Friday, April 27, 2007

We'll call them "charming beautylicious spots", o.k?

I'm Pale. And freckly. And I burn easily.

Basically, I'm who the Dermatology Association of Dermatology Guys use as their poster child for future skin cancer candidates.

Having had several suspicious moles removed for being, well...suspicious, I finally decided to go in, be humiliated, and have the "hey I'm naked- look at that!" full-body check. It's a scary appointment to make, as I'm worried about my scalp, having burnt the ol' noggin more times than I can remember. Plus, I've been inundated with magazines this month doing multi-page spreads on why you probably already have the cancer of the flesh, and why you have to RUN! NOW! to the dermatologist to check yo'self.

Well, let me tell you- prepare to WAIT! A LONG TIME!

August 16th, to be exact, if you want to go to Fairview University, which I guess I never realized was the "Dr. 90210" of the dermatology world.

Fucking August. I could burn three more times between now and then.

A whole summer to worry. Worry. Worry. Freak out, and...more worry.
The Mr. is going to love this.
A whole summer of:

"Look at this! Are you looking? Does this look funny to you? Does it look like cancer? Did you even BOTHER reading the dermatology textbooks I bought you? Hey- you're not looking at the right one! To the left- no! The OTHER left! What the hell kind of Doctor are you, anyways???? Hey! Watch it Dr. Funnyfingers- you're playing 'dermatologist, not 'gynecologist'."


(Please note, I am wearing a sports bra here, some objects in picture are much larger than they appear. I swear.)
(And, if there's no picture here, blame Rest assured, I look REALLY hot in said picture. Really.)

But they threw me a bone. I get to be on a waiting list in case something else opens up! Lucky me!
I suspect the waiting list is actually a pad full of little cartoon drawings this woman makes of what she thinks we look like while we're bitching about the wait- that promptly gets thrown in the trash.
"See who's waiting now- Bitch! Ha HA ha HA!!!!!!", she cackles as she crumples it up.
I suspect Ms. Appointment setter takes pleasure in holding my fate in her hands. Had I been nicer, maybe I'd be in there next week.
Damn me and my sarcasm.

I asked the poor woman on the other end how often people actually die of cancer while they're waiting for the appointment.

She wasn't amused.

And, so exactly why am I surprised I'm waiting?

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Precious, indeed, are these moments we two can share.

I can't move (I might wake you).

I can't go pee (ditto).

Where's the damn remote? Oh holy shit- is it buried in the cushions? Cause' there's no freaking way I can sit through an American Idol rerun. Kelly who? Kelly WHO CARES, that's what (sorry my lovely A.I. fans).

Oh God, now you're snoring. And Mr. computer says he's running out of cordless juice.

But I'm not tired! (screeching whiny voice here)

I love you and all, but when you fall asleep on me I want to "accidentally" push you off the couch.


Wanted: sinus transplant donor- will pay top dollar & throw in a family-size bag of skittles.

Ahhh, spring.
That glorious time of year marked by birds singing, an unfamiliar warmth in the air, tulips blooming, trees budding...
and runny boogers in my nose.

And itchy eyes.

And the feeling that a small colony of ants has decided to set up residence in my sinus cavity.

Up until today, Claritin-D has done the trick. Not so much anymore. Time for the hard stuff.

Zyrtec, my tiny little pharmaceutical wonder- you are my heroin. Literally. You make me feel better, sometimes I even forget about these infernal allergies whilst on you- but you zonk me out, junkie-style.

Once it kicks in, in approximately an hour, I will have to start main-lining coffee, or I can expect to get exactly ZERO accomplished.
Well, technically I guess that's what happens lots of days. I just usually at least LOOK alert & on the ball even if "catching up on some work" means cruising the internet for footwear.

I should feel flattered. I've been immortalized in doll form, along with my recently-discovered half-sister:

I wonder, do they still make vivarin?
I'm thinking I could crush it up & add it to a double espresso.

I'm calling it a "double mocha twitchy heart episode"- patent pending.

Starbucks? Caribou? My idea is for sale, if you're wondering...

Monday, April 23, 2007

Ask and ye shall be answered, my little lambs.

I have been passed the interview torch, so to speak.
I've been given five very specific questions to answer from the charming, lovely and a little bit gassy Stacy from the Nation of all things Jurgen.
I'll do my best, here we go:

#1) So, you say your Grandma sang a song that you have freckles on your butt. How does Grandma know? You don't moon her, do you? Because that would be bad WHISKEY LYNN MARIE. (Did I do a decent "you're in trouble" voice?)

-I never really thought about this detail. How DID she know? People in my family were always telling me that I looked like an exact replica of my Grandma (young Grandma, not the 70-something lady, cause that would be weird for a 13-year old). Maybe she was really not my Grandma after all. Maybe she was part of a top-secret Government cloning project and I am her clone. That would make a ton of sense. Then she would have just KNOWN that the freckles in question were there, because she would have had them too. A-HA!

But really, I think I just told her about the freckles once. Why we were discussing this, I'll never know. Our family is like that. Butts, poop, menopause, body hair, who's a bitch & who's a liar- we pretty much had no limits as far as conversation went. Pretty much just like the "Waltons".

#2) You said back in February that, for each week that is new to you, you will make people say, "that Whiskeymarie, what an interesting girl! How does she find the time to lead a girl scout troop, make needlepoint pillows for her friends, ceate art from discarded ink cartridges AND run for Congress? She's a real go-getter."
So, what have you done?
Or, Alternatively, (if you're like me), what made you say, "Aw, fuck it"?

-Point by point:
*I am pretty sure that no one wants me influencing their young daughter's minds via the Girl Scouts of America.
Typical meeting conversation as I envision it: "...and that, my little squirrels, is how to make a perfect martini. Any questions?" Or, "Yes, Janie, boys do lie. Did little Jimmy tell you he needed to see your 'special parts' again for his science project? Well, dear, he's a big fat liar."

I would have them swearing like truckers on meth within an hour, and craft time would consist of me showing the girls how to alter their uniforms to show off the "goods" a little more. But, on the bright side, they would learn how to bake up a storm for their "cake walk for prostate health".

*Needlepoint- something I want to do, but I don't see me walking into the "Yarn barn" anytime soon. My friends will get over it, much like I have. Plus, my man-hands make the detail work a real bitch.

*I have a laser printer. Toner cartridges are too big for my vision. I'm thinking re-creations of great moments from the Lawrence Welk Show in diorama form. I'm still working on this one.

*Congress? I couldn't get elected president of my desk, even with an unlimited campaign budget. I wouldn't even vote for me. I do like the idea of sporting a nondescript navy skirt-suit, tailored white blouse, sensible pumps and very "done" hair. I could rock the upwardly-mobile lady-politico look.

So basically, nothing. I've done nothing to inspire the awe I so richly deserve. No reason, except that I'd rather read magazines, shop, drink wine, cook and basically do...nothing. I'm greedy about my free time & hate sharing it with "projects".
Lazy, lazy, lazy.

#3) You heart Frogger, I heart Frogger. You + Me = Destiny ;)
What are your other favorite way back games? Describe why you love each of them in painstaking detail, for I want to reminisce.

-My all-time favorite game- one word...YAHTZEE. I love yahtzee. I would french-kiss it if it were a man. And, contrary to popular belief, this is not a game of luck. Oh, no no no. this is all skill. How you take your scores in the beginning will determine your ultimate fate in the Yahtzee arena. I am so competitive while playing my beloved game ("four sixes!!!! take that you lameasses with your piddly THREE- you AMATEURS!) that I may very well be playing by myself soon.

Also, much like Peggy Hill, I love me some Boggle. The sound of the cubes rolling around when you shake them, the anticipation while they land in their little cube-holders, the breath you take as the timer is turned over...Oooh, I'm feeling a little lightheaded.

In the board game category, my all-time favorite is one that I'm not sure even exists anymore: Careers. Much like Life or Monopoly, the goal is to make money. Basically, you go around the board making choices about your education & career and see who ends up with the most before they die. The most money = you win. Gosh, what a great life lesson.

Frogger was my video game of choice, but my Mom & I had a running competition playing Space Invaders, and holy crap, did we compete. She would play while I was in school, I would take over after I got home & try to beat whatever score she managed to rack up that day. I would get SO PISSED when she beat me. I think ultimately I had the high score, but I'm guessing she gave it to me, because she was good...real good.
Atari Space Invaders was the type of game that gained in intensity, noise and speed as you completed each level. The stress was crushing. The little "blip-blips" would get faster & faster: from "blip...blip...blip" to "BLIPBLIPBLIPBLIPBLIPBLIP!!!!!!!!!! Aaaaahhhhhhh!"
I only had minor panic attacks playing this, but I'm pretty sure kids all over the U.S. were suffering seizures from the manic pace of the game. Ah, memories.

#4) have you ever dressed in a bear suit and mauled a busload of sock puppets pretending they were small children? If no, have you ever done anything in a bear suit, sock puppets or busload of any noun of your own choosing? if no again, what is the next closest thing; or the craziest thing you've ever done?

-This...this is a tough one. I have done LOTS of little crazy things, but have I done anything big?

Little things:
* Got engaged, while drunk, after an evening of roller-skating. Didn't want to be a quitter, so followed through with a Vegas wedding at the Elvis Chapel.
* Dressed as Marge Simpson for Halloween & won $200 (first prize) in a contest at a bar. I covered all of my exposed skin with yellow makeup.
* Trudged through South Minneapolis for 2 miles in my Wonder Woman underwear after a little night swimming in lake Nokomis. Alcohol may or may not have been involved. I also peed on the front lawn of a church. Sorry, Jeebus.
*Speaking of Wonder Woman, many years ago that was my Halloween costume (before it was trendy, duh). I made the eagle top, hot pants, shiny red boots, head & arm bands, and cape. My bra was stuffed to Lynda Carter proportions and I had a wig that matched her hair. There was this guy at the party we went to that I long-suspected of having a thing for me. I guess I thought it would be a good idea then to keep pulling the wig off of my head, sticking my tongue out at him and going "Aaaagggggghhhhhh". I don't think he felt so warm and fuzzy about me after that.
*At our 15-year reunion- on a dare- I walked over and grabbed one of the bigger nerds from our class and gave him a big kiss. Not to make fun of him (being a geek myself), but more because I thought he needed it. He did, and he said it was the best kiss of his life. I may or may not be a legend at that crappy little bar. There may or may not be a plaque.
Mr. WM is o.k. with this sort of behavior, he gets me that way.
*Opened a restaurant. Only crazy people do this sort of thing, trust me.

Big things? I may have to think about this one a little more...

#5)You drank too many whiskey sours- AGAIN. You're way single, we have to pretend for a second. Please explain, in PAINSTAKING DETAIL, the thought processes and exit strategy you would use if you woke up lying next to this man:

(I'm assuming we'd be at my place because this guy obviously doesn't have a job, unless you count amateur porn.)
I wake up, the sun is shining, and for a moment , I feel pretty good. Very quickly, however, the realization sets in that I not only don't remember what I did last night, but there appears to be a Manatee in bed with me, naked. "Wow, for a big guy he sure seems to be lacking in the ding-dong department" I think to myself as I gingerly lift the sheet. And sweet mother of all that is holy, he's hairy.
Shit! He's moving- this means he's not dead, which really seemed like the best outcome here. Jail can't be this bad. What to do, what to do...
My head hurts...bad. Monkeys screeching in my ears bad.
I think I may puke, but since all I've eaten in the last 18 hours was a handful of cornnuts and a piece of string cheese, puking seems futile.

Oh god, he's rolling over. He's looking at me- the look on his face tells me he realizes that he got the sweet end of this deal- and that I was, quite literally, fucked.
"Hey baby, you sleep o.k?"
How have we reached "baby" status in one night? Wow, I REALLY don't remember anything.
"Man, you're a real wildcat in the sack" he says with more than a little touch of 70's porn star smarminess. "Momma's gonna love you, baby."
Momma? Do I have any friends at all? Did they not try to stop this? Was there not ONE cute guy at the bar? Man, I really shouldn't mix muscle relaxers and Jim Beam anymore.
"Momma?" I ask.
"Yeah, baby, she's gonna be so happy I finally found me a nice piece of ass to call Ms. Richard Cockenballs. I still can't believe you said yes- you're one crazy bitch, and that's what I love about you, sugartits"
"WHAT?" I said, while looking down at my left hand. There it was- a black hills gold rose on a golden band. I stopped breathing for a minute. I saw a flash of every ex i have- laughing at me and my rotund, hairy, mustached HUSBAND.
"We...didn't, did we? No way."
"Yup baby, signed, sealed & french kissed. Remember? When I asked if I could make sweet love to you, you said that you didn't want to have sex before you got married. Saving yourself, you said. I thought you were pullin' my leg until you proposed a few Beams later. Baby, you've made me the happiest hunk of man in the world. My 'speedos for Jesus' group is never gonna believe this one. No sir-ee."

I asked him? Am I that desperate? Am I still drunk?

I laid there for a while & thought about it while Dick flossed between his toes.
"Dick, what do you do for a living, exactly?"
"Why, I won me the Powerball a few years back. I'm a professional millionaire, baby."


"Come here, you luscious hunk of man. Baby needs her some speedo lovin"

The End.

So there's my 5 questions, answered.
In the spirit of the game, if you would like me to interview YOU with your very own, special, personalized five questions, just post a comment & let me know.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Ladies night, wet t-shirts optional

My little lemon tarts-
I am up North today (Duluth- it's freaking cold here too, big surprise) & tomorrow as it's Waffle's belated b-day outing with the ladeez.

Also, I got a spankin' new haircut.

Pictures to follow (maybe some nudity, maybe some drunkenness, maybe some scrapbooking, who can say?)

Talk to y'all tomorrow.
Go out & have fun tonight, report back to me with the details.


Thursday, April 19, 2007

Lord I love that lady wearin'...tight fittin' jeans

I was trying on a dress today that turned out to be more suited to a 75-lb. gymnast than I got stuck a little (o.k, A LOT), trying to get it off. I panicked, but managed to wiggle out, and that made me remember something from my retail days.

I worked for a store in Duluth for several years that sold overstocks, scratch & dent and out-of-season clothes from high-end department stores. I was the manager, so I had to deal with all the "problems" that presented themselves (though I also purchased Coach, DKNY, RL, and tons o' amazing jewelery for oh...practically nothing. Seriously, like $5 Coach purses, so it was worth it.)
And lordy, those pesky problems presented themselves often. I chased shoplifters down the street, had customers threaten & throw things at me, had to kick couples out of the fitting room for confusing it for the boom-boom room, and I have been far more up-close and personal with some shoppers than I most certainly would have otherwise cared to be.


One day, towards close, we devoted retail slaves were congregated up front by the register- doing important things like eating cookies and talking shit about the owners.
We hear what can best be described as a whimpery-squeal from the fitting rooms.

I send one of the minions to investigate (its called delegation, folks). She comes back looking frightened and slightly amused.

"Whiskeymarie, we need your help. She's stuck."

"What do you mean, stuck?"

"Stuck. In a pair of jeans. She put them on & the zipper burst. The button is too tight and it's kind of...tucked in."

"Tucked in?"

"Under the, you know...overhang?"


So I go in the fitting room and sure enough- this size 12 woman has somehow packed herself into a pair of size fours. How the fuck??? I didn't see a can of crisco or a crow bar nearby.

Imagine stuffing a kielbasa into a drinking straw.

I assessed the situation- meaning, I actually gained permission to reach under the belly overhang and attempt to un-do the button- to no avail, unless you count getting to tickle a stranger a high point in your day (which I do).

Wanting to end this quickly, as I had developed a serious case of the giggles which WAS NOT helping the situation one bit, I did what any good, devoted, smart and resourseful retail employee would do:

I cut the bitch out with a pair of scissors. Snip, snip, snip. She was a little freaked out, but once liberated of her denim tourniquet, she was relieved...and understandibly humiliated.

I saw her in her granny panties, and it wasn't good- I can tell you that much.

It was actually kind of fun to do, though. Cutting someone out of a pair of pants.

I didn't make her pay for them either, in case you were wondering. I thought she had paid enough already- she practically sprinted out of the store.
Plus I felt bad because I couldn't stop laughing. At all. The whole time.

So, kidlins, what have we learned today?

#1) A size 12 packed into a size four makes your ass look like this:

#2) Wear nice unders when shopping because no one wants to see these:

Especially not me.

Just to clarify: I in NO way am implying that size 12 is "big" in any way shape or form. The same effect would be had by squeezing a 6 into a zero, a 8 into a 2, a 24 into a 16, etc...
I am just stating the facts as they were presented.
Just know your ass, folks.
Know your ass.
That is all.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Little tidbits, much like hors d'oeuvres

So, in an effort to not give in to all that is depressing, wrong and soul-depleting in the world-
I'm moving on.

I haven't got much today, so how about...

Five things about me you may or may not know, may or may not care about, and may or may not be at all interesting:

1) I have been in 8 car accidents/fender benders that I can remember. Three were most certainly my fault, 5 weren't. My head has gone through/partially through 3 windshields/windows (explains the whole "forgetting" thing). Three of these accidents totaled the cars in question. I have been accident-free for at least 6 years now.

That fact does not mean I'm a better driver these days. I still talk too much whilst behind the wheel (partial cause of the wreck that totaled my first-ever new car, a 1991 Dodge Colt), I do things like fix my makeup & dig around the back seat for cd's, drift off thinking about how I'll spend my lottery winnings...and I have an anger threshold that is only slightly lower than zero. I have never taken this rage out physically on other drivers, but I have maybe yelled out my window once or twice- though there is no actual proof to verify this alleged behavior. The words "learn how to drive you old bitch" and "is your signal broken, jackass?" have possibly come out of my mouth, maybe- that's all I'm saying.
This hypothetical anger is usually accompanied by fist-shaking. I don't like giving the finger. It feels too common. When is the last time you had a good fist-shaking? Try it- it feels good. So does finger-wagging, accompanied by frownie-face. Bam! Take that- you bad
All in all, I'm not a good driver. I know this, and I am o.k. with it.

2) The Mr. and myself (well, mostly ME) got a dog on a whim this past fall. I wanted a dog sooooo bad. I knew I shouldn't have been looking on Craig's List- or at all, for that matter- because I am incapable of looking without buying, as I have proved over, and over, and over...
He was so fucking cute that we didn't realize he was descended from Lucifer's pet pooch until we felt the little raised "666" behind his left ear.

Cute, indeed.

Within three days this devil-dog had reduced my home, my husband, and myself to wimpering piles of rubble. He was a biter, and he bit my ass more than once, my face and basically anyone within reach of his jaws of steel.
I came home from work on the second day and Mr. WM was sitting on the coffee table just staring, and he couldn't talk. The dog had rendered him retarded. He had the look of someone who had just finished their first day on the job as restroom attendant at Old Country Buffet on "goulash night".
Not good.
We knew it was him or us. My couch was nearly destroyed, I was covered in bites and scratches, my house smelled like dogshit, and this sweet-looking little thing that the previous owner said was only going to be medium-sized looked as if he were going to grow up to be a pony. He had to go.
Sorry, Little Fucker- It's not us, it's you.
Back to the old owner he went, and back came our sanity.
We are trying again in a month or so.
We're getting a Jack Russell this time.

They're little, they're cute.
They can't eat me when they grow up.

3) My family raised chickens, turkeys and pigs for a number of years when I was growing up. "Chicken processing" day was never a happy day at my house.
I have "slopped" the hogs. Often in my nightgown.
I have chased turkeys around the yard that somehow managed to escape (I forgot the latch was open & the dog killed two of them- oops.)
We also grew most of our own fruits and vegetables. HUGE chunks of my summer were taken up with berry picking, or pea-picking, or green bean-picking, or shucking corn, or digging up potatoes...
Yes, I'm kind of a Farm Girl. You tell anyone and I'm coming after you with my pitchfork and a bucket of pig feed.

4) I got my period when I was twelve- on track & field day in 6th grade. I was mortified in my red terrycloth shorts (and matching top). I was completely beside myself, bleeding and all, so I did really shitty in my events. Embarrassment upon embarrassment. It's bad enough to be bleeding from your nether regions, but no ribbons to take home? Damn.
I didn't tell my Mom for 6 months or so- she started asking where all the "supplies" were going.
That, and I was wearing a giant maxi-pad when she took me swimsuit-shopping. I guess I didn't think she'd notice. Way to camouflage, smart girl.

Yes, I've got that Stayfree, confident look...

5) I was one of the first students to participate in the Post-secondary Enrollment Options act. It started in 1988, and that year I was one of only two students in MN that went to college full-time (a lot more went part-time) instead of my Senior year of high school. They hadn't quite figured out how the college credit-to-high school credit thing worked (my school used quarter and half-credits sometimes still) , so I ended up taking 56 credits that year.
Holy shit.
One quarter I had 18 credits. (we were still on quarters then instead of semesters)
But, I passed them all, despite the fact that I had gained a lot more freedom from my parents by going to college & very often skipped class to go hang out with cute boys. Or shop. But I did get my first, and only D ever. No one was happy about that in the Whiskeymarie household, I can tell you that much. I got the D because I skipped the day the Prof. said when the mid-term would be, and then I just happened to skip class the day of the midterm- go figure. I'm still actually surprised I passed.
Guess I'm smarter than I look.


So there you go- now we're all a little closer. Want to trade friendship pins? Or snuggle?

Monday, April 16, 2007

Reasonable questions I know there aren't any answers for

A teacher goes to work, a day like any other day. Same students, same classes.

I am a teacher. I teach adults. I sometimes have disgruntled students with misplaced anger issues and (occasionally) violent pasts.

I never think that I will go to class and end up dead.

(Well, actually it has crossed my mind before, I have to admit. But I try to not think about it. Today I have to think about it.)

Or, I worry that some of my bright and decent and talented students will end up dead.
In my class.

I'm wasting time worrying about shoes and the world is (again) busy proving itself to be cruel, ugly and indiscriminately violent.

How do you not worry? How do you not feel defeat and disappointment in basic human decency?

How do you enjoy your "moments" when you think, "That could be me, I suppose"?

I guess you just do. You have to.
Once more...push the worry and fear aside and just keep going.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Sisterhood of the traveling Aunts

Cheezy jokes from paunchy, washed-up Atlantic City comedians named Shecky aside, I adore my mother-in-law. She's smart, funny, sarcastic as all get-out, and more than a little bit of a trash-talker. I have heard her say fuck on many an occasion, which she darn well knows tarnishes her "nice Catholic girl" reputation more than smoking in the girl's bathroom during lunch hour. I have seen her really tipsy from one glass of wine, then poured her the second glass- at her request. She's pretty tough. She's ballsy.
She's fun to hang out with.

And she's got four equally loud, opinionated, charming-in-their-own-ways sisters.

Not these kind of sisters.
The familial kind.

This past weekend, she invited me to join her, my sister-in-law Maurey, the sisters and several nieces for a "ladies weekend" in a fairly chi-chi rental home here in town. Sounds like fun, but...

I had to cancel a few things first, as I keep a pretty busy social calendar:
- Friday night dinner with Clive (we try to keep it quiet, so shhh... I just hate all that paparazzi attention- our love is a special and quiet thing)
-my awards luncheon celebrating my extensive work with erectile dysfunction rehabilitation on Saturday
- my solo with the church choir's rendition of "Proud Mary" on Sunday

Loose ends tied up- Off to the estrogen escapade weekend!

Friday night we just hung out, ate cake for Aunt M.J's birthday (the fabulous, calorie-free chocolate mousse torte pictured here & whipped up by yours truly), drank wine, talked family & politics, and of course discussed things like ovaries, periods, electrolysis and why we eat delicious things that make us hate ourselves. Pretty standard fare.

Saturday morning I couldn't sleep in as my head was a little fuzzy from the wine and opium-smoking (it's always the ones you least suspect, you know) of the night before, so of course I woke up at the crack of dawn- something I have voluntarily done approximately three times in my lifetime. Somehow I managed to wake up even before five women that don't think it's unusual to go to bed at 8:00, even if the sun is still up. Angered at the vengeful gods of sleep and aware that I should try to "experience" the "beauty" surrounding this lakeside home, I went for a long walk. I saw and heard loons, woodpeckers (tee-hee...pecker), watched a big fish swimming around in the frigid water, listened to the geese circling the lake and marveled...

and then was once again pissed that I slept all of maybe 2 hours. Nature, schmature.

The rest of the day was eating, talking, shopping, drinking & all the other things us womenfolk do when given a basically testosterone-free weekend. I'm kind of surprised I didn't hear any burping and farting. Cause' that's what we do when you're not around, boys.
Burp. Fart. Scratch our balls, and so on...

The highlight of the day was when all five sisters got into a pretty heated argument, the details of which are not important. There were raised voices, people walking off in a huff, maybe a few tears, and then...
everything was fine, and we ate dinner.
Just like that.

My family, we hold a grudge for weeks, months, YEARS if necessary.
Criticize MY choice to quit my job and join a brothel, will you? Fine, but don't expect to hear from me for a while, you judgmental

These ladies, not so much.
Problem discussed? Check.
Feelings validated? Check.
Problem mostly solved? Check.
Hurt feelings soothed and healed? Check.

This behavior is foreign to me and therefore I am angered and scared by it. Crazy getting-along, rational, thinking, sensitive broads.

Oh well...

Time to eat!

Wine, anyone?

Friday, April 13, 2007

Have a good weekend, my darling little songbirds.

I think a lot... about the bad things we do to each other.
And the bad things that happen to people that never did anything to hurt anyone else.
And people born with challenges that most of us couldn't dream of coping with for a day, let alone a lifetime.
And how cruel kids can be.
And how good people die too young sometimes.
And how greed seems to trump basic human decency these days.
And how we seem to care more about Britney's divorce developments than, say, the teenager who stabbed her newborn 135 times and dumped it in the trash.
And how we over schedule our lives to the point that we don't notice the simple, beautiful things that make being here worth it- like a perfect cup of coffee or the way a stranger saying "hi" makes us feel good and part of something bigger than ourselves.
And how lies on top of lies from everyone - government, big business, criminals, etc...seems to be trickling down to everyday human interaction. It's becoming acceptable, and usually profitable, to be a big, fat liar.
And how so many people die violently every day in the name of religion, politics and civil disorder that we don't really register it anymore. We're too numb to even get angry.
And how we have lost our sense of community to the point that many of us don't know our neighbors that well, if at all, and we isolate ourselves with gigantic houses, fences and security systems.

But mostly I think about the everyday struggles and how we lose some of ourselves in the pursuit of a "lifestyle", or notoriety, or a bigger raise, or skinnier thighs, or more youthful skin, or a nicer car, or designer clothes, or, or, or....

This could be paralyzing. If I let it be.

But there are moments. Pieces. Bits that remind me how great my life is, how lucky I am to be on the planet, how meaningful and worthwhile every day can be, if you let it happen.

That perfect cup of coffee.
A kiss every morning before he leaves for work.
A perfect passage or sentence in a favorite book.
A genuine compliment you didn't expect, that you graciously accept instead of denying.
Opening a real letter, written with a pen and not a keyboard.
Looking through your pictures and remembering everything wonderful, extraordinary, awful and hilarious event that you've captured a little piece of.
A stranger opening a door for you, or opening a door for a stranger.
Homemade macaroni and cheese.
A day off with nothing to do but just be.

That moment you finally realize that the real things that matter aren't money, popularity, perfect skin, promotions or real estate. The moment you can let go a bit and just, relax.

It's And the moments. The really, really great moments.

Marlys and Ethel, meet John Kerry

Well, in a stunning upset, the green wedgies pulled ahead of the florals to win by a vote of 5:3.
The poor patent beauties garnered only 1 first place vote.
Boring but reliable taupe is sent to the clearance bin with 0% of the votes.

However, in the true fashion of our most recent presidential elections, the popular vote means absolutely nothing here. Zip. Nada.

They're out of green in my size. Shoe-whoring, teasing bastards.

So, floral it is! And I got free overnight shipping, so I can hug and kiss them sooner. I think I'll name them Marlys and Ethel.

I would have been thrilled with either, and now I'm pining for the green (punny, punny), so I signed up for an alert if they get them in my size.
I am such a consumer-shoe pig-don't-want-the-green-shoes-to-feel-bad-can't-say-no- pushover.

Thanks for the votes. Maybe I'll enlist you guys next time I'm shopping for bras & undies.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I knew this marriage thing would pay off eventually.

I am a spoiled girl these days.

I came home tonight- stinky, tired, incoherent and stinky. And, I think, stinky.

What is waiting for me on the coffee table?

A new universal remote? A new fishing pole? A new helper monkey to replace Mr. Picklefartz who, against my advice, started "dabbling" in autoerotic asphyxiation play?

No, but I do miss that silly monkey.

This might be even better than a monkey- A shiny spankin' new laptop.

I love Mr. Shinyscreen. Even more than cheese.
Now I just have to learn to push his buttons properly, if you know what I mean.

XOXO to you, Mr. WM for once again proving yourself the superior gift giver. This makes the spark plugs I got you for Christmas look like, well...crap.
I don't deserve you, cutie. But I think I deserve the laptop.

P.S. There's still time to cast your vote in "Whiskeymarie's Great American shoe-off" (see previous post). I'll tally the votes on Friday. I'm sure you're DYING to find out- like when we all were waiting to find out who shot J.R.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Wedgies: They're not just for underwear and potatoes anymore.

(Boys, this is a post about shoes. There's nothing for you to see here. Move along now.)
(What's that? You like the shape of my toes? And you want to sniff them? Well...o.k. Just don't scratch the leather, jackass. And quit fondling my arches. Ick.)

So, to reward myself with the bounty I so richly deserve for being, well, great- I deserve shoes. Shoes that remind me how ugly I am during the week when I wear these:

I need:

Pretty shoes.

Wedgie shoes. (Yes, I call them wedgies, not wedges. Whatever.)

Slingbacks- my favorite in all the history of shoes. As well as patent, my other most-favorite.

Oh, did I mention the extra $800 cha-ching I am bringing to the table via my overtime and humanitarian work this week? By humanitarian, I mean I have a friend who caters & needs my help this Sunday.
For many dollars an hour.

I'm still frugal, however, and I need YOUR help picking out my new pair of kicks, as I am cheap and cannot bring myself to buy more than one. Number them 1-4, top to bottom (ignore the clogs, dear god, please), and tell me which ones you think I should buy and why.

I know, they're not as avant-garde as I could be- and usually am.

Sorry, these days I like wearable AND cute.

Patent? Green? Floral for summer? Safe but versatile taupe?
Purrrrr....stroke my shoes baby, fondle my heels.

Whatever gets the most votes wins, and I buy.

Simple & democratic. A popular vote, the way it should be.

Shoes bless America!

I feel sexier already.
Now I just need to wash my hair...and shave my sasquatch legs...and make sure I have mascara on both eyes, and eat something that occurs naturally in nature, and get some sleep...Zzzzz....

Takin what they're givin' cause I'm workin for a livin'

One of two 15-hour days down...

One to go.


How could I have done this and more for 3 solid years?

I hurt. Especially my old, punished knees.

I once went a WHOLE YEAR without so much as one day off. Plus, I was pulling 14-16+ hour days. 100+ hour workweeks were nothing, bitches. I could do that with my eyes closed and a twinkie stuffed in my mouth.

Oh yeah, I forget...that's when I went a little "coo-koo" and had a sort of "breakdown".


Oh yeah.

That's why I love my job now. Even with the occasional suck-ass day(s). Like today.

And tomorrow, I predict.

I worked 9 days in March. Total. But got paid for em' all.

I freaking love, love, love my sweet, sweet job. And, for the record, no time clock shall I punch.
XOXO to you, job.

But today still sucked. Love or no love. Sucked. Ass.

Monday, April 9, 2007

Her name is Rio and she can't hear you

I have tinnitus. Not the self-diagnosed "Wow! that Metallica show ROCKED!" kind, but the doctor-gives-you-lots-of-tests-that-you-fail kind.

And it sucks.

And I blame it all on Duran Duran.

To explain:

In 1984, wearing pink tapered pants, a Duran Duran t-shirt, a pink bandanna knotted jauntily around my neck and (I think) my short, white, rhinestone studded boots, I attended my first big concert- Duran Duran- DD, for short. I loved Roger, My sis Snowshoe loved Nick, and my BF Tallgirl loved John. No one wanted Simon or Andy, poor guys.

My mom drove us down (I was 13, Tallgirl 14, sis 15) to St. Paul for the big event, bless her heart. She dropped us off at the old Civic Center & we had the best 3 hours of screaming "I love you _________"(take your pick of the guys). I think we all cried a little at one point or another. All I know is I'M SURE Roger looked right at me- he could feel my love from 97 rows back- we had a connection. To this day, I still get goosebumps when I hear "The Reflex", I was so moved by the show, being 13 years old & all.

Fast-forward 21 years.

April, 2005: I attend what will be my last "big" show (drumroll, please)....

Duran Duran.

This time, having more money and the burning desire to see my boys close up- row 9, center.

God, those boys have aged well. I think I am more deeply committed to our relationship than ever before, now that our love has had time to "mature". I started wondering if I was too old to play the groupie role & try to get backstage or if I should give it a go. My Mr. and I have a clause in our marriage that allows fornication with celebrities, as long as it's not Tommy Lee or Lindsay Lohan. We wouldn't want to catch anything icky, you know.

While I was contemplating my chances as a groupie and the lovely children Simon & I would have (with age comes choices- now I choose Simon. Sorry Roger. You're cute & all still, but you're no Simon), I started wondering about some things I never really considered before:

Am I too close to the speakers? Why do my ears hurt? Why are everyone's lips moving but all I can hear is what sounds like whales bellering underwater? Should I be worried?

Next day, I still had the strange underwater thingy going on, but I figured it would be a passing thing, like beer diarrea or stirrup pants.

Two years later, the ringing is still there.

My 21 years of sometimes 3 times a week at 1st Ave. for shows (in the heyday of my 20's), plus my love of singing in my car with the music REAL LOUD (is there any other way to listen to Air Supply? I think not.) has finally taken it's toll. I really never thought I would do permanent damage- dumbass that I am. But the damage is real, and it's forever.

I know everyone thinks they have tinnitus, but the real stuff is bigger, ickier and won't ever go away. There's nothing I can do about it. Well, except avoid caffiene, alcohol and advil.

Like that's going to happen.

I'm pretty used to it now, but when there is any sort of backround noise I would do better playing charades to figure out what people are saying to me. It's embarrassing sometimes.


Simon Le Bon: "Hi sexy! Will you be my concubine?"

Me: "What?"

Simon: "I said Hi! Will you be my concubine? You know, love slave?"

Me: "What? I didn't hear you, sorry."

Simon: "I think you're amazing and I would give my left testes to have my way with you."

Me: "Sorry. One more time?"

Simon: "You! Me! Sex! And shopping! I love you!"

Me: (shaking head) "Sorry. I didn't get that."

Simon: "Forget it. I'll just ask Kylie Minogue." (walks away, confused and rejected.)

Duran Duran. I love you and I curse you. I'll forgive you for my hearing loss if you let me be your groupie. I'll make breakfast every day. Bangers and Mash, or whatever it is you blokes eat.

Hopefully I'll hear my phone when you call...

Saturday, April 7, 2007

The money shot

Pretty much all of my activity in the past 24 hours has involved spending cash in one way or another.

A breakdown:

Dinner last night at Tampopo Noodle Shop in St. Paul. I LOVE this place. We shared a spicy tuna roll, then I had this breaded organic salmon plate with rice, a green salad with sesame dressing & miso soup. Mr. WM had the tempura shrimp soba noodle bowl. He had tea, I had 2 glasses of Albarino. We all know who the lush is here- this should be no big surprise.
Great meal.

We went out for breakfast this morning at this dive by our house as there were no eggs or any sort of potato product in the house, and I was really in no mood to cook. Nothing fancy, just eggs, hashers, bacon, etc...but really good, nonetheless.

Then, grocery shopping so that we may actually eat one meal at home this weekend. Cub super-sucked today. The parking lot was a war zone, people were literally banging their carts into other people, and of course there were the usual screaming brats, long lines & crazy people. I fucking hate going to Cub. Sometimes it's worth it to go to the hoity-toity grocery store by my house and pay $5 for a box of cereal just to not have to witness the battlefield that is Cub. I'm bringing a tazer next time.

Then, I was bored so I went to Har Mar for a little "me" time.
T.J. Maxx- 2 bras, 4 pairs of unders and a white, short-sleeved tissue tee with this crazy asian looking animal thing on it. Very cute.
-$25. Yes, that's right. $25. I am a shopping goddess- kneel before me and bask in my glory.

Marshalls (which happened to smell like farts today)- White 3/4 sleeved pointelle top, cotton knit basic black skirt that I'll wear the crap out of & a pair of tenners on clearance for the Mr.
-$28. Yes, I know. You don't have to tell me- I can feel your awe from here.
(On a side note- Marshalls actually had an Armani dress marked $995. When did they start carrying stuff like that? I seriously doubt that the Roseville soccer moms are going to skip a few car payments to get a wrinkled, snagged mauve dress that they can wear to a birthday party at the Olive Garden.)

Book on sale at Barnes & Noble:

Beer and nachos at Old Chicago in Har Mar- happy hour prices:

Grand total:

Guess it could be worse.
To be honest though, that doesn't count the 3 books, dress and sweater that I ordered online in the past few days. I consider online purchases to be in a separate category entirely, like Pringles vs. Doritos. Similar? Yes. The same thing? No.
Therefore, they don't count here.
So there.
It's my logic and it only has to make sense to me.

Shes alive!!!! And surprisingly, not a hunchback.

Just so you know I'm not Frankenfreak...

I am not an animal!!!!!
Though I have been known to have elephantitis of the brain.

I am a normal lady-sort. With nice cheek bones. And decent brown eyes.
And I like my freckles.

And, I have a rather nice kisser.

To continue in the "oh, stop it!" flattering vein, I've been told, on occasion, that I have nice hair.

Beyond that, I claim no fame where cuteness is concerned.

Much past that, my brain is seriously warped, I don't tan well (what with the porcelain hue & all), and I blame you for my faults. So there. Just try and be my friend.

I feel I need some sort of redemption after the lovely 80's shots.

p.s. Sorry Maurey, we seem to have had the same sort of idea today.
Just an f.y.i: I am not trying to challenge you in a cute-off, for the record.

But... maybe a dance-off? Hmmm?

Friday, April 6, 2007

That old bad hair, it ain't what it used to be

Days of yore...

I thought I'd post some pics from a time long, long ago- the elders refer to it as the 80's. It was a scary, wondrous time where youths experimented wildly with absurd clothing and hairstyles- with odd and sometimes frightening results.

I don't recognize this girl.

I think the hair was gold then. Miracle it didn't fall out. The boy was not a BF, just a friend. Though I do have the dubious honor of messing around with both him & his cuter younger brother. What a slut.

Yes, the female youth of the 80's loved leather and miniskirts. All of my skirts were short then. This is actually a granny skirt compared to what I usually wore.

Again with the short hair....thank god I got over this phase. Amazing I still had cute boyfriends & got laid, looking like an angry lesbian and all.

A little later- holy shit there's a lot of hair there, and some if it looks like it could be permed, but I'm not sure & would never admit to it if I were.

And, why oh why had we not learned to properly shape our eyebrows here? I look I have muppet brows.

This is the fucking creme' de la creme' of bad hair. I'd like to say I was smoking crack then, but no, I was probably just whacked out on vivarin.

I am cuter than the picture would suggest.

Waffle fares slightly better- but man that's some tall hair. I do believe we were the main reason Aqua Net hairspray made any money at all in the 80's. I like to think that the coating of hairspray permanently attached to my lungs will give me superpowers someday.

And you can't see it in the pic, but we're wearing matching (her blue, me black) REALLY short shiny spandex dresses that we bought at Stuart's and hid from our moms. Hot. Sexy. Bitches.

As soon as I get a scanner I'll let you see my prom pics- ruffles, bad makeup, bad dates and all.

Big hair... nothing more than big hair
Trying to forget, the shit that I once wore
And fishnets... whoa, whoa, whoa spandex
Whoa, whoa, whoa leather
Of the shit that I once wore...*

*Sung to the tune of "Feelings"

Thursday, April 5, 2007

People just ain't no good, part deux "When memories attack"

So in my continuing effort to karmically right myself with the world, another installment...

An open apology to those that I have been less than wonderful to in the past while I was busy trying to make myself ruler of all that is excellent:

#7) To Lil' Ms. Monahan, my best friend throughout grade school:
I'm sorry we fought over the Xanadu album and who got to be Olivia when we acted out the movie. Though, to my credit, you took advantage of the fact that I was really tall by saying that I had to be the boy. All the time. Plus, your roller skates were too small for me and I didn't have my own- you had an unfair advantage. Things were never really the same with us after that contentious summer. I started looking for new friends that were large & geeky, like me. I befriended Waffle and the other girl who shared my name & never looked back. Then you moved away and I never saw you again.
I've got my OWN roller skates & Xanadu album now- so there. Who's Olivia now? Huh?
But, still-

#8) To Crew-cut, my boyfriend when I was 17-18 years old:
Sorry I was already such a tiger in the sack when I took your virginity. I ruined you for other women and you never really seemed "right" after I dumped you. I truly hope you aren't a serial-flasher now.

#9) To my Dad & (belatedly) my Mom:
I'm sorry we smashed the car into that pile of railroad ties when we were trying to find somewhere secluded to drink our warm, cheap rum before the Rocky Horror Picture Show back in '88. We only realized after the fact that it was MY HEAD that made the windshield look like that. We went to the movie anyways, had a good time, then told you that the windshield looked like that when we came out. You obviously didn't notice the Lysol smell from us trying to clean up the boozy mess, or the large lump on my forehead. Thank you for not grounding us for life and sending us to a private Catholic school.
Oh, and I'm sorry for accidentally throwing the same car into reverse while on the freeway going 55 mph. The car really wasn't the same after that & died about 6 months later. I'm pretty sure I caused it's untimely demise.

#10) To Queen, one of my more "cliquey" friends in junior high school:
I'm sorry I took so much pleasure in how bad you looked at the last reunion. If you hadn't been such a bitch in high school I may have overlooked your 80's jumpsuit, gladiator-style sandals and feathered hair as "retro", not "sad".

#11) To Mr. Hot Loser that I "dated" for a while in college:
I really just wanted to date you because you looked like a J.Crew model and I wanted to have sex with you. We really only went on that one date where I spilled my drink in your lap and that was it, other than booty calls. I used you for sex & didn't realize that you really liked me. Then when I did find this out, a few years later when I was already married, I kind of rubbed your nose in it.

#12) To Nine West, where I worked part-time for about 6 months in '91 or '92:
Sorry I was such a crappy employee. I really just took the job because I wanted your sweet 40% discount for a little while. I never really cared if I sold anything or not. Once I amassed a nice little collection, I was done with you.
Ditto "Fifth Street Bootery". I just wanted a discount on that wicked awesome leopard & leather purse I coveted in your window for a month before I just bit the bullet & worked for your very weird store. You all were kind of freaks, just for the record. I still have the purse and can't believe how fugly it is and that, even with my discount I still paid $95 1991 dollars for it:

I'm really sorry I wasted both my time and yours for this ugliness.

#13) To Gustav, my on & off boyfriend for 2 years in the early 90's. I really shouldn't tell people about your third nipple, your 2" penis, that weird lump thing on your back or how you did very little in the last few months of our relationship except play Nintendo... naked.
But, to my credit, you probably shouldn't have cheated on me.
I tell people about your freakishness all the time, still. Can't help it.

Whew, another load off.
This feels good! Stay tuned for future installments.

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Does this make me a lesbian?

Today is an ugly April day- cold, gray, windy, icy & snowy. I suppose this means my outdoor interpretive dance lesson tomorrow will be canceled. Then I'll have to cancel my recital...well, then everything just goes to shit.

But, I digress.

This sort of weather makes both my lovely lady car & her lovely lady owner cranky. I sulk by means of shaking my fist at the angry sky and shouting, "you damn dirty snow!!!" in the staff parking lot. My car, well she sulks by freezing up- literally.
After the long, LONG walk from the office to our faculty lot (it is seriously about 3 city blocks), I gingerly approached my car, hoping to hell I wouldn't slip, fall & get abducted by one of the more frightening Dahmer-esque males in our building. Waking up in a double-wide, naked, tied up, with my head shaved & a ball gag in my mouth seems like fun for all, but somebody's feelings are going to get hurt here, folks.

No, my mechanical car-bitch loves to make a grim situation worse, so of course both of her locks are frozen. Solid. Key won't move one bit. And to answer your question- no, I do not have one of those cars with the "tweep-tweep" locks activated by some hidden button on my $90 keychain.
I just have a key. And locks. Well, frozen locks.

And, being that it's April, me with no lock de-icer.

I had to make a decision- go inside, walk the 3 blocks (yes, I'm aware that isn't THAT far, but hey, I was pooped), find something or someone to help, trudge back out, then wait for whatever or whomever to figure it out while I stand there & freeze my balls off (yes, I forgot to tell you- the movie 300 was so testosterone-fueled that I grew a pair- go figure)... Or figure this out- NOW.

I, being an impatient sort, chose the NOW option.

Thinking, for a minute, I ran over the options in my mind:
1) kick the door- real hard
2) Talk dirty to my shiny red gal & hope she's in the mood
3) Do what, really, is my only option...

Pucker up & blow.

So, having no shame whatsoever, that's exactly what I did.

I halfway checked to see who might be watching/photographing this odd moment, then crouched down, puckered up, liplocked my car & blew real hard.

Really sad part is, this took three tries. I'm pretty sure someone, somewhere in the parking lot saw this freakshow in action.

My car tastes like dirt- I guess that's to be expected.

I have officially made out with my car- I hope the bitch liked it. No tongue though, 'cause I'm a lady.

Although, technically I gave my car a blow job.

This changes everything...


I still want your food posts- what did YOU have for dinner last night? Hmmm?
Tell me your dirty little food secrets, my sparkly meat-puppets.

Monday, April 2, 2007

Tacos, donkeys and hookers

Back to work today after 2 indulgent weeks off. I'm not used to this working thing after my lazy time. I'm tired & my brain seems to be oozing out of my ears.
So, I've got nothing today.

I'm bored.
What did you have for dinner last night?

I had fancy taco night: chicken & black beans, sauteed onions & veggies, salsa, guac, corn tortillas. And, to properly end my vacation- a margarita. How's that for excitement?

I'll be smart, charming & witty tomorrow, I promise (of course, that's assuming that charm, smarts and wit have ever bothered to stop in & have a drink, a smoke and maybe a smooch here before).

Today I am Hee-haw stupid and exhausted as a hooker on "dollar night".

Sunday, April 1, 2007

I think I just sexually harassed a movie. Please. Help me.

I saw 300 last night. Yowza.

I'm sure it had a plot, but I am struggling to remember what it was as I was too busy enjoying that tingly warm sensation in my undies only glorious pieces of man-meat like this can inspire:


Normally, gratuitous rippling pecs and thighs (oh, the muscled, flexing thighs!) doesn't sway me (much), but holy shit- by "Spartans" did they mean clothing?
For nearly 2 hours.

I'm considering a second career in stalking.

Dear Spartans:
Please make me your queen. I will lovingly wash your leather undies as often as you like- I'll even use woolite so it's nice & soft for your junk. You can invade my homeland as well as me anytime your perfect, smooth, rippled self gets a hankering to. My husband won't mind as he likes your comic book & will probably think it's "cool" if we hook up.

I'll be waiting for your call, baby.



I felt a little guilty this morning for the dreams I had last night, so I made a lovely breakfast for Mr. Whiskeymarie:
*Oatmeal-orange buttermilk pancakes
*potato-veggie hash
*Turkey sausages (Yes. Sausage. You dirty little monkeys with your dirty minds...)

Guilty, but not so guilty that I'm not still playing house in my head with Mr. Spartan of the lovely leather brief Spartans. Maybe I can get my Mr. to start wearing a cape.
I'm pretty sure we're not quite ready for the undies, just yet.



On a side note:

Happy Birthday to my dear, now-gone grandma Martha.

I miss you.
I miss how funny and crass you were. I miss your carrot cake. I miss how you made fun of Grandpa and your dog, Pita (stood for Pain In The Ass). I miss how you thought all of your grandkids were flawed, perfectly wonderful people who were living their lives on their own terms- just like you were/did.
Did I mention the carrot cake? And the "Mock Chicken legs" (don't ask- they were weird but delicious & pretty much what they sound like).
I miss Christmas and a slide show at your house.

Yeah, I really miss Christmas.

I miss knowing that I could stop in anytime at all and you'd be there, in your kitchen, the perpetual cup of coffee in your hand...and you were always happy to see me.

Happy birthday, my April Fool.