There are several reasons for this, each more boring than the last. I've known too many drunks in my life; I don't like the feeling of being drunk; and most importantly -- the world isn't ready for Wenchie with even fewer inhibitions than I normally have.

So when I say that I came home from work last night and had half a glass of wine, you KNOW it had been a crazy day. No, make that a crazy week. A crazy month. So crazy that my boss -- who, although very kind, is usually unemotive about my job performance -- actually went on for over a minute about how "anyone else would have run out of here crying." Hee! So true. Partly because I am awesome, and partly because I am surrounded by incompetant boobs.

Anyway. Wine. Half a glass. Around 4:30 p.m. By 5:00, I was feeling it in a BIG way. Still, I was a trooper about it and started a load of laundry [spoiler alert: I have yet to take it out of the dryer], did some general cleaning up and opening-up of mail.

Husband walks in the door every evening at 6:28, so I started chopping veggies for a salad at 6:00. We all know how I feel about chopping veggies -- hate it even more than cleaning the toilets -- so I gave myself plenty of time, knowing I would dawdle and whine to the dogs and stare out the window fantasizing about the neighbor's hot son chopping veggies for me...

Suddenly, my vegetable slicer mistook my thumb for a vine-ripened, beefsteak tomato, and there was blood on the cutting board. On the slicer. On the mini orange and yellow peppers. On the paper towels. It was a bloodbath, I tell you! And a flap of my thumb was hanging open like one of those flip-top caps on a tube of toothpaste.

My first choice as far as courses of action was to faint. But as I was home alone, I decided to put on my big-girl pants and tend to my wound myself. Neosporin, way-too-big band-aid wrapped awkwardly over the top of my thumb, done. Back to preparing dinner. Just like a pioneer woman who gets bit by dinner before she skins it, I was back in the kitchen, fulfilling my wifely duty. God, Husband is SO lucky to have me.

Now you know as well as I do that that damn half of a glass of wine was responsible for my hand injury. People, I don't GET hand injuries. Because I am freakishly careful about my hands. Because I am freakishly abhorent of hand injuries. After forty-two years on this planet, I only have one teeny, tiny, can't-hardly-see it scar on my hands. My hands are IMMACULATE.

Until now. One drink from the Devil's flask, and I have a piece of flesh hanging off my thumb like a bit of stale lunchmeat. It's disgusting. I was hoping that, since I washed it and closed the flap and got a band-aid on it, that the flap would close and heal like nothing had happened, but we all know that was a pipedream. It's going to dangle and get crustier and crustier until it falls off by itself, or I accidentally rip it off while folding laundry or something.

And so, my list of reasons for not drinking grows:

1. Know too many drunks.

2. Don't like feeling drunk.

3. Already have no inhibitions.

4. Hand injuries likely.

5. Going to bed at 7:45 p.m. is lame.

And I did go to bed at 7:45 that night, lest, in my drunken stupor, I get a paper cut across the knuckle where it will never, ever heal.

That was the point. There is no However at the end of that paragraph, so let's just proceed to the recap.

No, I did not see Bruce Campbell. I guess "Burn Notice" isn't currently filming, but I'm not emotionally ready to talk about that.

One Day Prior
I got a lovely pedi. And God bless that adorable girl who didn't even flinch at my winter-feet. She was an adorable little pixie with a crew cut and tat-sleeves. Sounds butch, I know, but she wasn't! She had the cutest little anime face! Okay, I'll stop just short of gushing. As for the lovely pedi, no one has seen it since we've been back to Chicago, so it basically cost me $8 per day of viewing.

Day One
I should get an Oscar for my performance as The Poised & At-Ease Flyer. I read and snacked on my Famous Amos cookies. All the while, my soul was shrieking in terror and lamenting the unfairness of the early and certain death that I was facing at every moment. My father taught me well, with his silent disdain, that drama would not be tolerated. Years of fighting back hormonal tears at the dinner table taught me that a stoic demeaner is not merely for sea captains and Eric Bana. It has served me well on this and many other ocassions.

Day Two
You know what a five-star hotel smells like? Incense. You know what a five-star hotel looks like? Sunrise over the ocean as seen from a twelfe story balcony. You know what a five-star hotel feels like? Like water pressure that can rinse the shampoo out of your hair in one and a half seconds! Ye gods, but it was marvelous! Oh, yeah, and I went to some garden and mansion and took a bunch of pictures. And then napped. And then had dinner where all the desserts came in tiny portions in delicate, square, white dishes. So I had eight.

Day Three
Saw some more gardens. Napped again. Beat my previous hair-rinsing record time. We dined on the beach, reminding me of how much I hate sand. They might as well have made me stand in a cat box. But the classical guitar player was heavenly, and there was an old woman from Honduras in a tent rolling cigars for us. Right there. Rolling cigars. To my dismay, she was not rolling them between her thighs, but still, pretty cool. So where does one find a Honduran cigar-roller? Do you just Google that? ... Okay, I just Googled Honduran cigar-roller, and the results were surprisingly less-porno than I'd expected. Did you know that Honduras is in Central America? Neither did I.

Day Four
I'm unsure of what I did between watching the sunrise and lying down for my by-now-customary nap. Probably went on Facebook for a while. Because, you know, that's what one does when one is in a so-called tropical paradise. Dinner was on a yacht. They kind of set themselves up for failure, trying to impress Chicagoans with their paltry Miami skyline, but I nodded and smiled indulgently anyway, to be polite. After all, the wine was free. And as we were boarding the yacht, Husband's boss had even paid for there to be dolphins frolicking just off the... stern? prow? hull?... of the boat. A very classy touch, I must say.

Day Five
After our last $35 breakfast -- yes, that's per person -- we switched hotels because we were, alas, no longer on the company dime, moving from a swanky five-star to paltry 4.99999-star hotel. It was almost cruel. That day, we visited another garden, and Husband took me on a driving tour of The Days When Husband Lived & Worked In Miami. He broke a lot of traffic laws, took lots of photos of palm trees, and ended the tour by saying, "Well, now I remember why I was so happy to leave Miami." A ringing endorsement, indeed.

Day Six
By our last full day, I was pining for the midwest in ways that could only be expressed in a short novella with a blurry picture of the Chicago skyline on the cover and a title that includes the words Girl, Vexed and Corn. We went to Miami Beach, where all the Art Deco architecture is. And sand. We stayed away from the sand. The art deco stuff was neato, as long as you kept your eyes focused upwards and didn't look at the ground level of any of the buildings. What an armpit that place is. And not a smooth, exfoliated, hairless armpit bathed in Tom's all-natural deodorant like mine. No, like the armpit of a French sea-farer with eczema and scabies.

Last Day
Know what's better than a Xanax? Two Xanax! I experienced much less inner-turmoil on the flight home, due at least in part to the doubling of my Xanax comsumption. But probably also owing to the fact that we were, at last, flying back to fly-over country. It was good to be home. And I took yet another Xanax when I realized that I had over a week's worth of laundry to do.

In summary, aside from the dolphins, all my good memories from the trip have nothing to do with the location and everything to do with eating obscene amounts of gourmet food, sleeping in a king-sized bed, and spending at least two hours every day reading.

You know, it's basically only my ability to read that keeps me from being classified as canine.

Or... scouring your Kindle. Which is probably what people do now, rather than having to drive to a remote location and actually touch tangible objects made of paper and ink.

But here is a story that I can share now because it doesn't involve an actual employee of said religious organization. Unless you count me, and I do not because I am unlikely to sue myself for slander.

Because we have gotten some bomb threats -- and what worker for the Lord hasn't -- we have keycards that we use to get into the parking garage and onto each floor of the building. On this rare occasion, I forgot my key in my car, so when I got to the top floor, Phil the Receptionist had to beep me into the office.

Yes, our receptionist is named Phil. Also? I am his supervisor. I, Wenchie, supervise Phil the Receptionist. It makes me giggle every time. Phil the Receptionist. Hee!

Well, I didn't want to have to bug Phil the Receptionist every time I needed to go to another floor -- which is kind of a lie because I LOVE to bug Phil the Receptionist, and I try to annoy him every time I walk by -- but having to borrow his keycard all day would eventually become too much of an inconvenience for me to bear, even with the added reward of irritating Phil the Receptionist, so I finally just gave up and walked back to the parking garage to get my damn key from my car.

Holy shit. That entire paragraph was one sentence. That is so Dickens-esque. I'm appalled.

When I went out the front door, intending to cross the courtyard to the parking garage, I walked by a black Cadillac Escalade parked in front. In the No Parking Zone.

I was stopped by a quiet, "Pardon me, miss?"

A thousand-year old man wearing a white shirt, black dickie, and priest's collar asked me if I work in the building.

Upon my affirmative, he asked, "Is there any way to get from the parking garage to the building without walking? A golf cart perhaps? My days of getting around easily are long gone."

And indeed, the man was having a hard time remaining upright while putting on his black suit jacket and huge, gold cross. So I felt bad when I had to tell him no.

But I knew who was on the meeting roster for the day, so I took a stab in the dark, "Are you with the Catholics meeting here today?"

Of course, he was. And he was either a bishop or a cardinal because only they get to wear the big, gold crosses. Your run-of-the-mill parish priest does not wear bling of that magnitude. So I explained to him who I am and Who I Work For, knowing that anyone wearing a Madonna-circa-1985 crucifix is on a first-name basis with The Top Dog of my particular religious organization.

"Would you like me to park your car for you?" I offered.

And I swear, you'd have thought I just offered to blow him, the way he looked at me. It was kind of adorable. So he got his cane and his books of potions and spells, and I drove his Cadillac to the third floor of the parking garage, where I parked it.

After retrieving my keycard from my car, I brought Father Escalade his keys and made plans with him to get his car for him at the close of his meeting. Because that's how I roll, people. I am a servant of God.

Later that afternoon, I left in the middle of a meeting to go get that priest his car. In the elevator, he kept talking about what an angel I am, and how it was divine providence that I happened to be walking by him when I was that morning.

And this is not a guy who takes angels and divine providence lightly. This is a guy who lives those things. All the decisions he makes are grounded in the firm belief that there is a God and we are His children. He was completely, 100% non-sarcastic when he called me an angel.

So I gave it some thought, and yeah, really -- what are the odds that I'd forget my keycard on that particular day and be exiting the building at that particular time? I'm quite sure I'm no angel, but I can't say for certain that I wasn't part of God's plan to cut that particular priest a break that day. Who knows? Could happen.

When I pulled up to the curb, there he stood, with a dozen other Catholic priests/bishops/cardinals who were waiting for a shuttle to their hotel. And he said clearly, and right in front of all of them...

And he used my real name...

And I am quoting this verbatim because you KNOW I cannot make this stuff up...

"Wenchie, I will sing your praises when I stand before the throne of God."

Ho. Lee. Crap. If ever a heavenly chorus of angels burst through the clouds singing alleluias, it would be at that moment. Because, seriously, when are those words ever going to be uttered again?

Wenchie, I will sing your praises when I stand before the throne of God.

So I've got that going for me. Valet parking for Jeebus! Hopefully, that will off-set at least most of my teen years. I wonder where I can find a blind rabbi because I've got to get to work on redeeming my early twenties.

Dear Jeebus, I know it's Holy Week and you're really busy and all, but if you're listening, bitch needs to burn in hell, and you know it. I'm just sayin'. Amen.

So. Said women's organization (WOrg, for lack of a better name) puts out a monthy newsletter. And during months when there is a big event pending, the newsletter can get pretty big.

I'm just telling you this -- and showing you the email below -- as back story for the email that I actually received, which has nothing to do with the newsletter or the event, and EVERYTHING to do with why hell would be too good for this woman.

This is the email that she, LBP, received:

Attached is the quote for the above job. Because it is over $5,000, 2 signatures are required. Please print out the quote, have it signed and return the quote to me as soon as possible.

Coreen

And here is the email that I was CCed on, from LBP to Coreen:

Coreen:

When you sent out the new printing policy I spoke with [Wenchie's] Lady Boss about and she agreed that it did not apply to WOrg. At the same time, she thought it helpful to schedule a meeting with her, Other Executive and myself to determine what policies were applicable and in which settings. That meeting has not yet been scheduled.

So, at this particular invoice, please go ahead and process. My approval alone should be sufficient. I'm copying Lady Boss' assistant here because she was the one to schedule such a meeting and I haven't heard anything more about that.

LBP

What. The. FUCK.

Do you believe this shit?! Yeah, I think it's time for another Email Breakdown!

1. "Coreen:"
The email the was written with the sole purpose of bitching me out wasn't even addressed to me.

2. "That meeting has not yet been scheduled."
Wow, passive-aggressive much? Or did she think that the meeting was going to schedule itself? Since she's so pissed at me for not scheduling her goddamn meeting, she should have just sent me an email asking me when I might get around to it. But nooOOOooo, she has to pussyfoot around it so there's no actual confrontation, i.e. giving me no opportunity to address her accusation in a straightforward manner. And if she had, I would have been able to tell her, "THIS IS THE FIRST I'M HEARING ABOUT YOUR FUCKING MEETING, YOU MISERABLE HARPIE."

3. "So, at this particular invoice, please go ahead and process. My approval alone should be sufficient."
Yes, the need for no second approval was evident right in the first sentence of your email (When you sent out... etc.). But God forbid she miss the opportunity to let us know how VERY FUCKING IMPORTANT AND OMNIPOTENT SHE IS. My approval alone, indeed!

And now for the frosting on the cake of self-righteous pettiness:

4. I'm copying Lady Boss' assistant here because she was the one to schedule such a meeting and I haven't heard anything more about that.
Again, ACCUSING me and SCOLDING me and not even mentioning my NAME! Like I'm a DOG! Backhanding me, talking about me in the third person, and pretending like I'm not even reading her bullshit email!

It's six hours after I read her words for the first time, and I am STILL vexed by her GALL!

You know, I worked for five years to earn my reputation for being reliable and efficient (among many, many other outstanding qualities). And you know how I know that my efforts worked? Because the second most important person in the entire organization HAND-PICKED me to be her assistant! THAT'S HOW I KNOW.

Ninety-nine percent of the people in the building, if faced with the unlikely event that something has fallen off my radar -- I am, after all, only human -- would send a gentle reminder. Lady Boss herself, knowing that she, too, has been guilty of forgetfulness, always practices grace and patience in the face of others' mistakes.

So who the fuck is LBP to behave otherwise?

Especially considering that I didn't even know about the meeting I was supposed to be scheduling! Whatever happened to the benefit of the doubt?

Bitch is on my List.

And I'll bet you're wondering about my response, eh? Why, my darlings, have you underestimated me? I was sweet as pie.

I'm happy to schedule a meeting for the three of you! It looks like you are all free on Monday morning, so I will send you a meeting invitation for then.

Three seconds later, it was done.

Don't ever let it be said of Wenchie that I don't find kindness to be as good a weapon as any other.

So, I have something too funny not to share. Well, it is to ME. Although I often wonder if the world really is completely hilarious all the time, or if I’m just seriously disturbed.

You be the judge!

Okay, brief background: Remember Alpha, PhD Boss, and Head Boss, from my old position in the same organization? Jeebus St. Pierre, who could forget PhD Boss! Well, he took another job and moved across the country, where’s he still not far away enough. Meanwhile, his position at my work was filled by a 35 year old ROCKSTAR. Preppy, sarcastic, brutally honest, down-to-earth – I love her. And I’ll call her Kitty because she loves Hello Kitty.

Oh, wait – I've blogged about her before, the one I went to see the Twilight movie with (second half of the post). So yeah, she has a name now. Which is good because I’m sure I’ll be blogging about her in the future.

One more tiny bit of backstory: Grand Poobah has, like, six children. Two are biological and, therefore, Caucasian. The other four are adopted and African American. Yes, this comes into play in a moment.

Jeebus, Mary and Joseph, what was I talking about? Oh, right! Kitty’s birthday. It was Kitty’s birthday last week, and in a feat of lameness matched by none, the policy in our department is that you bring in treats on your own birthday. I guess that means you get to eat what you want, but whatever. Kitty brought in cupcakes. Not homemade, but in her defense, she is actually on conference calls twenty-five hours a day.

There were two kinds of cupcakes – chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Both had sprinkles. And they were a welcome sight, indeed, at 2:00 in the afternoon!

Grand Poobah was running late to a meeting, but he paused to drool and command us, “Save me one.”

Alpha asked him, “Which one, chocolate or white?”

Wait – WHAT?! In what realm is “white” the opposite of chocolate? Uh, maybe in inter-racial porn? Jeebus, Alpha, “white” isn’t a flavor, and it sure as hell isn’t the partner of chocolate! The word is VANILLA! When you’re offering cupcakes, you say, “Chocolate or vanilla?”

Does anyone else find that weird? Because I was like an awkward deer in the headlights of a car driven by an awkward inter-racial couple. Holy shit. Chocolate or white. I had to go sit down after that one.

And in defense of my hyper-sensitivity to all things racial, I think the Grand Poobah found it weird, too, because he took a long time before he finally answered, “It doesn’t matter.”

See?! Totally an endorsement for racial harmony when it should have just been a simple cupcake preference.

So if we look at my calendar-esque post from early January, we'll see that... yeah, I had pretty much nothing going on in January. Run with scissors? Check!

February was a little more exciting, socially speaking. I'd gotten over the complete hatred of humanity that the holidays can induce, and my first annual Love Fest was a complete success! Not only did I score some homemade guacamole, but I raked in a bottle of wine, some Frango Mints, and a lovely book! No, not from Husband. From a lesbian! Yeah, so he'd better step it up!

I am finding it hilarious that I so confidently wrote, "Since there is nothing else going on in March,..." as if remodeling our entire kitchen is nothing else! Okay, we're not re-doing the cabinets, but all new appliances, counter top, backsplash and floor is certainly enough to wet one's panties. How did I not see that coming? Weird.

Husband is putting up the backsplash as we speak, using his new, fancy diamond-blade saw to cut the stone. Man-bling! And you'll get a probably-two-part-if-not-three photo session when it's all said and done. But for now, you'll just have to settle for me boring you to tears with photos of the one thing that I did correctly predict for March...

JOANIE!!!

The Joan Holloway Barbie from the Mad Men collection of the Barbie Fashion Model line!

*sigh* Isn't she perfection?

From the dainty lobes of her gold-button-adorned ears...

...to the pointy tips of her eggplant-colored pumps.

There is no one more capable or competant. No one more savvy or shrewd. No one more dazzling or divine... than Joan.

You know, I took this photo in order to showcase her classy, vintage jewelry. But then I noticed... are Joan's boobs... bigger than the other Silkstone Barbies? Did Mattel make a special, new body mold just for Joan?!

Well, it's undeniable -- the other girls just don't "stack-up" next to Joan. (Can you believe I stooped to that?)

I had to see what's going on under that taut, purple uniform of hers.

PADDING! Holy shit, they put Joanie in a padded bra and panties! Ha ha ha ha ha! That's so awesome!

Oh, Joan, now I love you even more. You work that ba-donk-a-donk, sweetheart!

Now, Joanie, don't be making eyes at me in front of all my readers. They'll start to suspect! You little minx, you just can't get enough of me, I know. Okay, meet me in the A/V closet in five minutes. I'll try not to muss up your hair...

Here's what happened:

In our organization, we have an email list that people can join if they want to know about anything that someone in the building is selling. One day last week, I received this (unedited):

I made an herbal salve which I use for cuts, scraps, bruising, burns, bug bites, and rashes. It contains Comfrey, Calendula, Plantain, and St. John’s Worth. $4- each

I also have 1oz bottles of Echinacea. Stores sell this from $10 -$20. I made this from dried, organic Echinacea and contain no artificial ingredients and are naturally preserved. I make this mostly for my daughter who has asthma and common colds usually put her out for 4-5 weeks. Its immune boosting, attacks viruses and bacteria. $8- each

They are at my desk if you are interested.

Signed, Organic Salve Maker

Herbal Salve contains:
Comfrey – increases the cell growth so wounds heal quicker
Plantain - used for light burns, bug bites, and bee stings.
Calendula - natural anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial herb. It’s excellent for sensitive skin and used in many baby products. Used topically and perfect for diaper rashes, light, and burns or scraps.
St Johns Worth – muscle pain, inflammation, light burns

Well, after reading the list of ingredients and their properties, I was SOLD! I mean, four bucks?! I have spent ten times that on products to try to clear up my rosacea. So of course, I'm gonna try her homemade hippie salve!

In fact, I was quite excited about it. So I emailed her back:

Wow, how cool! I had no idea you did this!

I have rosacea and am constantly looking for things to calm my face. I’d love to try some of your salve! I’ll be right down!

[I know what you're thinking: But Wenchie, YOU don't have rosacea! Your complexion is peaches and cream! And you are sweet to say so, my little puggles, but I DO have rosacea, and I also have expensive ungents and make-up to make it appear that I don't. Thank you for validating my investments.]

So I went to her floor and bought my salve, and chit-chatted a little with her. On the way back, I ran into TWO people who both said to me, "I have rosacea, too! Lemme know how that stuff works for you."

Oh dear God. WHAT HAD I DONE?!?!?!

Yup, I hit Reply, and didn't realize that the name of the email list was in the To: line.

IN MY DEFENSE! I know I didn't hit Reply All! I just didn't realize that the name of the list was in the To: line because that had never happened before! I am an innocent victim!

So yeah, then I got an email from my smart-ass lesbian friend, mocking me for outing my skin condition to the whole building. As well she should. I deserve any and all mocking that comes my way.

Now you might think that I'm going to end this post with a promise not to make fun of other people anymore, and if that's the case, then Welcome! You are obviously a new reader, and I'm glad to have you here!

So, y'all know what Lent is, right?

It's the forty days before Easter when Jeebus went out into the desert to try to clear his head. And it sucked because, well, it's the desert, and also because Satan was there trying to mess with him. It turned out to be a really sucky vacation, and during Lent, we show our solidarity with Jeebus by giving up something we love so that our lives are also sucky. And it's supposed to bring us to a closer relationship with Jeebus by feeling his pain.

(You theologians can go ahead and pick that apart. I'm sure it's 100% biblically sound.)

As a result, people often give up caffiene, or chocolate, or television, or Facebook, or whatever self-serving thing that they know they should give up anyway. Which is fine, I mean...

I know I sound jaded, but if you're truly using your non-caffienated free time to contemplate your relationship with Jeebus, then by all means, go nuts. I'm all for any person re-examing their life and trying to be a better person by strengthening their relationship with a loving, merciful deity. That is a noble endeavor.

My problem is with the people who give up coffee/chips/manicures, and then BITCH about it for forty days and forty nights, making me wish that I were in the desert with the scorpians and jagged rocks and chapped lips, so I wouldn't have to listen to them. Symbolic fasting is not supposed to make you a douche. It's supposed to make you penitent and introspective, both of which are best done quietly.

For example.

Last week Friday, about mid-morning, I got my usual craving for food. And while the dried apricots in my desk are yummy, I knew I'd need something more carby to tide me over, since I can't go to lunch until 1:00 on Fridays.

On my way to the vending machines, who do I run in to but Marc -- carrying a box of DONUTS! Perfect timing! I was quite elated and told him so. But as he set the box down, Alpha came running over, literally yelling at him. For bringing donuts. Out of the goodness of his heart.

She's all, "Marc! Why are you bringing donuts?! We had an agreement!"

Really? What mean "we," Keemosabi? I don't remember signing anything.

She continued to yell, and I was like, "Alpha, Marc is not responsible for what you put in your mouth. Just don't eat the donuts!"

[Please add to my list of pet peeves: People Who Think the Whole World Should Diet With Them; right after Lenten Bitching.]

And she's all, "We agreed that we're only doing healthy snacks during Lent! Do I have to send out an email?!"

No, really. She really said that. Do I have to send out an email. For reals. And then I wondered -- Is that a bigger threat than I think? Does her computer have the power to generate emails that COMPEL people to do stuff? Because I gotta get me one of those.

But Marc, ever The Stoic One, merely took the bowl of Cutie oranges that someone had set on the file cabinets earlier, and set it gently and squarely in front of her. Comic genius, to be sure.

And yet, that STILL didn't stop her! She continued, "I can't have these sitting here tempting me! Blah blah blah! Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!"

I was mortified. I just took a sprinkle donut and ran. If Jeebus can handle being tempted by Satan, then I'm sure Alpha has it in her to vanquish the power that your average kruller yields.

It was creepy and weird, especially since she is normally a kind and gentle woman. She's actually a dear friend. So what is it about Lent that turns people into EXACTLY what they are/should be striving not to be?! For reals, I want to know! Email me if you have the answer!

Every Wednesday here at work, we have a chapel service. And last Wednesday, the gospel was the text about not whining and complaining when you're fasting. To keep it between you and God. I'm pretty sure that Alpha was there to hear it. And I'm even more sure that God never intended people to annoy the living shit out of their neighbors with their fasting and sacrifice and praying.

Remember when Moses dropped one of the holy tablets in Mel Brooks' movie The History of the World? The eleventh commandment was, "Thou shalt keep your shit to yourself."

Thank you so much for the cupcakes they were bomb diggidy for reals. You’re the best!!! =)

You guys! I am BOMB DIGGIDY! How awesome is that?! I am going to save this email to show my niece and nephews, when they get old -- and sassy -- enough to start telling me how uncool I am.

Nuh-uh! I am bomb diggedy, and I have it in writing!

This email, after sending someone a link that took them to exactly what they were hoping existed:

You always have all the answers!

Yeah, I IMMEDIATELY forwarded that one to Husband. See!!! Again: written proof.

And then yet another series of blunders from folks still unclear on the concept of Reply All.

HR sent out a brief, informative email to all employees:

We have just learned that the name of your employing organization was incorrectly listed on your W2. That has been corrected and you can go into Payroll Software and print a corrected W2. If you are unable to access Payroll Software and need a paper copy, please send a request including the return address and we will print and mail a copy for you.

We apologize for any inconvenience.

Your Payroll Team.

Which prompted this building-wide response from one of our savvy, world-travelers:

Please send the corrected copy directly to:

Gwynn Grier / Professional Staff Support
Clergy-Specific Tax Company, Inc.

Well, now we all know who does his taxes. How nice. His accountant should pay him for all that free advertising. Especially since he CCed Ms. Grier on the email, so now we can ALL contact her directly!

And then, THIS Reply All to the above email:

FYI

I think I was included on this email communication unintentionally.

And when I say Reply All, I really mean ALL because he even replied to Ms. Grier!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA *inhale* HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Made even better by the fact that he just "unintentionally" "included" everyone else on HIS "email communication!" Irony is a bitch, dude! Oh my God, I love my co-workers! I sat at my desk and laughed and laughed!

The cherry on the top was this bonus Reply All from some other random blockhead:

FYI - me too.

I had a small party on Friday after work, with some of my friends from work. An informal gathering where everyone contributed a dish of food, which turned out to be a GARGANTUAN amount of food, since everyone assumed they were feeding eight people. Eight times eight -- yeah, we could've fed sixty-four people, no problem.

At the end of the night, people either took their leftovers, or left them, or divided them up among people. It's a personal preference, and I make no judgement about who does what... until it came to the guacamole.

One of my guests actually brought fresh produce to my house, chopped it up and MADE guacamole. Right there! Before my very eyes! She CHOPPED!

Oh my God, I hate chopping soooooo very much. I HATE food preparation. If someone would come to my house once a week and chop up fruit and veggies for me, I would eat them all day long. I'm not fat because I won't eat salad; I'm fat because I won't prepare salad.

Therefore, having someone come to my house and chop onions and tomatoes and peppers and avocados for me was The Greatest Gift of All. (Second only to learning to love yourself. Shout-out to the late Miss Whitney.) I watched with a mixture of horror and enchantment.

At the end of the evening, when people were getting ready to go, the chopper may or may not have asked, "What should I do with the guacamole?"

And I say "may or may not have asked" because I truly don't remember. I'm hoping that she offered some kind of question, some sort of option. But it's quite possible -- nay, even likely -- that there was absolutely no word from her to precipitate my bold, near-frantic announcement of:

I'll keep the guacamole!!!

Then, recognizing my blunder, I mumbled something like, "Oh, let's split it." But the chopper is a thousand times more gracious than I (or perhaps just wanted to calm the crazy lady), and urged me to keep it all.

In my defense, it was DAMN GOOD guacamole, and I was helpless against its freshly-chopped charms. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like a total asshat for bogarting her delectible guacamole. Fresh produce isn't free, Wenchie! God, I could have at least slipped her a fin or something!

Of course, don't think for a minute that I didn't gobble up all the guac for lunch the next day. Guilty feelings or not, I wasn't about to drive the leftover guac all the way into the city to her house. Nor was I going to give it to Husband. I mean, I was the one who had humiliated myself in order to keep it -- I was the one who sacraficed my dignity! That guacamole was rightfully mine!

Besides, it's basically a salad... that you just happen to eat with tortilla chips. Right?

Anyhoo, there are arguments against this theory about the origin of this particular nursery rhyme. But I am going to stick with the plague explanation. It is hilarious to think that, once upon a time, people thought that a rhyming list of plague symptoms was appropriate to sing in a nursery. To small children.

Do you guys remember the other weird shit we used to sing in kindergarten? This one was my fav:

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short, never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short, never to go again
When the old man died.

It didn't seem weird at the time to be singing about an old man's death. I mean, that's what old people do -- they die! Might be kind of weird around five-year olds. But that raises the question of How young is too old to be shielding children from a sad yet eventual part of life?

Luckily, I don't have kids, so I don't have to worry about finding an answer to that question that works for me. But what I really think is weird about this song is the concept of the clock stopping.

Was the clock a representation of the old man's life force, contrived to teach kindergartners -- through song -- about the finality of death? Was the song magical in nature, and the clock and the old man's soul were somehow intertwined? Or was the clock just really, really loyal for an inanimate object?

So many questions!

And yet nothing leaves me dumbfounded like this one (feel free to skim; many of the verses do nothing to further the plot):

Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is dead.

The one she's been saving,
the one she's been saving,
the one she's been saving
to make a featherbed.

She died in the millpond,
she died in the millpond,
she died in the millpond
from standing on her head.

She left nine young goslins;
she left nine young goslins;
she left nine young goslins
to scratch for their own bread.

Her goslins are weeping,
crying and peeping,
her goslins are weeping
because their mammy's dead.

The old gander's mourning,
the old gander's mourning,
the old gander's mourning
because his wife is dead.

The barnyard's a-weeping,
the barnyard's a-weeping,
the barnyard's a-weeping
waiting to be fed.

Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we took her in the kitchen
and cooked her all day long.

And broke all the fork teeth,
broke all the fork teeth,
and broke all the fork teeth,
they weren't strong enough.

Broke out Granddad's teeth,
broke all Granddad's teeth,
broke old Grandad's teeth.
The old grey goose is tough.

Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is tough.

Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we hauled her to the mill.

We'll grind her into sausages
and make mincemeat,
grind her into sausages
if only the miller will.

She broke all the saw teeth,
broke all the saw teeth,
broke all the saw teeth,
that old grey goose is tough.

Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we know this is a shock.

But go tell Aunt Rhody,
poor old Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we buried her under a rock.

Go run and tell Aunt Rhody,
run and tell Aunt Rhody,
run and tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is dead.

Soooooooooooo disturbing! Did the old, grey goose drown herself in the millpond, or was it an accident? And what's with the detailed account of the many ways the humans tried to consume this apparently dear and cherished goose? And why, if the steel tines of a fork weren't strong enough to stand up to the goose's cooked flesh, would Grandad try to chew her with his own teeth?

Thank God, when I went home from school, I had normal, child-appropriate music playing in my house, like Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Jesus Christ Superstar," and Gilbert and Sullivan's "H.M.S. Pinafore."

What's your favorite messed-up childhood song?

'Til we find our wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y,
On the path unwindi-i-i-i-i-i-ing!

I try to find ocassion to belt that out at least once a week.

Anyhoo. Friend. Lunch. Our "first date," as it were. And I've had a lot of first dates lately -- with womenfolk -- but this one is the only lesbian of the four. That I know of. Still waiting for one of them to take me up on the offer to make-out. The seed has been planted...

Oh my God, is there even a point to this, and when the hell am I going to get to it? I have CLEARLY had too much cream cheese frosting! Don't bake and blog, people! Don't type on a sugar high!

SO.

Cripes.

Having lunch with a lesbian, but that's not the point. The point is, she's awesome, and I want to have lunch with her again sometime, so I was trying to be very careful not to be a complete drooling idiot.

I ordered my usual sammich at the deli -- turkey, provolone, guacamole and pico de gallo, squished and melted on a bagel, panini-style. Yum!

So we ate, and I was charming and witty and delightful. I was so close to not outing myself as a total slob on our first date, but the sammich had other ideas. Bloop! A big booger of guacamole fell out of the back of the sammich and onto my skirt. Oh, but not just onto my skirt; in the crotch of my skirt. Sooooooo classy!

Of course, I made some adorable, self-depricating joke, and we both laughed, and the lunch went on as I scoured my crotch with a napkin.

Back at the office, my mishap lingered in both sight and smell. The stain-of-undiscernable-color was less obvious when I turned my skirt to the side so that the offending blob wasn't on my crotch. But I couldn't shake the smell of pico de gallo. And what is yummy eminating from a sammich is not yummy as the odor wafted off the synthetic material pressed to my warm thigh.

I threw my malodorous, black skirt into the laundry basket as soon as I walked into my house later that afternoon. Later that week, it was washed and dried and put back into rotation. (Yes, I rotate my clothes. Did you not know that? Take it from the far left side of the closet, put it back on the far right. And I'm sure there's some kind of fashion-political joke there somewhere, but hell if I'm going to look for it.)

When the skirt was up next in my closet, I had forgotten all about the guacamole incident. But it had not forgotten about me. In the winter, I get dressed before sunrise and before coffee. So it wasn't until I was again sitting at my desk at work that I noticed that the guacamole stain had not come out in the wash!

What the fuck?! What kind of monster, radioactive guacamole are they using?! Horrible, mutant, immortal guacamole!

Again, I turned my skirt to the side and went through my day hoping no one would notice. At least the washing machine had taken away the smell -- if not the sight -- of that malignant, malingering stain.

(Wow, that last sentence was totally Poe-esque, wasn't it?)

Into the laundry went the offending skirt, for the second time. But THIS time, I pre-treated it with some Stain Stick. AND I set the washing machine for a fifteen-minute pre-soak. That will teach you, you unsightly, unnatural filth! Get thee behind me, guacamole!

There is this silly saying of unknown origin -- "The third time is the charm." Is that leftover from pagany, witchcrafty days, when things had to be done in threes if you were going to make your neighbor's cow stop giving milk and send a succubus to visit the minister in his sleep?

Not... that I would know anything about that.

Awkward.

Anyhoo, as Egrau would tell you of her sister's husband-number-three, the third time is not the charm. Nor is it enough times to teach Wenchie to check her fucking crotch before she leaves the house for work!

Because yeah, the stain was still there. And let me tell you, the third time of wearing my skirt hiked halfway around my waist to try to deflect attention from the world's most stubborn South American condiment was NOT a charmed experience. Not by a long shot.

I threw away that skirt. And I ordered another one from J. Jill, even though a J. Jill skirt is not something I enjoy replacing at full price. But I could hardly do without my black skirt. It's a wardrobe staple! And one of only two skirts that I own, so, yeah.

And that, my friends, is the story of why I now order the soup and salad.

The point is that she was lamenting the fact that her brain isn't letting her relax and enjoy her gift of a work-free work day. Her brain is all "Wait! You can't possibly be satisfied and at peace! What about (insert problem)? And remember....you still don't have (insert desire)".

Making me wonder -- do our brains even like us? Or are we the proud owners of a vital organ that gets off on thwarting our every move?

I suspect it may be the latter. And I don't think my friend and I are alone here.

I experience my hateful brain daily, on a smaller scale. "You can't relax! The house isn't perfectly, spotlessly clean! Go make yourself useful, you pathetic, comfy-pants-wearing sloth! Polishing your nails is NOT an acceptable expenditure of your time!"

On a larger scale, well, my brain takes unrealistic expectations to Olympic heights. I am actually really giddily happy with how well 2012 is going so far,... which makes for very boring blog posts, I know.

No one wants to hear that my marriage is in a really good place; and we are more financially stable than we've been in a decade; and we are getting a whole new kitchen; and I got a SHINY, NEW COMPUTER; and Heather and I are totally up-grading and redesigning my blog; and I have lots of fabulous travel and vacations planned; and my boss continues with to be awesome. See? Boring AND annoying as sand in your crotch!

Anyhoo, on this larger scale -- this bigger picture of universal contentment, this giddiness that things are FINALLY going my way -- is the feeling of TERRIBLE guilt that I am so freakin' happy.

How can I be happy when other people aren't?! I'm not allowed to be happy when there is still a shred of unhappiness in the world! Bad, bad Wenchie! Quit being so happy and go make yourself useful by SAVING THE WORLD!

There are people in Africa with NO kitchens, and no food to cook in them anyway! There are people who can't travel because they are too busy fighting cancer, you callous bitch! No one gives a shit about your new blog or your new computer because they have abusive family members and chronic health problems and crappy, falling-apart houses! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED FOR BEING SO HAPPY!!! Because you sure as hell don't deserve it!

There is also the tireless Chicken Little in my brain warning me, Obviously, you are going to have to pay for all this good forture, so get ready for the house to burn down! The date has been set for immediately following the completion of the new kitchen. Enjoy!

It's all very confusing because I was kind of under the impression that my brain liked happiness. At least, it used to. I mean, I've spent entire afternoons dressing Barbies, and my brain was perfectly content! Maybe I'm only allowed to have small happinesses? Like there is some sort of set limit that I can't exceed?

But that doesn't make sense. There have been times when my life has been hell, and I didn't see my brain falling over itself to try to make me happy. So it's clearly not about achieving balance; it's just about my brain being a total asshat.

Well, fuck you, brain! You're mean!

How does one wreak vengence upon one's own brain...?

My just-delivered, newly-assembled, stainless steel Kitchen Aid refridgerator. Sitting in the driveway. Isn't it resplendant?

I'm sure the delivery-installation guys thought I was weird for taking this photo. And I sure as hell wasn't going to compound their dubious opinion of my sanity by explaining to them, It's for my blog!

Phase One of our new kitchen (prompted, if you'll recall, by Billi's offer of their used dishwasher) was Installation of Refridgerator, Double Oven, and Microwave.

Here's a Before photo of the old kitchen, renovated by the previous owners about the time I graduated from high school.

Why, yes, that IS a built-in Sub Zero fridge with custom paneling that would probably cost more than our car to replace. Thanks for noticing.

You'll also notice my favorite thing about our kitchen -- the double oven. I can bake two trays of cookies at once, and stagger them so that, while one tray is baking, I'm putting baked cookies on a cooling rack and scooping more dough onto the other tray! So efficient! Or so I thought...

Here are the two ovens -- old and new -- having a stare-down in the driveway.

Old Oven: You think you're so cool, sitting there with your brilliant cobalt interior and digital panel. Well, you're not! You're no better than me -- you're just a little shinier.

New Oven: Yeah? Well, I got one word for ya, chump. Convection.

Old Oven: --The hell?

New Oven: Three trays of cookies at a time. In one oven.

Old Oven: Dagnabbit.

And here's how this part of the kitchen looked...

...for about three minutes, until the workmen left, and Husband HAD HAD HAD to pull the fridge back out so that he could properly finish the space where the new fridge goes, i.e. new flooring (all the way down to the subfloor) and drywall.

So that's why the crappy After photo is taken with my phone; I didn't even have time to walk into the other room and grab my real camera before Husband had moved the fridge and started tearing up old flooring. Kind of disappointing, when all I wanted to do is get a cup of coffee, sit down and gaze at the shiny for a while. But I don't really have a teensy baby toe to stand on when it comes to calling other people on their O.C.D. So I let him have at it.

He's also going to build me a nice oak shelf for my cookbooks over the fridge, so again -- not going to give him grief for drywalling where no one will ever see.

I'm just grateful that it's winter.

The garage has been our meat locker since 8:10 a.m. on Saturday, when the delivery guy called and said, "We'll be there by 8:30."

Phase Two will be when Husband takes out the old counter top (and stove top and sink), and rips off the old backsplash. I can't even think about the dust without getting hives. Keep your eyes on the prize, Wenchie!

Eyes on the prize. *scratch, scratch*

So, I'm thinking I may have -- completely accidentally and without even trying -- grown as a person. I mean, I've always thought it would be cool to grow as a person. But I never had an actual goal in mind. Just sort of a... vague wish. Like, Now that I'm 42, wouldn't it be nice to look back and see that, somewhere along the way, I've grown as a person?

Remember way back in time, when I practically fretted myself into hysterical blindness over an outfit for a Christmas party thrown by one of Husband's ex-employers? Or, more recently, Older Step Daughter's wedding? Jeebus, who was that chick?

Now I'm like, Christmas party? Black skirt and beaded top. DONE. Nephew's wedding? Maxi dress and shrug. DONE. Miami in April with all of Husband's co-workers? BRING IT, Don Johnson! I will Wenchie the SHIT out of this vacation!!!

And you know why? Because I have finally made peace with clothing. I have found what I like, what I feel comfortable in, and I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks I should be wearing. And it's not that I'm in some second (fourth?) childhood, being all rebellious and shit. I'd just rather feel confident enough to own the room than bow to social pressure and be self-consciously tugging at my clothes all night.

For example. My nephew's wedding, in L.A., in May. Social convention dictates that I should wear a sundress, with a delicate pashmina to cover my shoulders in the church, and tall, strappy sandals.

Nuh-uh.

With my sturdy shoulders, putting me in anything overtly feminine just makes me look like a really, really bad drag queen, and I would never want to impune the drag queen community like that. Also, as I have mentioned before, I hate sandals. Well, I hate 99% of all sandals because I don't like straps. (This also carries over to Mary Janes.) And I REALLY hate anything between my toes, which automatically rules out 50% of all sandals right out of the gate. (You can slap all the Swarovski crystals on them that you want -- flip-flops are still only appropriate for walking across sand, from the car to the water.)

But you know what? Dressing differently doesn't necessarily mean that I am dressing inappropriately. I will still dress with the formality and respect befitting the ocassion; I just will not be wearing a fitted bodice covered in flowers, or spaghetti straps that don't cover the flower tattoo on my shoulder blade.

And about this Miami trip. Apparently, if "Burn Notice" can be relied upon as a credible source of information -- and I think that it can -- the Miami dress code consists largely of khaki pants, white shoes, and tiny clothes with big flowers. No, no, and no.

I'm sure I don't have to explain how I feel about thong bathing suits.

I told Husband that I will be wearing what I always wear in summer: jeans; dark, solid-color tops with sleeves that come just above the elbow; comfy sandals suitable for walking; silver necklace.

He looked vaguely alarmed.

He asked if I wanted to buy some khakis. (The HORROR!) I said I have a pair of capri jeans that I MIGHT bring, lest I wear tan, pleated slacks and be mistaken for the employee of some big box store. He asked about shorts. I told him that I don't own any, but I'm considering buying a knee-length, swingy, black skirt, to wear with a dark, solid-color top and walking sandals.

He said that he's going to buy some more golf shirts. I informed him that I am not going to change my style of dress just because I'm temporarily leaving the midwest, and The Sunshine State is just going to have to quell its pursed-lipped disappointment.

I have, however, found a suitable median: some tees online that are long-sleeved and covered in a flowery pattern BUT... it's a dark, flowery pattern. And the long sleeves allow me to have them hemmed to my liking, i.e. just above the elbow. I bought eight different ones, assuming that I'll be sending half of them back.

And there ya go. With those tees and thong panties under my jeans (I cannot abide V.P.L.*), I will still be midwestern Wenchie, with a polite nod to Miami. Because Miami and I were just not cut out to be besties, y'all, but that doesn't mean we can't have a civil working relationship.

* Visible Panty Lines