Wednesday, February 28, 2007

I think I love me, but I don't know if me loves me back.

Oh, February. You are already over- I feel like we were starting to, you know, connect. I thought you felt the same way about me. I guess you never really knew me at all...

I thought February, a.k.a. "love month" (my idea, feel free to use it) should go out on a positive note, even though I found out today that I have eight hours of faculty meetings tomorrow, starting at seven fucking forty five in the morning. Sheesh. I hope they don't expect much except mumbling and scowling, cause that's what they're gonna get. Assholes.

And...back to the positive.

I don't like these kind of lists, but I'm not so creative today.

Ten things I like about me/ Things that make me not suck

1. I am a good friend. I know this. I'll never judge what you did last night, those expensive shoes we both know you'll never wear, the unfortunate outfits we've all chosen (though me more than you guys) or the fact that you generally dislike children (Except Ms. Hotpant's. Hers make me almost want the little turds). Plus, I love to send random cards & postcards (o.k, sometimes I think it's funny to send horrifically creepy/dirty ones), and give flowers for no reason. These things are hopefully going to make up for you having to see my bare ass when I was drunk.
I can hope.

2. I know how to properly sear tuna, make the best homemade mac & cheez in the universe, bake a mean cookie, and will eat just about anything other people are willing to cook for me, which isn't often.

3. I love a good party, but I love a lazy day at home with my legally bound piece of man-meat more.

4. I am disgustingly, frustratingly, irritatingly, and obnoxiously optimistic. 99.9% of the time. I've never figured out how that trait developed. Maybe this one is actually a flaw, but- Hey! more fun psychoses to work on! Yay!

5. Freckles. Including the one on my ass. Boys always have seemed to love them. My grandma used to sing to me, "She has freckles on her butt, she is nice...". What a weird song.

6. My horrific singing voice. I keep thinking that if I sing more, it will get better. This has not been the case. I refuse to let that stop me, though I probably should. I still think no one rocks Journey, Styx and ELO better than me...I'm a freaking superstar.

7. I will drop everything, drive 4 hours in the snow, send flowers to your mom on the way, pick up your dry cleaning, vacuum your house, neuter your dog, clean your lint traps & help you bikini-wax at home. Just ask. Really, I don't mind. I really don't. Really. Something is wrong with me, really. Cause' I don't mind. I'm a doormat like that.

8. I am fairly fearless, and nearly immune to squeamishness when it comes to food/the production of food (this may give you a clue to my profession- or not). I have cut the head off of 4 pigs (dead already- longish story, work-related), eaten snails, made head-cheese from scratch, cut cows apart with power tools, sucked down countless raw oysters (usually not a big deal, but I fucking hate oysters) and know what the secret ingredient is that makes any food taste better (I'll let you in on the mystery- it's FAT. Butter, cream, duck fat, name it, fat makes food worth eating).
I will eat almost anything once, but not always twice. I don't think being a vegan is an option for me, ever.

9. I may come up with some of the most fucked-up clothing ensembles ever, but somehow it nearly always works. I'm brilliant like that. Plus, I hate when my clothes match too much. If my outfit isn't fighting with itself, something's wrong. I hope this never changes about me.

10. I will act embarrassed about things I do or say occasionally, but I'm really not. You probably needed to hear it. It probably needed doing/saying. Why be embarrassed? It just doesn't make sense to me. To me, if you are embarrassed, it means you have regrets.
Fuck regret.
Every day I am older, and every day is one less. I won't waste time worrying if you are mad that I told you I think you're wrong. Too bad for you- get over it. It probably made us both better people in the long run. Move on, do something stupid, do something daring- for once.

Thank you for indulging this bout of narcissism.

Tomorrow, March on, my little monkeys.

Like a Virgin (as if I can even remember)

New favorite treat:

Dry-popped (no oil) popcorn drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil, a few twists of fresh black pepper and dusted with Le Kraft Parmesan cheese.

Trust me, those extra virgin-virgins taste better than your "average" virgin.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Stagnant. Like a steaming, fetid swamp.

"February is the season of small sorrows when everyone feels middle-aged even if you are 16" - Garrison Keillor

So, if how I spent my precious free time here on earth last weekend is any indication, I need something to occupy my idle hands. Something beyond clutching the remote in one hand and scratching my ass with the other (I'm a rightie).

I know people who happily fill every second of their day with appointments, work, workouts, volunteering, a quick manicure, offspring, producing community theater and driving for meals-on-wheels.

I have never been, nor will ever be, that person. I laugh at that person.

Sucker! I slept ten hours last night (actually, 8-1/2, but I laid in bed for a while for no good reason), spent an hour watching "Ellen", ate a leisurely breakfast, worked out (but only after a cup of caffeine and not every day), then showered but didn't wash my hair. Then, I'll work for 6-8 hours, go home, watch t.v. a bit & go to bed by 11:30 so as not to miss out on my daily 9-10 hrs. of zzzs.


The joy of sloth aside, I need a little more. But only a little.

So, I have decided that I will do one thing each week that is new to me, and will make people say, "That Whiskeymarie, what an interesting girl! How does she ever find time to lead a Girl Scout troop, make needlepoint pillows for her friends, create art from discarded ink cartridges AND run for Congress? She's a real go-getter."

Go-getting or not, this week I think I'll start with the needlepoint, or something only slightly more challenging- we're talking baby steps here, people. No need to get crazy.

I'll keep you posted, unless I oversleep & forget.

Monday, February 26, 2007

The slow descent into crazyland - a.k.a: re-living your teenage years.

You know your weekend was dull - public access school board roundtable-discussion dull, when the highlight of the last two days was shoveling. I found myself with the weekend I usually get a little hot & bothered over- snowbound, no obligations- but I had NO new magazines, NO new books, crappy cable and NO desire to invent my own fun.

I think I scared Mr. Whiskeymarie a little when he kept finding me sitting on the couch- staring at nothing. And talking to myself.

No, wait, there was another high point: eating not one, not two, but THREE bowls of sugary cereal in one sitting (2 bowls Coco puffs, one Frankenberry).

Oh, and I played about 27 rounds of Frogger. Old-school, Atari-style Frogger.

Basically, I spent my weekend the exact same way I would have 20 years ago, in the glory days of my teenage years. Stuck at home (except then it was in the middle of nowhere), nothing to do but eat crap, play Atari and watch network t.v. The only difference between then & now is that then I would have been staring at the Dead or Alive and Adam Ant posters on my wall worrying that they were watching me back*.

*To this day, I still flip magazines over if I think whoever is on the cover is "watching me". Nutjob? Yes, I know.

Now we may have another snowy weekend coming up. And I have Thursday & Friday off (yes, I know- I work very little. I am one happy, spoiled brat that way). I need to find something to do or things are going to get a little Steven King/Shining around here.

Or, maybe I'll become the all-time Frogger high scorer. Who's the loser now? Huh?

I am such a dork.

Mmmm...doughnuts. Mmmm...raw fish.

What we made for dinner a Thai chicken pizza...yum.

I am pretty sure that eating raw tuna and avocado makes me a smarter person.
And prettier.
And better at kickball.

Now the sad part...

Bye bye delicious sushi.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

As much fun as spider monkeys in a snowstorm

My world, today.

I love, love, love snow. Almost as much as I love monkeys.

I love you, Mr. Monkey.

Does this orange jumpsuit make me look fat?

I am not a good driver, for the most part. Though, at this point in my life, I figured that I'm as good a driver as I can hope to ever be, what with senility and a Lincoln Towncar right around the corner.

I have had many accidents, the majority of which were the fault of...drumroll here...yours truly.

Mostly though, I have Really, really, really bad luck when it comes to all things car-related. No pun intended, I think I pissed off the automotive gods at some point and have bad car karma.

Today, I did something bad, something I feel more than a little shame for, with my beloved motorized bitch.
Let's just say it involves my car door getting frisky with the car door next to me in a parking lot when I was running errands. My baby left a 6-inch "love scratch" on that frisky fella. Shit. She couldn't help it- it's REALLY windy today, and she got caught up in the stuff.
Yes, I know, I should have left a note, but I didn't.

Dear other car owner- I'm sorry. I panicked.

If anyone saw- which is a possibility, I am fully expecting the 5-0 to come to my door & haul me away today. I deserve it. Never mind the countless cads that have marked up my beauty, used her & abused her without so much as a phone call or a note.
But, I'll get over it.
As long as I'm not in the slammer.
My next post may be from jail, which at least might be interesting. Maybe I'll get a nickname from the other cons. Or a prison tattoo. Or scabies.

Addendum to "Note to self"

#6) Post comments on other people's blogs.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Note to self

Things I should not do whilst drunk:

#1) Juggle knives
#2) Speeches at the U.N.
#3) Tend to small children
#4) my taxes
#5) Post on this blog.

Going back to bed now.
Also, hoisting myself back on the wagon.
Wine hates me.
We'll talk again tomorrow, my dears...

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Here's to you, scat-lovers

Someone at my job keeps defiling my "special" bathroom, and now...its them or me. I want my pristine private crapper back.

And by defiling, I mean:

1. Splatters (both on toilet and WALL)

2. A smell like the smell when you drive behind a garbage truck

3. Flakes of dry ass-skin on the seat (there... I just gagged a little with that one)

4. A confounding inability to get dirty paper towels in the garbage- on the floor next to the toilet seems to be the defilers spot of choice*.

*I can only assume that this repulsive excuse of a woman (yes, the boys have their own) is also wiping her swamp ass with these paper towels and depositing them on the floor.

I am going to find the defiler.

Then I will poop on them.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Oh sweet brain, ours is a dysfunctional relationship

I forget things.
Not just small things- EVERYTHING.
This, as you can well imagine, is embarrassing at times.

My forgetfulness, my dears, is not your run-of-the-mill forgetfulness, either. I doubt there are many people who have missed three, count 'em, three appointments in one week (Lunch, therapist and a work meeting- I have since given up on the therapist- she should have seen this as something we could have "worked" on. She obviously didn't "get" me). As mentioned previously, I forgot Mr. Whiskeymarie's exact birthday, and regularly forget my own anniversary. Again, though, I still find those two funny.

Day-planners end up in garage sales (Hey! A 2001 leather-bound planner for a quarter! And really, I only wrote in two weeks of January- what a find!). Likewise the expensive palm pilot. Some schmuck paid $20 for it- he doesn't realize I would have paid him to get it away from me forever - it made me feel angry and inadequate in the way only technology can.

The palm pilot incident only reinforced what I already knew- my brain is shrinking.

Many years of cocktails, People magazine, way too much coffee, failed experimentation with various illegal substances, Us magazine,, hundreds of First Avenue shows in the late 80's-early 90's, MTV, retarded boyfriends, 1200 cans of Aqua Net used 1984-1989, more cocktails, inhaled exhaust fumes from driving to countless crappy jobs, countless crappy jobs (hello hotel maid? Servicemaster? convenience store clerk? bowling alley waitress?), enjoying the smell of gasoline, mountains of junk food, VH1, and pretty much anything I have enjoyed or endured...
Has rotted my brain and eradicated what shred of short or long-term memory I had in the first place.

But, I have found my savior. I have discovered

They are my new heroes. Just type in a memo, and they send you reminder e-mails. Strangely/luckily enough, I would never forget to check my e-mail. My brain thinks it's funny like that. I also can tell you what I wore to a wedding/party/dinner 8 years ago, down to the perfume I wore. Yet I lose my keys daily. Fucking brain.

I love the way I love skittles, pork products and roller coasters.
I would french-kiss them, if they'd let me.

They just sent me a reminder today- "Meeting on Friday! 11:30!". And, they'll send another tomorrow, as well as Friday morning. You would maybe find this annoying. I, do not.

I mean it about the kissing thing. I would even let see me naked, as long as our relationship can continue the way it has so far. Just don't tell my brain there's a new guy in town & he does a better job of servicing me, if you know what I mean.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Goody goody

So, lunch with Leon- sweetest person ever, turns out it was his birthday yesterday. He's 76. Now I know. I ordered us cake to top off our cheeseburgers & waffle fries, and it was delicious.
I love cake. And they put a candle in it.
I wonder, what did Leon wish for?

Driving home, I saw a girl crossing Snelling Ave and I noticed something odd.

A Goody comb in her back pocket.

She was young- 18 or 19, but there it was in all its glory. Someone tell me- is this cool again? I don't remember this being even remotely cool since about 1983 when I rocked mine with puffy stickers on it. I really hope it isn't, but at the same time I would love a reason to buy puffy stickers again.


I wanted to wash my car today, but it seems that my wholly unique idea to do so is not so unique after all. There was a line around the block for one car wash I passed. Bastards- stealing my idea.

I once went an entire winter without washing my mechanical lady-friend. This winter I've managed to wash the windows whenever I get gas, but unfortunately the cleaning fluid dripping down the sides & through the salt/dirt mixture makes my beauty look as if she is oozing something unseemly. No wonder she is starting to hate me- I look prettier than her.


Stopped at T.J's & once again established my right to the throne as queen bargain bitch.
Two halter tops and a great pair of cork-bottom wedge flip-flops...all for $7.99.
Don't ask how I do it- If I tell you I'll have to kill you.

Get your funk on, or off ?

I've noticed a common thread connecting many, many people I know lately: the late winter isolation funk. I myself have been afflicted. Work bores the crap out of me, I don't want to go out (which seems to be for the best lately as my liver has put in a request for some time off) and the only way I seem to want to spend my spare time is watching T.V, reading trashy novels slash "behind the scenes exposes" like the one I just finished about Sororities (surprise! they drink a lot, have eating disorders and are generally shallow brats). I used to work for a sorority- It's all true, and then some.
I'm thinking I need a hobby- origami, stamp collecting, erotic painting, making homemade cotton candy, cataloging my scarf collection, transcendental meditation, raising hedgehogs, learning how to weld, you know, something new and unfamiliar. But, I'm fairly lazy, so I'll probably revert to the usual: shopping, t.v & organizing my closet (which generally includes trying on dresses I never wear and walking around the house a bit -with matching shoes-so I can justify keeping them).


I am having lunch today with my guy Leon. Leon & I have a strange, but wonderful relationship. He was a customer of mine when I was a server at a restaurant by my house. I abandon/dump fringe friends on a regular basis, but he & I have been getting together for lunch or coffee for a while now, and I like seeing him. He's in his late 60's/early 70's, and I think he is just lonely. I tend to attract people who need people to talk to.
I am Mumford. Total strangers will single me out, tell me their problems (oh, your job as a phone sex operator isn't working out? Your ex-husband stole all your underwear AND your '82 Buick Regal? Tell me more!) and want my opinion. Frankly, I enjoy my role as laundromat psychologist. Nothing excites me more than learning all the gory details of people's lives. I don't care if you drive a mercedes to your job as the premier horse whisperer in the state, or if you take the bus 2 hours to your job as sock sorter at the Buster Brown factory- I want all the details. What you had for breakfast, why you chose your outfit, who you had sex with last night- I will be entertained for hours.
I can't decide if this is a fault or a gift, or just kind of sad.

I guess if someone wants me there, knowing all the details, then shit, let me make some coffee and whip up a bundt cake- we're gonna be here a while.


I think to try to alleviate the funk today I will buy myself a new pair of undies. And maybe new socks. And maybe a sweater on sale as it is that time of year. And maybe some crack.

I have the day off- anything's possible.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

baked goods and Baywatch

So far, this has been a near-perfect Sunday. Gray & cloudy (the way I like it- really) and quiet as the spouse has been gone with the boys on a sports-related, kind of gay weekend involving mustaches and North Dakota. I've baked banana muffins & am in the process of baking bread- I can be achingly domestic when I set my mind to it.

The best part of my day, however, does not involve carbohydrates.
It involves Court T.V, and the best show on it:

Beach Patrol!

Drunk, scantily-clad kids + Beach cops & lifeguards = hours of entertainment.

So far, it has been on for 2&1/2 hours. I feel like I've entered a never-ending buffet of guilty pleasure. My favorite incident so far is a toss up- Is it the drunk 17-year old bikini-clad girl who, when informed the cops were calling her parents proceeded to insult the cops & throw things...or is it the two guys playing beach volleyball that ran into each other, somehow breaking one of their legs so badly the bone was sticking out of a HUGE gaping wound? Who can choose?

Boobs, frat boys, crazy homeless people, jellyfish, fat guys in speedos, thin guys in speedos, beer bongs and fights...oh my.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Wiggly food is the best food

Oh, and...
I made the most awesomely awesome jell-o mold tonight:

Lime on the bottom, cherry on the top.

I love you, wiggly technicolor marvel of man.

Now, I shall eat you.

MOA, you're a stinking whore

I love me some Mall of America.

Went there today with my gal Blondie. It was Saturday, we knew what we were getting into. Usually going somewhere THAT packed with mouth-breathers generally induces a mini panic-attack for me. Not so at my beloved MOA. Bring it on, I say (usually).

There were a lot of ugly people there today. Also lots of rotten children, slow-walkers, hee-haws and tards. Oh, and some sort of knitting convention (???). Usually this potpourri of humankind would induce a euphoria for me that I can only guess is much like heroin. We even had bloody marys before said pilgrimage (shortest trip on the wagon-EVER- I know) which should have only enhanced the experience. But alas, not so much.

Once the booze wore off, and a few purchases made ($29.99 red wedge sandals, $9.90 pink linen skirt, $5 shirt) we had to get the hell out. Put all those people in one spot, factor in the fat lolling around, the heavy breathing induced from WALKING, all of the deep fryers at all of the restaurants going full-tilt...and yes sir, you've got yourself one hot, smelly, festering cesspool. Gross.

MOA my dear, you stink. Bad. And you make me a bad way.
I'll be back to visit you, purchase your wares and have a martini or two, but not until you get rid of a few of those other assholes you let in.

We need you all to ourselves.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Marbles in my head, squirrels in my belly

Somebody call AA, they've got a new member on the way.

I met up with my gal Mecca last night. Mr. Whiskeymarie was understandably concerned, as the two of us girls have had only ONE successful night out where controlled ourselves, safely drove ourselves home and didn't have a hangover. I promised I would behave, thinking I would...but I can be a real liar sometimes. I think I may have had 7 glasses of wine, but I'm not entirely sure. I know a cab took me home (my other gal ReRe informed me of this as she was the one who poured me in the cab's back seat), yet a fair amount of the evening in question is a blur. ReRe ended up sleeping at work (the debauchery in question took place at her bar), which I'm sure thrilled her husband.

Mr. Whiskeymarie is, understandably, pissed.

Ms. Whiskeymarie is, understandably, on the wagon.

I am way too old for this. Good thing Mecca & myself only hang out once every 6 months or so. We decided that next time we'll bring the husbands- we can't be trusted on our own.

I have a headache no drug can fix, I left the contents of my stomach in the commode once already today (and by the rumbling still there, it's gonna happen again), and I feel like the world's biggest asshole. Plus I had to work today- yay!

Going out is fun.

So much so that I think any more of said "fun" may kill me, so maybe it's best if I just stay home from now on.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Cake...or sex? Hmmm...sexcake?

To sum up yesterday:


Also: great, yet unexpected, sex.

Overall - good day.

Also: flower seeds and coco puffs. Long story.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Tell me why the hell I put up with you again? Oh, wait, sorry. It's the other way around...

My moral barometer/husband and myself have been together a looooong time. 1/3 of my life, to be exact (I just realized that today and I can't decide if that makes me feel special, "special" or just old). We just found out this summer that some of my relatives openly discussed how brief our blessed union would be. Most guessed 6 months. I actually never thought we'd go this long either, and now I'm way too lazy to ever date again. I'm such a train wreck I could do my own reality-dating show, and I don't think that would be good for anyone involved.

He's a better person then I am, I'm lucky every day he's in my life, and here are 10 reasons why:

1. Once, I forgot what day his birthday was & did the "happy birthday" thing a day late. This would have been o.k. if we were still in the "getting to know you" phase, but I think we had been married 5-6 years at this point. I still think this is funny.

2. I also very often (every year) have to ask him, "what day is our anniversary again?". I personally think this is also pretty freaking funny. I think he thinks I'm joking.

3. He almost never gets drunk, therefore he is the best present I could have EVER hoped for- my own designated driver.

4. He lets me decide what pizza to order. He wasn't overcome with joy by the first pineapple, sausage & jalapeno beauty, but he's come around. BEST PIZZA EVER. Really. No, Really.

5. He has NEVER "been too tired" when I am soberly or drunkenly groping him at all hours. He's always game. And, he still thinks I'm hot.

6. And, he still thinks I'm hot. Had to repeat as I still have trouble with this one. I mean, I think I'm a sexpot, but I have the reverse of body-image disorder, in that I have high self-esteem and can't believe that Clive Owen hasn't called yet. I'm still waiting baby...

7. He does all the bills. For this alone, I would marry him again. Plus, If I did them (we flirted with this long ago, with "mixed" results), we would probably lose the house, lose the cars & be on the run from the law in about 30 seconds.

8. I make WAY more money than him, and he's o.k. with that. I think he prefers his pimp being a bitch. He said the other way around made his ass hurt.

9. He will listen/pretend to listen to me rant about work, friends, shopping, nonsensical bullshit- whatever, without looking bored or changing the subject. Seriously. He even asks questions sometimes, I'm sure against his better judgement. Once I went off about shopping with my friends (god, this even bores me) for shit, maybe 45 minutes. I would have slapped me.

10. He puts up with me, is entertained by my many psychoses, is supportive, stays calm in most situations, can fix things, reads real books, has the best skin, prettiest green eyes and Hobbit feet, does/wears things I specifically tell him NOT to, and, and, and...

and he never ceases to amaze me.

There you go. Back to talk of cooches and bloody thumbs later.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Delicious sauerkraut, you tempt me with your sexy cabbage lusciousness.

So, I'm not hungover anymore (haven't had a two-day hangover since my 15-year reunion and it was totally worth it. I think there may be a plaque saluting me in that tiny redneck bar up north- I'm freaking famous there).

Yet, I continue to eat as if I were.

Specifically, I brought a roasted chicken breast and chickpea-edamame salad to work to avoid any temptation, but it was sausage & sauerkraut day in the cafeteria- no contest. I can't say no to sauerkraut and any type of cured pork product - I am physically incapable. Now I'm thinking about a cookie or something to round out the experience. Plus, I had to go to work early today, so no time to work out.

This is not helping my pre-vacation ass. I leave in a few weeks for a tropical vacay (first EVER) and wearing a swimsuit is starting to make me sweat a little (said sweat strangely smells like vinegar & onions today- go figure). I'm frantically searching online for a swimsuit that has a bottom that resembles the control-top part of control-top pantyhose. Looks like I'll have to settle for a boy-short style that seems like it will hide most of the offending thigh-fat. Maybe no one will notice if I wear control-top hose under my suit- that would totally solve the problem.

Well, at least I'll be in a foreign country with friends who are in the same (or worse) shape that I am.
And really, I'm not fat or gross, just kind of jiggly.

Maybe I'll wear a thong.

On a side note: I am also getting my first ever cooch-region waxing before we go. I have been opposed to this inhumane act up to this point, but it's getting a little jungle-like down there and drastic measures are needed. I have an abnormally high pain threshold, but I'm still not excited about this. Maybe I should get a lightning-bolt, just for fun.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

retard: me

This is how I feel today.

I really didn't try to be good at all. No effort whatsoever.

47 whiskey sours SEEMED like a good idea at the time.

No Taco J's - chips & top the tater at midnight instead.
Today: eggs, bacon, little debbie nutty bars and Mexican for dinner. Plus snacks. Many, many snacks. I tend to eat through hangovers- If it's even vaguely food-like, I may very well snarf it down. Cheese is my best friend today - I love you, Sir Cheddar.

My head hurts. Bad.

Sweet, sweet, deliciously evil whiskey, why do you hate me when all I've ever wanted is for you to love me back?

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Where EVERY night is ladies night

I'm going out of town tonight to hang out with my gal Waffle. Whenever we to out, no matter how hard we try, no matter how old we get and how much we should know better, we end up stupid-drunk & finishing the night at Taco J's.

But, I'll say it one more time in the hopes that it may actually happen for once: I will try to be good tonight.

Problem is, she lives where we grew up & its a VERY drankin' sort of place. We know we can go out (or stay in) and either run into all our old freaks/friends or we can make them come to us at her place. Either way, there will be many cocktails.
I love cocktails.

Last time she had a party I woke up with no pants.

Wish me luck.

Oh, yeah, my thumb is feeling better, but it still looks gross. It will be a great party favor tonight.

Friday, February 9, 2007

testoserone, schmestosterone.

I work in a pretty male-dominated field. Generally, I'm o.k. with this. Well, except for the time just after I started working there when one of my cherished co-workers asked: "Well, you're not going to go and get pregnant now, are you?"

Yes, I know this is inappropriate. I get it.

But, I dish it as well as I take it, so...(mind you, said co-worker is less than svelte on a good day) I said no but asked him what his due date was.

He tries to stay on my good side now.

Like I said, I'm o.k. working around this. Except when I know I'm being shut out because I'm a girl. That shit pisses me off.

The couple of guys that I work with on a daily basis & myself have gone out for a beer or two after work, on occasion. We share a sort of solidarity as we are all fairly new to our jobs - we sort of work as a team.
I know it's high school of me, but they went out a few nights ago & didn't ask me with, and my feelings are hurt. They didn't try to hide it from me- they thought I would be working late, so they didn't bother asking. They've been real "buddy-buddy" lately and I feel like the girl at the dance with the club foot and wandering eye. No one slow-dances to "every rose has it's thorn" with that girl.

I didn't work late, and had they bothered to ask...Hmmmm.

I hate how clueless men are sometimes.

I hate how much of a whiny GIRL I can be, sometimes.
(my sincere apologies to whiny girls everywhere)

Damn you, breasts, vagina and estrogen!

Thursday, February 8, 2007

two thumbs up (well, 1 & 7/8 thumbs, anyways)

i had a few items i wanted to post, but i accidentally cut a huge chunk of my thumb off today, so i am typing very slowly with one hand, therefore no capitalization. i am retardedly uncoordinated sometimes.
plus, my thumbs are abnormally large already (look, man-thumbs!) and several layers of band-aids are not helping my vanity whatsoever.

icky, I know.

i am an idiot.

Tuesday, February 6, 2007

Oh sweet lottery gods, when will you rain your golden showers of joy on me?

Today, my job is sucking my soul out of my ass, near as I can tell.
Let's just say that I'm in the "education field" and leave it at that.

But, the pay rocks and the vacations are pretty sweet.

And, I do get to tell people what to do...and they do it.

And, I am rarely told what to do.

I guess I'm whining about nothing.

But I still want to win the lottery.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

That breathing thing you do...can we work on that?

I don't care how much you love someone, how long you've been together or how many bodily fluids you've swapped- having someone breathing their skanky-assed middle-of-the-night "look how well I'M sleeping" breath in your face when you've been wide awake for three hours is just plain rude.

That's o.k though, I had homemade white-bean chili tonight and I am feeling gassy. I would never dream of farting in your presence when I'm awake, but I will take great pleasure in knowing that i will probably be toot-toot-tooting away happily in my wine-induced slumber.

Smell that, sleepy boy.

Remind me again, how cold IS a witch's tit?

I am wearing pajamas. Still. All day now.
Actually, I took a shower & changed into new jammies about an hour ago.
I even ran to the Holiday Store for magazines wearing said outfit.
Don't care.
People and Glamour were calling my name and my motorized bitch/car had a fresh jump (too cold to go & get a new battery- I can wait). When I need magazines, I need magazines.

I usually make fun of people that do this, and in fact I did just that yesterday at lunch at Punch Pizza with some douchebag that was wearing obvious jammy bottoms (thin cotton, striped, drawstring waist) and a pastel sweatshirt. But, c'mon, running to your local ghetto gas station in said outfit is fine- if not expected- but going to lunch & ordering a bottle of wine seems a big enough event to PUT PANTS ON for christ's sake. If I go through the trouble on a -20 degree day to put a bra and reasonably good jeans on, I don't want to see your ugly, lazy ass with your dingle-dangle rolling around in your kleenex-thin pants while I'm trying to eat my Vesuvio pizza and drink my Saturday afternoon glass o'vino.

I may need a Sunday-evening glass to help erase that memory.
Or two.

Friday, February 2, 2007

Fuck you, Mr. Goodwrench

My car wouldn't start today.
She's a cranky bitch, my sexy-yet-elderly mode of to & fro.
Yes, it's -20 windchill and that's to be expected with my oldish car, whom I love as if she were a beloved 3-legged dog with mange. She is physically deteriorating and looks like she has a bad case of puberty acne, but she's paid for (for a while now) and usually doesn't let me down.
I feel kind of trashy and poor though, trying to get her started. All my neighbors can hear me trying over and over, thinking if I just stroke the steering wheel just right...

Why is it that though I possess (in no particular order): very good job, nice house, great moral barometer/husband, good shoes, friends, etc... yet when I am in a situation like this (generally car-related) I feel like I need to git' on back to the trailer to join my baby's daddy for some malt-liquor-swillin' hee-haw-style humpin?

Actually, come to think of it, that would be way more fun than work.

And it is Friday...

Trashy is as trashy does.