because all my stomach muscles feel like hot, liquid magma.

It's not fair. I know Husband thinks I'm faking it.

Posted at 06:53 PM | Comments (2)

November 01, 2006

Where the Magic Happens

When one's spouse works sixty hours per week, foreplay kinda goes a little something like this...

[Crawl into bed together.]

"So... how are you?"
"Fine. What time is it?"
"Nine-fifteen."
"Wow! That's early!"

[Hug, kiss, throw a leg over other person's hips.]

"Oh, can I have the checkbook tomorrow?"
"Sure. What for?"
"My Avon order is in."
"Ah."

[Kiss, run fingers through hair.]

"Did you take Daisy out?"
"Yes. She pooped."

[Get rid of underwear, fondle.]

"So, what are we doing -- brunch on Sunday, or dinner on Wednesday?"
"I don't know, yet."
"Because I can't do Sunday."
"Okay, then I'll try to make it Wednesday."

[Grope, caress, bite.]

"I can't do Wednesday either."
"... Then why did you ask?!"
"I don't know! Just shut up and have sex with me!"
"FINE!"

Posted at 01:26 PM | Comments (3)

October 30, 2006

(CR)Happy Birthday to Me!

Well, it's Day Six of The Birthday Illness, and I'm getting better... slowly. I have to give major props to Husband, who bent over backwards to keep my birthday from sucking completely.

He baked me a birthday cake! After I showed him where the electric mixer was, and the round cake pans. And the eggs. And he now knows how to tell if a cake is done baking using only a toothpick and a well-trained eye!

He did a lovely job frosting the cake -- chocolate, natch -- and once the cake was completely covered, he was like, "What do I do with the leftover frosting?"

"Leftover frosting?" What the hell is leftover frosting?

I'm like, "Dude! There's no such thing as leftover frosting! You just keep frosting the cake until the frosting is all gone! Frosting is NEVER leftover! Were you raised by wolves?!" And so forth.

He even got me Barbie glitter candles and insisted upon lighting them and singing for me. Awwwwwwwwwwww.

He also went and got my favorite dish from my favorite restaurant -- bowtie pasta with vodka sauce from Graziano's. And as a gift, he got me...

AN IPOD!!!!

It's pink! And it's sooooooooo kewl! Thank God I'm home sick so I can figure out how to work the dang thing!

Now I need a Coach iPod carrying case.

Anyhoo, being stuck at home with barely enough energy to properly dispose of all my snot-laden kleenex, it's been the perfect time to sit in front of the t.v. and change clothes on all the Barbies. And it's about time, too, because it's October, for Pete's sake, and some of them are still in tank tops and hootchie skirts!

First, I dressed Jenny (Japan's version of Barbie) and her similarly-proportioned friends:

It's a wonder I'm not in prison, isn't it?

Then I did all fifteen Fashion Avenue Barbies:

Or as I call them, Fashion Victim Barbies.

Aren't they an ethnicly diverse group? But I couldn't fit all fifteen of them in the photo, so Miss J made them walk a catwalk made of Jello, and the winner got to pick three friends to be in my photoshoot.

The other eleven are pissed. Drew poured a beer in Christie's weave.

Posted at 01:09 PM | Comments (0)

July 20, 2006

The Bidding Starts at Five Dollars

Six months before their scheduled arrival, we found out that my Norwegians cousins were coming to visit us in July.

Two months before their scheduled arrival, my sisters and I hammered out the schedule of when they would be staying with whom.

One day before their scheduled arrival at our house, Husband put in a new, working toilet and sink.

No, not in The Pinecone Bathroom -- that one works. In The Headcheese Bathroom.

And why do we call it The Headcheese Bathroom, you query? Take a look for yourself.

Oh, yeah! That is prime 1968 real estate, bay-bee! Dig it! Of course, that brown, foil wallpaper is on the ceiling, too! You can't have too much of a good thing, know what I'm sayin'?

What's that? Oh, you want to see the sink counter closer? Well, check this out!

Hence -- The Headcheese Bathroom.

Now, over the years, many people have proclaimed our bathroom to be "Fabulous!" As a historical time capsule, perhaps -- but as an actual room in the home of not-completely-insane people? No. It's an atrocity.

Unfortunately, since we put off any work until the day before the Norwegians were due to arrive, we didn't have time for a complete gutting. Still, you can see how big of a difference just changing out the appliances made:

I tried, in vain, to cover up as much wallpaper as possible. The prints are tres chic, oui? I got them in a posh, little gallery called "IKEA." Perhaps you've heard of it?

The sink and counter are still in one very large piece in our garage. No doubt they will soon end up on a friend's lawn, in the dead of night. Probably filled with geraniums.

Posted at 02:27 PM | Comments (4)

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 24, 2006

No One Is Safe!

Last night, I changed my Gene Marshall dolls into some warm-weather outfits. And whenever I do that, I call them to Husband's attention, and he humors me with a "very nice," and I'm happy.

But last night... last night was different.

"Yes, very nice," he said.

Then after a second glance, "Oh, those are nice!"

Then he fondled the white skirt of Picnic in the Country, "I love that texture!"

After a pause, he regained his composure and said, "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Posted at 02:39 PM | Comments (4)

April 17, 2006

Sometimes I Hate Myself

It's 8:13 a.m., and I'm stuffing M&Ms in my piehole, completely negating that minty-fresh, newly-brushed feeling. It's the only thing that can possibly counteract the despair I feel.

Fresh Pepper has removed me from his Links list.

I've been rejected by a guy who bakes pastries, lives in his parents' basement, and can't speak intelligently to a female to save his life.

I want to die.

When I lamented to Nicholle, she offered this solice, "I would say, 1 He hates ANTM, 2 His latent lust for you is too risky in his new relationship, 3 Your most recent post is more up his alley & he will be sooo sorry"

Which means she's probably been drinking since 7:00 because Nicholle never offers solice when mocking laughter is an option. Either that, or she sincerely pities me because my life really has become that pathetic and boring.

Oh, God. I'm Dooce. I've gone and fixed my marriage and, consequently, jumped the shark. Husband and I are all disgustingly content and shit, and now I no longer have that fathomless well of evil hatred to draw from.

I'm doomed.

I enter as Exhibits A, B and C -- Easter decorations:

Exhibit A

I have pastel plushies on the mug-rack in my kitchen, people! I'm scared to look outside -- I'm afraid there will be Easter eggs hanging from my bushes, or a little sign on the front lawn that says "Caution: Bunny Crossing!"

Exhibit B

So Garrance and K had a couple cute little bunnies in their table for Thursday Dinner, and I just had to have one! So I went to Marshall Fields, like they said, and indeed, found a couple of the little 8" bunnies. But wait! Why have 8 inches of bunny when I could have TWENTY inches of bunny?!

Husband took one look at the huge bunny on our coffee table and said, "Huh. I've never really... done Easter decorations."

I have to be in dire straights if Husband can so easily call my coolness into question.

Exhibit C

Those eggs? Hand painted. By me.

Clearly, I have but two options: take my leave of life; or sabotage my marriage, thus regaining my previous venom.

Because, if Jessica Simpson has taught us anything, it's that fame trumps marriage every time.

Now, on to make my marriage a living hell. So many options, but which one is right for us? The sudden and complete loss of interest in sex? Public eye-rolling and condescension whenever he speaks? Rapid and random changes in mood?

Or perhaps the most insidious of all -- accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior.

Posted at 01:58 PM | Comments (6)

March 28, 2006

I Am Jasmine's Hero

You may be wondering, "So why did a people-hating, crowd-phobic curmudgeon like Wenchie go to Disney World during spring break?"

And I have no good answer for you, except that that's when Boy Child and Girl Child were there, and I am their slave.

I touched on it a bit yesterday -- the screaming, garment-rending rage I felt being surrounded by a mass of humanity's barrel-scrapings. But... try as I may, I just can't find words strong enough to describe the murders I committed in my heart as I had to walk around the bajillionth cluster of people who decided to stop and read their map IN THE MIDDLE OF A DOORWAY OR BUSY WALKWAY!!!

*pant* *pant* *pant*

Okay. Regroup.

Rude people just make me want to smother them to death with their own spleen, and then smother them in BBQ sauce and eath them. And then digest them, and poop them out on the sidewalk in from of the Spears-Federline homestead, so Kevin could walk in it.

I can't think of a better punishment for rude assholes than being poop on the bottom of K-Fed's shoe. Assuming the damn hillbilly is even wearing shoes that day. Poop twixt K-Fed's toes. Very fitting.

[Mom, Kevin Federline is married to Britney Spears, and he's Uber-White Trash. He's so trashy, he makes Britney look like Jackie O., for God's sake.]

[I feel it's very important to continue my mother's education.]

Anyhoo, I saw a pack of frat boys harassing Jasmine.

There were Jasmine and Aladdin in Epcot's Morocco, looking exotic and fabulous. And I must commend Disney for promoting a healthy body image for young women. Not only could you not see Jasmine's ribs, but she even had a tiny bit of belly -- just enough to be softly feminine.

She and Aladdin were signing autographs and taking pictures with little kids. There were probably a dozen lined up with their families. Off to the side were four frat boys. Clearly, they had been drinking their way through Epcot. Saki in Japan, tequila in Mexico, beer in Germany, sexual harassment in Morocco.

And it was such clever, clever harassment, too.

"Hey, Jasmine! Where's your little monkey? Can I touch your monkey? Wanna touch mine?"

Oh, bra-VO, Chett. Sure to make the ladies swoon. Belle will be green with envy.

So as Husband and I strolled by them, I said, casually yet loudly, "Wow -- harassing a woman who is contractually forbidden to defend herself. Real nice, guys."

And as soon as I started talking, Husband started walking very, very quickly. My hero.

Posted at 12:38 PM | Comments (3)

March 27, 2006

Quick Pictoral of Wenchie's Disney Trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 11:10 AM | Comments (3)

March 17, 2006

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehn, Goodbye!

Hokaaaaaaaaay, I just had a massive grabber.

Tomorrow, we're leaving for Disney World in Florida, with Billi, Brad, Boy Child, Girl Child, Mom and Dad. Lord help us.

And you know how you're supposed to check your flight with the airline to verify that it's still at the time you booked it at? (Ugh, I just ended a sentence with "at" -- how Chicagoan of me.)

Well, I checked our flight number online, and United said that my plane? The plane that's supposed to be taking me and my darling husband to The Sunshine State tomorrow at 11:00 a.m.? Had already left today at 11:00 a.m.

Heaping helping of PANIC with a side helping of RAGE, anyone?

Holy merciless fuckity fuck, calling the airline is ridiculous. I'd never experienced one of those talking menus before. And clearly, they had never experienced me because they couldn't understand a damn thing I was saying. WHAT DO I SAY TO JUST GET A DAMN TOUCHTONE MENU?!?!

The disembodied voice is like, "I'm sorry. Did you say your flight number was Z-5-3-Q-Orange?"

But they were just messing with me and intentionally ruining my afternoon because, when I finally got a live person on the phone (in India), the reservation was exactly as I had made it. "Well, FIX your WEBSITE then, BEE-YATCH!"

Now, all I have left to do is pack for Husband. And by pack, I mean buy the suitcase and buy some clothes to go in it. Great.

I'm getting a pedi at 3:00 because my toes will be revealed for the first time since September. And I have to be DONE with all our packing because we're leaving to see "Dame Edna" at 6:00, and our ride to the airport is coming at 8:30 in the morning.

NO!!! TIME!!!

But I'm not freaking out, nooooooooo.

Anyhoo, my darlings, I will not return to The City of Big Shoulders until Saturday the 25th, and I will not return to blogging until Monday the 27th.

Tah-tah! Kissies!

Posted at 02:40 PM | Comments (2)

March 03, 2006

Georgia On My Mind

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

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

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

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

And it's signed by:

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am bowing my head in shame.

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

SHE TOTALLY GOT US!

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

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

NOOOOoooOO!!!

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

"Every hospital has a Dr. Patel."

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

Posted at 03:13 PM | Comments (1)

February 23, 2006

Okay, This Is Getting Ridiculous

This makes three times in as many years. Yes, I'm talking about Husband's latest trip to the E.R. (which is why I didn't post last Wednesday, or Friday).

Now, I thought that The Curse of Valentine's Day had been broken this year. But it turns out that, although we didn't recognize it at the time, Husband's symptoms started that evening at dinner, when he didn't finish his spaghetti. Husband loooooves spaghetti, so I thought that was weird. But since Husband so often displays weird behavior, I didn't think much of it.

The next morning, he woke up all cold and clammy with a headache and stomach ache. He's been working himself to death, so I figured it was just the flu and Mother Nature's way of forcing himself to spend a couple days in bed. (Ma Nature is a bitch that way. Not exactly the subtle type.)

I went to work; he stayed home.

About 9:00 on Wednesday, he called me -- winded -- and said my Dad was on his way to take him to the E.R.

He's like, "Yeah, I'm kinda worried. I've been pooping black. Since early this morning. I probably should have told you."

Um...

YA THINK?!?!

Still, I'm very proud of him going to the hospital of his own volition. So Dad took him to the E.R. (one of the many benefits of having retired parents in the same town).

Now, you know that I have the easiest job in the world and the coolest bosses in the world, and on any other day of the year, I could have just sauntered out the door, stopped for a McShake, run a few errands and dropped by the hospital. But nooOOOooo, not that day!

That day, I had to type some endorsements for Chick Boss that needed to be emailed IMMEDIATELY!!! Oh, and also? Head Boss' daugthers' book report needed to be typed.

But seriously, he wasn't dying, he wasn't in any pain at that point, my Dad was there, he was being taken care of, the doctors weren't very worried. What's the point of going to the E.R. to watch him nap and listen to other people puke and moan and whatever?

My family has always had a very strict rule -- "Don't panic until it's time to panic." And I just didn't think it was time to panic. Of course, everyone at work thought I was a monster for not going to babysit him. And frankly, I didn't really like what I was wearing that day, so I left work about lunch time.

By the time I got there, the doctors had pretty much ascertained that it was a bleeding ulcer, and they were going to keep him overnight and do an endoscopy. Husband was a little nervous about the thought of a camera going down his throat into his stomach, but I've had it done, and it's a piece of cake.

Mmmmm, caaaaaaaaaaaake.... arghlrghlrghlrghl...

Yeah, that anesthetic is weird. It's not like sleeping, where you're semi-aware of falling asleep and waking up. It's like you blink, and you're staring at a different ceiling going, "What room is this? What time is it? Did you already do the endoscopy? Is PoPoZau even a real word?"

Anyhoo, Husband was in a holding pattern -- waiting for a bed, waiting for an endoscopy -- so he dismissed me. Seriously, he was like, "Well. You can go now. Nothing to see here. Move along."

All he wanted was a nap. Which was pretty much all I wanted, too. Oh, sure, I had big plans for the rest of my day.

1. Take down Christmas tree.
2. Grocery shopping.
3. Hang curtains in basement.
4. Alphabetize my Silkstone Barbie Fashions.

But in the end, it was just...

1. Masturbate.
2. Nap.
3. Watch "The Simpsons."
4. Call and check on Husband.

In that order. It's not that I don't care about my husband; it's just that there wasn't anything bloggable going on.

Tomorrow, I'll finish the story, which will include a topic I have never yet talked about on this blog. A person, actually. Someone I have always thought it was best not to blog about -- and I'm still right about that -- but it's just too nuts not to share, so I'm breakin' all the rules! And then? I'm going swimming right after lunch! Craziness tomorrow, chilluns! Tune in!

Posted at 01:57 PM | Comments (7)

February 13, 2006

Ganging Up On Me

In order to cure Daisy of her bloody-pee malady, she has to take 2-1/2 antibiotic pills a day. Now, we discovered -- the hard way -- that these pills upset her stomach. (I don't know what the hell she was eating, but it'll be a looooong, long time before I have scrambled eggs again.)

To prevent me from sympathy-puking, we break up her pills and give them to her every few hours.

Now Daisy, although we never exercise her, is remarkably strong. When the vet was trying to examine her bladder, our sweet, patient 71 lb. dog got the better of two grown men, ripped off her muzzle and nipped the vet's hand.

I guess she didn't want his hands in that area.

She exercised this same strength when I was trying to get a damn pill down her throat. Despite the fact that we coated them in cheese and/or peanut butter and/or liver sausage, she wouldn't open her mouth. You've been there -- you understand. You know that if I just handed her the food-coated pill, she'd suck off the food and spit out the pill.

So I devised quite an ingenius scheme, if I do say so myself. I took two chunks of liver sausage -- one had the pill in it, one did not. I threw the non-pill hunk at her, and, after discerning that there was no pill, she swallowed it all, convinced I was merely being generous and not trying to sneak any life-saving medications into her body.

When I threw the second hunk -- with the pill -- she was so blinded by trust that she scarfed it right down.

HA HA! I WON! I outsmarted my dog!

What? It's a valid accomplishment! She's really smart!

Billious with pride, I invited Husband to witness her next pill time. I was busy getting out the zip-lock back with the liver sausage and the spoon and prepping the hunks.

Husband picked up the pill, said, "Daisy! Treat!" Threw the pill in the air, and Daisy caught it and gulped it down.

I hate it when they do shit like that.

Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (5)

January 30, 2006

Church, Strawberry Shortcake & Porn: Yes, I'll Tie It All Together Somehow

When I was in high school, Wednesday nights at church were Youth Night. We'd have after-school open gym, class, then dinner, then choir rehersal. We also had the best Youth Director evah.

(That noise? Oh, I just set-off the Nerd Alert. Don't panic.)

We called her Bunny.

(What? I didn't name her!)

She was The Coolest. She was everything a youth director should be. She was very devout in her faith, which worked out well for us, what with the forgiveness and mercy and all. Especially when caught smoking in the alley. Or making out in the nursery.

(No, those were the other kids -- not me!)

She also knew how to be completely inappropriate. Like she would immitate the pastor during his sermon, or greet you with some perverted nickname.

Husband (who, if you'll remember, is twelve years older than me) was in the adult choir with Bunny at the time. Altho' he had a very Ned Flanders look going on at the time, he was still very cute, and Bunny liked to give him a hard time.

Upon seeing him, she would always greet him by squeezing his man-boobs. Either one-handed or two-handed -- she likes to mix it up. But it was always a beautiful moment that she chose to share only with Husband.

Fast forward to present day, I'm out of high school and of legal age, Husband and I are married, and Bunny switched to a different church.

You know all those Strawberry Shortcake dolls I sold on eBay? Well, after splitting the profits with Joe, I made $146. Seriously. $292 from little, smelly dolls. Blows my mind.

So, I treated myself to a few things, including pirate porn. It's a porno about pirates! How could I not buy it???

Husband and I are about half-way through it. (Yes, Mom, you can borrow it when we're done.) It's actually pretty damn funny, and I'm enjoying the plot. Yes, plot. Not that it's brilliant cinema, but it's quite enjoyable.

There's this one part where the captain of the pirate-hunting ship is introducing himself to a couple of prostitutes. And instead of shaking their hand or whatever, he squeezes their boobs.

And Husband goes, "Hey, that's just like Bunny used to do to me!"

Hokaaaaay. I'm out.

Posted at 02:29 PM | Comments (5)

January 27, 2006

I'm Old: Documented Proof

This morning's conversation:

Husband: I have two more meetings today. It's been all meetings, all week.

PW: That sucks. We have our annual off-site department planning meeting. We usually finish early, and Boss always sends me home instead of making me go back to the office.

H: Cool. I have a meeting at 1:00 in St. Charles, and I'm not going back into the city afterwards.

PW: Wait... We're both going to be home early on a Friday afternoon?

H: You know what that means!

PW: Yeah! Let's nap!!!

Posted at 02:12 PM | Comments (3)

January 23, 2006

F-E-E-D, F-E-E-D-I-N-G, F-E-D,

Husband arrived home the other night around 6:00, Daisy's usual dinner time, and I came up from the basement to greet him and chit-chat while he changed clothes.

H: So, how was your day?

PW: Enh. Boring.

Daisy: [sits at Husband's feet and bores holes through his skull with her stare]

H: Um, did you F-E-E-D Daisy?

Daisy: [freaks out and starts doing her pony-dance, which is where she keeps her back feet on the floor and hops on her front feet because I don't know it's just what she does]

PW: Dude! Does she know what you just said?

Daisy: [stops dancing and looks at me]

H: I don't know. Maybeeeeeee... we should F-E-E-D her?

Daisy: [runs into the kitchen where we keep her food]

PW: Did you teach the dog to spell? NO TEACHING THE DOG TO SPELL! If we don't keep her ignorant, how are we supposed to oppress her?!

The next night, similar setting.

H:: Has Daisy been F-E-D?

Daisy: [stares blankly at the blank wall]

PW: No. And thank God she hasn't learned to conjugate.

H: Yeah, she starts conjugating verbs, and we're gonna have to put her to sleep.

Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (3)

December 14, 2005

The Most Profane Man Husband Has Ever Met, a.k.a. My New BFF

Black Suede Paolo Come-Fuck-Me Shoes $85
1 Pair Victoria's Secret Black Thigh-Hi Stockings $14
Black Floor-Length Velvet skirt $100
Black Velvet Tank Top $38
Black Lace Pirate Shirt $48
Seeing Husband's jaw drop and land on his instantaneous erection:

PRICELESS

And wouldn't you know? What with the open bar and trays of food, I forgot to have someone take a photo of me, so you're gonna have to settle for more of my crappy self-photography.

Here's the top:

And here's the very bottom:

Then just imagine a long, velvet skirt in between, and you get the idea. And I know I looked good because I was getting checked out left and right by hot, young white-collar professionals! Dudes, I barely even made it to the bar before one of 'em started hitting on me.

He's all, "Oh, I forgot was I was going to order, I got so distracted by you!"

So Husband whips it out, pees on me and says, "John, have you met my wife, Wenchie?"

And John's all, "Wife? I'm sorry -- I thought she was your daughter!"

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

So we didn't stay and talk to John. Instead, Husband introduced me to Bob -- and I quote, "The most profane man I know." So naturally, he's absolutely my New Favorite Person, and we're BFFs and gonna try out for cheerleading together and if one of us doesn't make it then the other one won't be in it because that's how much we <3 each other.

He won my heart when he looked at the string group hired to play at the party and said, "Look, it's everyone who didn't make the football team."

Bob and Husband apparently have lunch together about twice a month, and Bob told Husband that he has to bring me to lunch sometime. So at least I managed to impress The Most Profane Man Ever. That's good Arm Candy, right?

Know what else I did? Drove down to the Loop MYSELF. Parked in an underground parking garage MYSELF. And walked to the correct building MYSELF. Rainman says I'm almost ready to drive to the K-Mart myself!

Once I left the party and got back in the car AND TOOK MY SHOES OFF, the first thing I did was call Heather. I'm like, "You'll be so proud of me! I didn't fall or anything!"

Also? I now understand that concept that is exclusively female -- suffering for beauty, which made Heather doubly proud. I feel like I'm finally a real woman. Are you there, God? It's me, Wenchie.

Posted at 02:54 PM | Comments (6)

December 06, 2005

Speechless

Last night, Husband said to me, "You really need to spend more money on nice clothes for yourself."

Which is good, because now I have to replace these pants.

Posted at 08:22 AM | Comments (3)

November 14, 2005

Closing Doors

Husband is physically unable to close anything or turn off anything.

Examples:

1. When getting silverware/toothpaste/potholder, he always leaves the drawer open an inch or so. AL. WAYS.

2. He leaves for work after I do, so I often come home to find that the water in the bathroom is still running. A thin stream, yes, but one that's been on for EIGHT. HOURS.

(He moves me to superfluous. periods. like no one can!)

3. I often come home to find the back door unlocked, and sometimes, even STANDING. OPEN.

4. He'll be in his office in the back of the basement, and yet EVERY. LIGHT. IN THE HOUSE. is on.

Makes. Me. Mental.

I've even come home a few times to find the garage door open. Like Thursday night. You know, after working a full 7.5 hours (quit laughing!), I just want to have a fudgcicle and look at catalogs. I don't appreciate having to enter my home with my musket at the ready and do a sweep of the entire house.

But my irritation turned to puke when I saw that the door from the garage to the house was also open. And Daisy wasn't running to greet me.

DAISYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!

Somewhere in the universe, Kahn is thinking, "Damn, that bitch is loud."

Somewhere in Milwaukee, Husband got a call from his whimpering, completely FREAKED OUT wife.

PW: DID YOU COME HOME BEFORE LEAVING FOR MILWAUKEE?! [Please, God, tell me he only left the door open for two hours instead of eight.]

H: No. Why?

PW: Because... [Wait a minute. I left after him this morning. So if he didn't come home this afternoon, then...] BECAUSE I LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN AND DAISY IS GONE!!!

The horror of my dog being gone was quickly replaced by the even more horrifying thought -- IT WAS MY FAULT! I left my house wide open for burglars and crackwhores and ninjas and teenagers and raccoons!

But how could that be?! I'm the responsible one! I'm the one who walks around the house turning off lights! I put everything away! I lock up tight before going to bed! I'M NOT THE STUPID ONE!

Except Thursday, when I was.

But I still totally blamed it on Husband when I called the police and asked if they had picked up a runaway dog. I mean, c'mon, what were the odds? He leaves shit undone all the time; I did it ONCE. It's more-likely-to-the-bajillionth-power that he'd be the harbinger of some disaster! So really, was it a huge stretch that I blamed it on him? No. No, it wasn't.

So the cop asked me the make and model of the dog I was looking for. Like, do people do that? Randomly call up police stations and hope there's a stray they can claim for their own? They'd still have to pay the $20 Dog Without Tags and $20 Dog Running at Large tickets (yeah, that's right), so it's not that much cheaper than just going to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picking up a pooch.

Then again, I've been to the Anti-Cruelty Society, and believe me, you get waaaaaaaay less hassle from the cops.

Isn't Dog Running At Large a great name for a band?

Anyhoo, before you people start sending me hate mail about WHY DON'T YOU HAVE TAGS FOR YOUR DOG? SHE NEEDS TO BE REGISTERED AND HAVE ALL HER SHOTS! Relax. Take a deep breath. Have an egg nog shake from Steak 'n' Shake -- they're fabulous.

I do have tags for Daisy. They just aren't on her when she's inside because they're noisy and annoying, and the whole point of this is that I wasn't expecting her to be outside that day.

The people at the animal hospital where she was impounded -- like a car, minus the Denver Boot -- were really nice. They didn't even charge me, so I thanked them profusely for taking good care of my dog.

And how do I know they took such good care of her? Because, when it was time to leave, she was like, "I'm sorry, what? You want me to leave these nice people, and the little puppy they let me play with, and the treats, and the petting, and the land of milk and honey, to go with the woman who left me to be eaten by wild animals? I don't think so."

But the part that really chaps my ass? This means I can no longer rag on Husband for leaving stuff open. Dammit.

Posted at 01:51 PM | Comments (3)

October 27, 2005

Chili Mac

Last night, I was watching t.v., and Husband was working late at the office. Having had chili mac for dinner, I farted. And Daisy ran to the door thinking Husband was home.

Now, what exactly does that say about him?

Posted at 01:47 PM | Comments (4)

June 07, 2005

More Jello Humor

After dinner, Husband and I were just sitting at the kitchen table chatting. He was wearing khakis, and I noticed a blob of Jello on his crotch.

"Dude, you spilled," I said, pointing.

"It must be premature e-jello-lation!"

He was so proud of that one, he laughed for, like, five minutes.

Posted at 09:32 AM | Comments (2)

June 02, 2005

Love Means Never Having to Say "Which Goddamn Box Are the Extension Cords In?"

The wait is over!

For our anniversary, I got Husband...

drumroll please...

the Brother P-Touch PT-1750 Desktop Label Maker!!!

AND HE LOVED IT! He was up at 5:00 this morning in the basement using it, swear to God.

And what else he got last night, I'll leave to your vivid imaginations. I'll sure you'll do me proud.

Posted at 09:11 AM | Comments (1)

May 26, 2005

And He Wanted Ours To Match!

Something is going on in Illinois that upsets me.

They –- and we all know who they are –- are considering the idea of making it illegal to ride a motorcycle without a helmet.

Now, I don’t own a motorcycle, and if I did, I would probably wear a helmet. At least some of the time, like on the highway. I’ve dated bikers (Harley bikers, no less) and if you haven’t experienced the wind through your hair on a Harley, go out and do it right now. NOW! For God’s sake, quit reading this lame blog and do it!

I’ll wait.

...

See? That’s why it’s a shitty law. I’d wear a helmet, because my parents have already lost one child, and I don’t want them to go through that again (although, if they had to pick one to lose, I’m sure it’d be me). But I would never, ever make anyone else wear one. It’s just mean.

I remember hearing a story on the news when California passed their helmet law. One old biker dude took out his gun and blew his head off -– the ultimate wind-in-your-hair experience, I would imagine.

And when questioned, his wife simply said, “I understand.”

She missed him, hell yea, BUT... she understood why he couldn’t live inside a helmet.

I had this conversation with Husband two seconds after lying down the credit card for new bicycles:

“Now let’s pick out helmets!” he said.

“Haaaaa ha ha ha ha ha!”

“They have some really cool looking ones.”

“That’s great. Find a cool one. I’m gonna find the bathroom.”

“Want me to pick one out for you?”

“I’m not buying one.”

“What?!”

“Wait -– you were serious? You want me to wear a helmet to ride a bicycle?”

“Of course!”

“I’ve been successfully riding a bike since I was seven! I don’t need a helmet! I’m not riding down volcanos!”

“But you have to wear one!”

“There’s no law! And it’s gay!”

“Well, if you get in an accident and become a vegetable, and I have to take care of you for the rest of your life, I’m gonna be really mad!”

“Whatever, dude. I’m not getting a helmet.”

And you know, on the way home, I was actually starting to think about the vegetable thing. I was like, ‘You know, Husband does sorta have a point there.’

And then out of nowhere, he goes, “I’m sorry about the vegetable comment. That was really mean. You know I’d take care of you.”

And that, dear readers, is when I WON.

And please, don’t bother telling me about your friend Steve who wouldn’t be alive today if he hadn’t been wearing his helmet while out biking. I’M NOT WEARING A HELMET.

Also, don’t ever expect me to wear elbow pads, knee pads, shin guards, safety goggles, carpel tunnel wristlets, steel-toed boots or a hard hat.

However, I do wear earplugs when I go shooting. I mean, c’mon, I’m not a total idiot.

Posted at 11:32 AM | Comments (8)

March 29, 2005

Worthy of the Shaven Leg

So this morning, I'm having breakfast, and Husband is taking the dog out, and I go, "I need the checkbook today so I can pay Heather."

"Friend Heather?"

"No, Masseuse Heather."

So I'm in the shower, and Husband is shaving, and I go, "Dude, you used all the hot water, and I have to shave my legs for Heather!"

(Yeah, I don't care if I'm a friggin' yeti for my husband, but God forbid my massuese touches leg hair. These are my priorities.)

"Did I? Sorry." Pause. "Are you having dinner with Heather or at home?"

"What? Noooo, Massuese Heather!"

"Oh."

Dude! I just told him five minutes ago that I was going to see Masseuse Heather, and he forgot. But that's not what made me pause mid-stroke.

What made me pause was that he thought I was shaving my legs for Friend Heather,... and he apparently thought nothing of it.

Now, given the implications of me shaving my legs for Friend Heather, I figured he'd either have his BVDs plastered to his abdomen, or he'd be insanely jealous that I'm doing something with a non-Husband, non-Massuese person, during which my legs will be bare and touched.

But no. The prospect of Friend Heather and my silky legs didn't phase him either way. So...

DID YOU HEAR THAT, FRIEND HEATHER? WE'RE TOTALLY IN THE CLEAR!

Posted at 10:49 AM | Comments (3)

February 24, 2005

A Banner Evening for Husband

Okay, this is Husband eating his Jello last night.

“This is an excellent example of the time-space continuum.”

My eyes start glazing over as he gently pushes the rounded handle of his spoon into the Jello without breaking the surface.

“Now, this is a planet, or the sun, and blah blah blah displacement blah blah blah…”

And then we proceeded to gross each other out by squishing Jello through our teeth. And it was green. Bonus!

EXPLODING DOG UPDATE: Husband and I arrived home last night at the same time... to four new piles of dog vomit. I don't know where the hell her stomach is getting it all. We didn't feed her! Are other dogs sneaking into our house and vomiting? Is Daisy throwing keggers in our absense? I'm going to have to set up a nanny-cam or something.

Posted at 07:20 PM | Comments (1)

February 23, 2005

Adding New Meaning To The Phrase "Sick as a Dog"

You wanna know why I wasn't here yesterday? Huh, punk? Do ya?! Oh, I'll tell you why I wasn't here yesterday! I wasn't here because my dog had been ill -- in a geyser-like manner -- in my living room and dining room!

And you know what she threw up? She threw up undigested CARROTS and GREEN BEANS. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in. MY DOG. VEGETABLES.

Not that there's anything wrong with carrots and green beans, mind you. But my dog's diet consists of excatly five things: fancy-ass kibble, Milkbones, rawhide chews made from American beef, the occassional pizza crust (I don't eat crust), and a bite or two of banana when Husband is eating one. That's it. Five things.

So you don't go introducing a smorgasbord of new things to a creature who only eats from a menu of five things! Of course she hurled her guts up!

AND she had projectile diarrhea. Did I mention the projectile diarrhea? Cuz she had that. In my dining room. On the rug, floor, woodwork, vent cover, wall, mirror and the little wrought iron table that holds our meager wine "collection." In my dining room. Where we DINE. Thank Odin she missed the wood furniture by an inch, or I would have been forced to just set the whole place on fire and walk away.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I woke up in the middle of the night to a foul stench and assumed that it was Husband, and he'd eaten something stupid again. Turns out it was the Hershey squirts melding to the very fiber of my home, but I wouldn't know that for several more hours.

A little before 5 a.m., Husband and I awoke to the telltale retching sounds of a dog about to blow chunks. Alas, in our pre-dawn stupor, we were too late, and undigested veggies made Technicolor contact with our living room rug.

Have I mentioned that the living room and dining room rugs are the most expensive rugs in the house, i.e. not from Target? Cuz, seriously, replacing them is just not an option.

As Husband hurled obscenities at the pool of vomit, I discovered the splatter of ass-juice in my dining room. It was like the St. Valentine's Day ASSacre in there. So Husband tackled the fresh sick while I got to work on the dried sick.

(Those of you on a diet, feel free to print off this post and hang it on your refrigerator door.)

Determined not to let the stains set any further, I called the boss, took a "personal day" (like a sick day, only you don't really have to be sick -- we get two a year), and employed much time and many me