Pieces of things that don't necessarily go together, much like most of my outfits.

Random bits- much like the frozen , leftover morsels of dead squirrels that I keep in my freezer, just in case:

• I can't seem to type today without having to correct typos every other word, and simple speech seems to be a monumental task.  I'm thinking I had a stroke in my sleep.  Does that mean I can skip work today? 
• I think my new class is scared of me- I'm totally OK with that. 
• I can't remember when I washed my hair last, and I don't have time to do it before work.  Maybe I'll shape it into a giant, puffy chef's hat or a honkey 'fro and call it a day. 
• I already mentioned this on Facebook, but a few weeks ago when I was at the grocery store, what I thought was a bird whizzed by my head in the toilet paper aisle.  When it turned around and flew by me again, I realized that it was a bat.  While I was looking for an employee to notify of Dracula's arrival, the bat must have flown into the main checkout area.  There was screaming, people running for cover, and cashiers trying to trap the bat with plastic grocery baskets.  Total chaos.  I seemed to be the only one who wasn't freaked out, so I checked out in the self-checkout and went on my merry way.  I hope the bat was OK, but holy hell, that sure was entertaining to watch. 
• There is a totally shitballs-crazy dude at the gym that I'm kind of obsessed with watching, just to see what cookoo thing he'll do next.  Like, muttering nonstop, crazy eyes, obsessively moving very heavy equipment one inch that way then one inch the other, throwing newspaper pages around, and kind of "dancing" on the stairmaster.  Last time I saw him, his antics cleared a mostly-full room in about 10 minutes.  Except me- of course I couldn't stop watching. 
• Also at the gym: a totally naked woman in the locker room decided to chat me up the other day.  I'm too polite to say, "Um, could you at least put a towel on?  Seriously lady, your glory days were over a long time ago and not looking at your gravity-challenged stuff is difficult, at best."  I guess she liked my purse.  Um...okay. 
• I bought new, flat, knee-high black boots for fall that I'm in love with.  I figured that I earned them with my astounding laziness and sloth this summer.  Whatever- they were on sale. 
• Summer is finally winding down, and the temperatures are finally dipping into "not as hot as Satan's bung after three hours of step aerobics" range.  What does this mean, you may ask?  Well, it means that I finally have enough energy to not only get off my ass, but to also "do things" and "leave the house".  Also, my mood is considerably better and I no longer punch random people in the crotch from "heat rage".  Not only will I maybe get some of those pesky restraining orders lifted, but I may actually stop by this here blog more than once a menses cycle.  I know- promises, promises.  

Happy Friday, my little sweaty, nude vampire bats.  Happy Friday.

Like quicksand squishing in my toes, so are the days of my life.

I probably should have mentioned at some point how I've been off from work since June 30th.  I meant to tell you, but I was so busy...doing stuff that I kind of forgot.

Well, that's not exactly true.

I was doing stuff, but saying I was "busy" is pretty much a bold-faced lie, and I will forever swim in the shame river created from the spittle of the thousands of mouths yelling at me for being a big fat liar.

No, my summer has been blissfully boring.  The kind of boring that would make someone with things like "ambition" and "goals" and "drive" the special kind of crazy normally reserved for celebrities with paint huffing issues/schizophrenia.  Sure, I gardened a bit, I constructed houses out of discarded boxes for the cats, I organized my underpants, and I found shaded patios around town where a pale, publicity-shy gal like myself could get eleventy cocktails with a friend or two and accidentally fall into the bushes without nary a flash from the paparazzi or an inappropriately-located sunburn.  

One would think that, given the vast amount of time that I had, that I would have been on the ball enough to do maybe one teeny, tiny bit of work in preparation for my triumphant return to work.  This coming Monday. 
If you had thought that, I would be bitch-slapping you repeatedly right now for your astounding level of idiotness, you idiot.  You should know me better than that by now, stupid.

No, instead of "getting a jump on things" like most marginally mature adults on the planet, the most impressive work-related thing that I've accomplished in my 50 days off (so far) was to get the most wicked-awesome score on electronic Yahtzee EVER.  512, bitches!  Five hundred-freaking twelve!! (Yes, I consider this work-related as numbers are involved, and everyone knows that numbers = work)

Yeah...you'd probably be correct in assuming that, as I get older, my brain is slowly turning into a tapioca-like mass of gray goo.  Yup.  In a few years you will probably be able to suck it out through a straw stuck up my nostril.

So now, as the final days of my Enchanted summer of nothing (patent pending) come to an end, of course NOW would be the time to be forced to sit through two days (13+ hours) of meetings under the guise of "In-service", thereby rendering my remaining few chances of being prepared impotent. 
I fucking hate In-service.
Yesterday we were forced to sit through 4 hours of lectures, 3 powerpoint presentations, a goddamn MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER that I will need to devote a separate post to, such was the...wow.  Just wow, one divisional meeting, and too many technological snafus to count.  Today was worse, and that's all I can say about it until the PTSD subsides and the shitty coffee has left my veins.

So...I guess that the basic point of this rather incoherent post is that I, like many a dipshit, have yet again procrastinated to the point that I am, indeed, quite fucked.

And, no.  I don't believe that I will ever learn from my mistakes.  We all know by now that learning stuff is for losers.

Now I'm going to go and git my cocktail on and write an outline for next week once I'm good and drunk.  Lord knows that has worked for me every other semester.

Have a moderately productive weekend (but don't strain yourself sweetie), my totally screwed little worker bees.  Happy weekend!

(Oh, and?  I guess I'm on the Twitter/Twatter now.  Look for @Whiskeymarie  All the kids are doing it, you know.)

(And I just realized that I've spewed out over 600 posts at this point.  Holy shitballs, you people put up with a lot.  Freaking saints, you are.  -Yoda OUT.)

Home sweet goddamn unfinished home.

Alright.  No one is more aware than I am that there hasn't been an update on "Operation Fix this Fucking House" in, oh...seven years or so (give or take seven years).  I'd like to say that we've spent this vast amount of time tweaking and polishing and such and such for our big final reveal where I could rub your noses in the fact that we made this old hag of a house our bitch, but yeah- not so much.  I am still LeBitch of the Casa, and we still aren't done.  Can I get a FFUUUUCCCKKKK?!?!?
The funny (insert maniacal, shrill laughter here) thing is, the main reason we started the whole renovation/redecoration thingy is because of one room in particular:  the "old" bathroom.  I can't wait to show you pictures of this sorry excuse of a shitter in all of its flesh-tone tiles with diarrhea-brown trimmed glory, but that will have to wait for a (long) while, as this also happens to be the ONLY FREAKING ROOM WE HAVEN'T EVEN FREAKING STARTED YET.  Yes, I still have the ugliest bathroom on the planet in my home.  You will believe.  Trust me.  You will believe.

But...that will have to wait for now.  I'm close to being able to show you the dining room, but I have to wait for a day that isn't raining or 900% humidity so that I can finally paint a couple of things.  Yes, two of those "things" are actually living pets, but hey- I like to color-coordinate.
Yes, I can wait while you call the local ASPCA to report me...
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Okay then. 

Moving on...
I realized today that the living room has been pretty much done for a while now, I was just kind of thinking that I'd wait until it felt perfect, but then I remembered that "perfect" for me is a fluctuating thing, and with my ADD and OCD and TNT (Dy-no-mite!), well, I'm just going to have to bite the bullet and wave the white flag.  It's as done as it's gonna be, and I may as well take a picture or two on the one day that there seems to be no dog puke or drool on at least 80% of the furniture, and since there aren't any pet hair tumbleweeds blowing through or embarrassing magazines left out (What?  I read Juggs and Ferret Monthly for the articles! Really!)- then today is the day. 

First, you need to know what we started with, from the beginning.

Once upon a time, a very, very broke couple bought a very, very old house because they loved it, and because it was cheap.  Dirt cheap.  Not being wise in the ways of minor things like "updated to code electrical stuff", "plumbing stuff", and ""what's that funny smell?" stuff, they were elated to find a home to call their own where they would never again have to be oppressed by the white walls of apartment living.  Unfortunately, the lovely couple did not know that plaster walls come with a whole nutha' level of frustration when it comes to painting them, especially when the plaster walls were put in around 1906 and are particularly porous:

Ugh. 

The charming couple also knew that there were pristine, original, honey-colored maple floors underneath the 40+ year old carpeting (Oh sweet Jeebus- the smell!  Think: Old lady+cabbage+mildew+cabbage farts), but they had no idea of how much work it would take to unearth said floors.  Turns out, the 40+ year-old red rubber foam underneath the nastyass carpeting had pretty much fused to the floor.  Like cement.  And, to complicate matters, the wood underneath was in such beautiful shape that the shockingly attractive couple didn't want to use any chemicals or metal scrapers that might have damaged the finish.  Fourteen plastic scrapers, much alcohol and several breakdowns later, the astonishingly witty couple was done. 
Yes, it was as fun as you think it would be:

As our beloved couple were still in their 20's when they painted/decorated, and since they were still no joke broke, they made the room "theirs" with a mishmash of hand-me-down furniture, thrift store booty, lots of gold paint, and one zebra-striped rug that they were given as a gift.  You can't see it here, but for a long time they also had a disco ball hanging from the ceiling.  Ahh...youth. 

This is an old picture, but as there doesn't seem to be any "whole room" shots of the old living room, this will at least give you an idea of the overall "theme" of the space.  Think: Old Vegas meets IKEA meets your Grandma's parlor:

And with that, our wonderfully eloquent and well-mannered couple rode off into the sunset.  Well, they drove their VW to the convenience store for slurpees and nachos, anyways.  The End.  Well, the end of me writing in fairy-tale form, anyways.  I can't keep up with shit like that.
Again, moving on...

Phase 2 of the living room project started with the purchase of a couch, and we built (read: I built) the rest of the room around it.  This pic is the new couch, the new coffee table, the old paint job and curtains, and Rug #1 that was promptly returned, such was it's fugliness:

Here we are, once again prepping the goddamn plaster walls for painting.  Yeah, I'd like to say that we got all of this done really fast and only had to live in crack-den squalor for a day or two, but who am I kidding?  It looked like this for over a week:

And finally...it's done (for a few years anyways).
I'm not really an "old Victorianesque house" sort of gal, so in changing things up, I wanted to modernize the overall look of the joint while still keeping the basic "bones" intact.  I have beautiful wood floors and windows with simple, clean lines, and I really didn't want to mess with that. 


I like to think that I achieved my goal, for the most part.  It's still "us", but the more grown-up version of "us", still with a sense of humor and a bit o'whimsy:

The curtains are blue cotton velvet, which works well year-round.  If they were darker I wouldn't think so, but the light color makes the fabric seem not so heavy.  The rug is a shag I ordered online- I love the crap out of this rug, but I'm pretty sure that vacuuming it counts as hard-core cardio.  I worked up a shocking amount of sweat last time I did it- like, sweaty underboob and all.  Yes, I'm a tender, delicate flower- tell me something I don't know.

This pic has one of the many IKEA items that we had to buy in it (the cabinet), being that we were on a miniscule budget and have all sorts of strange, useless spaces throughout the Casa that needed filling (that's what SHE said!).  The lamp was from lamps.com, and it looks super duper neato when it's lit up:

Yes, we still have the Sonny Chiba "Street Fighter" poster- I like to think of it as "timelessly elegant".  The end table was a Craigslist find from a fabulously fabulous gay boy in Minneapolis.  The lamp base was a vintage store find that I approached like a drunk, horny girl at closing time- I know I shouldn't take it home because it's kind of ugly, but I'm incapable of saying no to it in my state, and it does have a certain charm...

The only art on the walls in this room (other than Sonny) is a grouping of three photos, all purchased through various peepos on the internets.  The top one was from Sandy (who actually gave it to me when I jokingly said I wanted an 11x14 when I saw the picture on his blog.   I guess I'm glad that my ill-timed and awkward sense of humor works to my advantage sometimes.)  The middle one was purchased from someone off of this awesome MN website (thanks again for keeping it, Sornie!).  And the bottom one was purchased through bloggess extrordinaire, Ms. Campbell at Jurgen Nation.  I like how they all are kind of sort of dreamy, spooky landscapes.

Close up of the coffee table, a solid slab of old marble, bought off Craigslist from a little old lady in St. Louis Park.  The slab is seriously, no-joke heavy.  I like how it brings a little bit of nature into a fairly crisp room:

A closer look in the corner- you can see better here how I toned down from the old diamond pattern on the walls and painted subtle stripes instead:

Closeup of the lamp, just because I love the texture. 

So, yeah.  That's it for today's installment of "OFtFH": updated.

Tune in six months from now when I can maybe, possibly, probably not show you yet another finished room.  My prediction: by the time we finish the last room, we'll have to start all over again because 20 years will have passed and shit will be falling apart.  Good times. 

We'll finish today off with a treat- an "amuse bouche after the fact", if you will.

 Cat on a stick.  Yum.

Happy whateverdaythisisimonvacationdammit, my plaster-covered shaggy rugs.  Happy whatever.

Confession #3: I had to look up "harbinger" in the dictionary to make sure I was using it correctly.

In my never-ending quest to firmly place myself in the League of Extraordinary Dorks Hall of Fame, I give you another not-so-shocking confession:

I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, harbinger of all things cool and awesome...I used to freaking love Clive Barker (and still kind of do). 

Yes, I said it.  I willingly devoured the gory, strange writings that typically appealed more to nerdtacular boys with unhealthy addictions to Doungeons and Dragons and creative masturbation practices than to punk rock-ish girls in rural Minnesota in the 80's.  I've read most of his books, I've (for better or for worse, usually worse) seen most of the movies (yeah, I'll take a pass on Hellraisers #2-9, thank you very much), and I even spent a number of hours in the early 90's waiting in line at Rosedale Mall for the honor of having Mr. Barker sign my copy of Weaveworld.  I remember that he was very nice, kind of short, and not at all seeming like the kind of guy who could come up with some of the fucked up gore that he has come up with.  He seemed more like the kind of guy that would write sensitive poetry about butterflies and tea than the kind of guy who regularly writes about evisceration and limbs being lopped off casually, like how one would cut apart a chicken for dinner.

I started watching Midnight Meat Train just the other night, a movie that I had been pestering the Mr. to get for me from Netflix, much to his chagrin.  I'm only halfway through, but from what I've seen so far, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it's not terrible.  Considering the monumental stinkiocity of pretty much all of his other movies (Hellraiser #1 being the only exception- perfectly cheesy, sort of campy, and still appropriately scary), that's saying a lot.  Bradley Cooper sure is easy on the eyes, and Vinnie Whatshisname was perfectly cast: almost no dialogue and creepy as hell.  I think I'll finish watching it today- yes, I'll be the one sitting inside on a sunny, hot July day watching a movie about butchering humans for meat. 

Yay, me?

Oh, and while we're on topic of embarrassing confessions:  Yesterday I decided put on eye cream while I was going pee, and I thought to myself, "Hey!  I'm multi-tasking!".

Set the bar low, Whiskey.  Set the bar low. 

"let me hear your body talk..." OK, maybe that's enough talk for now. Tell your body to shut up.

If you've been taking your Adderall like the nice doctor prescribed, you may remember that I joined a gym.  You may also be kind of twitchy and grinding your teeth down to sad and bloody little nubs from the amphetamines, but that's really not my problem now, is it?

A few random observations from my first 6 weeks of sweating profusely from every crease I own in the company of strangers, AKA going to the Y:

*To the oddly-shaped gal who seems to always be there when I am and seems to never, ever leave...
Here's the deal:  Tights do not equal pants. 

Did you hear that?  Did it make sense?  Do any of those words exist in your dancewear-as-haute-couture world? 

While I totally admire your commitment to such a daring and bold look, I have to say, um...not so much with the execution of said "look".  Semi-sheer footless tights over granny panties?  No, no, no.

My kind but firm suggestion is this:  before leaving for the gym, stop and take a good, long look in a full-length mirror.  If you can see a shockingly accurate outline of your underpants (including the tag), and if your legs look better suited to heels and a party dress, and if you can clearly see where the "control top" portion of your "pants" begins...then I suggest changing before you go.  And yes- yes I know you can afford real workout pants/shorts.  I've seen your ipod and tenners- they're nicer than mine.  You've got no excuse, Ms. Grannypantyhose, unless poor judgment sprinkled with cookoo counts as an excuse these days.

*I was forced to blow my nose in my gym towel the other day while on the elliptical.  I was also sweating like a heavyset, middle aged Eastern European man with impressively excessive body hair on vacation at dance camp somewhere near the Equator.  To the non-sweating, not huffing and puffing all asthma-like gym-goer next to me that day, I apologize.  Seriously- you shouldn't have had to witness that. 

*And what about the cute little 20-something Asian-American girl who seems to have the superhuman ability to run for 30 minutes, take a hip-hop aerobics class, then cool down with intermediate yoga, all without so much as a drop of perspiration or even a second of bargaining with the Universe for mercy?  I'm totally trying to not hate you, but keep it up and I'm going to start slipping lard supplements into your water bottle, OK?

*I was on the elliptical (again) the other day next to a dude who looked exactly like Hulk Hogan circa 1987:

Seriously- Yellow head scarf, red tank top, yellow Zubaz-like pants and the handlebar mustache.  The whole freaking shebang.  I wanted to ask him how he was doing since the divorce, but he was the only person in the gym sweating more than I was, so I knew that it would be best to just leave him be.  Pretty much the last thing you want to do when you're drenched in your own bodily fluids is carry on a conversation about your feelings.

*Also, in no particular order:
Geriatric boobies, Creepy dude that draws odd pictures in a child's notebook while waiting for a certain piece of equipment, Holy shit there are a lot of dudes that lift weights while watching themselves in the mirrors!, The one guy who keeps moving the damn fans despite the "Do not move the fan" signs, Me plotting to kill fan guy for hogging not one, not two, but THREE freaking fans on a 90 degree day when the AC seemed to have given up the will to live, The lady who doesn't wear headphones while working out yet still seems to have some sort of music in her head judging by her insane giggling and singing, Me accidentally taking home several of the gym-provided towels and being too embarrassed to bring them back so they're just sitting in my dining room all smelly, Running into a Lance Armstrong-esque coworker who has like, 8% body fat and does redonkulous triathlons and stuff right after I had a particularly sweaty and red-faced workout and had to make "conversation", More geriatric nudity, and finally- the icing on the cake...

...I'm pretty sure I saw the nutsack of a 60-something dude when it peeked out from his very short shorts.  I'm hoping I regain my vision sometime soon, but if I have to see that again I'll pass on this whole "sight" thing as it may be totally overrated. 

***********

Speaking of getting physical, the reason the word exists:


Me-fucking-ow.  Adam, I'll take you, your Ants and your smouldering sexiness anytime, any day, any way.

OK, I have to go now.  I'm all misty in my lady-bits and it sure as hell ain't from working out.
Me-fucking-ow.

Happy early Wednesday, my glistening, rippling six-packs of sexiness.  Happy early Wednesday.

XO

If I dig further back, I'm sure I'll find pirates and cannibals.

I've never tried to kid myself about my ancestry- my elders weren't exactly signing the Constitution or discovering the cure for polio.  It's far more likely that they were weaving the cotton for fancypants men's pantaloons or milking the cows to make butter for the White House post-Constitution-signing dinner/kegger.  I'm fine with this, and in fact, I kind of think that it's awesome that I come from a long line of hardworking folks who were intimately familiar with callouses and tired feet. 

Well, I found out this weekend exactly how hard the work was for one of my relatives, in particular.  I was at a family wedding (for my cousin) and one of my uncles filled me in on a rather colorful piece of VonPartypants history:  Turns out, my great-grandmother (Or great-great?  I think it was just one "great") was...


...a madam.  At a brothel located over a bar in West Duluth. 

A madam!

I am waaayyy more pumped about this than a normal person would/should be.  I have hooker blood in me!!
Wait- that sounded morbid and serial killer-ish.  You know what I mean. 

I'm guessing that most people wouldn't be finding this quite as awesome as I do.  BUT  I DO!  Madam!!!

I'm guessing that the reality of the job and what it entailed wasn't quite as glamorous as I have it pictured in my head, and the callouses involved weren't located on her hands (or, maybe...).  But in my rodent-infested noggin I'm thinking of something sexy and classy, or sexy and sassy- something along the lines of "Belle du Jour" with Catherine Deneuve or "Irma la Douce" with Shirley MacLaine, but I'm guessing a more accurate scenario would involve sweaty factory workers, someone that looked like Patty the daytime hooker from "My Name is Earl", dirty sheets and a few shots of cheap whiskey.

 OH!!  THAT REMINDS ME!!!

I almost forgot- my other great Grandma specialized in trafficking homemade hooch to and from the Iron Range (you MN people will get this) during prohibition.  

DID YOU HEAR THAT???   HOOKERS AND BATHTUB GIN SPECIALISTS!!!  THESE ARE MY PEOPLE!!

I couldn't have received better news this week even if I had found out I was giving birth to twin spider monkeys.  I feel vindicated for both my slutty years in my early 20's, as well as my deep, soulful love of cocktails.  It's in my DNA, dammit! 

Now, I need to find pictures of these women just to satisfy my curiosity.  Will they look used hard and put away wet like the saggy, middle-aged, bleached hair, missing teeth hookers you see on "Cops"?  Or will they have a quiet elegance about them, wise beyond their years but still turning heads left and right?

Yeah.  I know what you're thinking.  Maybe it is best to leave that question unanswered and keep living in my imaginary hooker-hooch world.  Until I hear otherwise, I'm telling people that I'm descended from a Faye Dunaway-esque line of "bad"women (a la "Bonnie and Clyde").  This should explain it enough for most people. 

I'll let everyone else decide on their own what vice I'm going to decide to be an expert in, because I'm not telling once I do. 
Right now?  Right now I'm just weighing my options. 

A girl should ruin her reputation just the right way- this isn't a decision I take lightly, you know...

Your Grandma says "hey"

So, I'm not sure if I mentioned it here, but I recently joined a gym. 

The "Y" to be exact. 

It's been a number of years (read: 15) since I last set foot in an organized workout emporium of any sort (unless we're counting drunken roller skating or competitive eating, which I totally do), and the last time it was only to take water aerobics with 65 year-old women named Ethyl and Bernadette at the Duluth "Y".  Yes, I was 24 years old.  Yes, I thought water aerobics was "hard exercise".  Yes, I was an idiot.  But hey- I was still young enough that I didn't have to worry about what I looked like in a swimsuit, and my metabolism was such that "working out" was totally unnecessary anyways.  I could eat a cheeseburger, fries and a shake 4 times a day and still lose weight.  Now?  Now I just see a picture of a french fry and my ass fat starts expanding at a rate of three inches per hour.

So far, this whole working out thing is going fairly well- I haven't broken any bones, and I've only almost fell off of the treadmill five times twice.  My favorite treadmill incident was when I decided to find a new song on my ipod (yes, I have one of those now too- you young whippersnappers have nothing on this broad- in that same spirit I figure that next week I'll start smoking as well)...

...where was I?  Oh yeah- the ipod/treadmill thingy. 
So, I'm on the treadmill, going along at a pretty good clip, and I decide to fumble on the ipod for something more inspiring, musically.  Suddenly, I kind of started listing to the right, and I started to lose my footing.  Forgetting completely about that pesky "pause" button, I began flailing about oh-so-gracefully, looking for something to grab so I wouldn't go flying off the treadmill, cartoon-style.  In my "challenged" state, I got the cord for my ear buds caught on my arm, and I managed to disconnect them, sending the actual ipod to the floor (which in this case was the treadmill itself), which in turn propelled it into the wall directly behind me, leaving a mark.  I managed to finally find the pause button, only to look up- sweating profusely and totally red-faced- to see three different people looking at me like I am was the biggest dork on the planet.
Good times. 

I also kind of forgot about the locker room at the "Y", but I was quickly reminded of how charming it can be within the first 3 minutes on my very first day.  I went in to grab a locker, and there the reminder was:  right in front of the door, standing under one of those hot air hand dryers was a 65+ year-old woman, naked as the day is long (on a side note: the whole "Brazilian wax" phenomenon does not seem to have caught on with the geriatric set.  Nope.).  I hope that my face didn't reflect what I was thinking, which was "Wow- I didn't know skin could do that."

Aaahhh, yes.  The "naked" factor. 

I'm no prude, and I totally have no problem with nudity, but when you're not prepared for it, even seeing the entire Brazilian Men's Soccer team unexpectedly nekkid would be totally awesome unsettling, right?  Right?

Yeah- who am I kidding, it freaks me out to see old people buck-assed (or nearly buck-assed) naked.   There you go. 

Oh my beloved YWCA, what other delights do you have in store for me?  I can hardly wait to find out.

Happy Tuesday, my sweaty little aerobic leprechauns.  Happy Tuesday. 

XOXO