Random acts of random randomness

After being the recipient of a random act of kindness (one involving a cocktail, nonetheless), I had boldly stated that I, too, would carry the torch of niceness. Mine is really more of a stick with a kerosene-soaked burning rag at the end, but it is a NICE stick with a kerosene-wrapped rag at the end.

I don't do this for the fame or the money.

I don't do it because I want a plaque or a medal (well, maybe a small trophy of some sort- please, though, keep it modest. I'm humble like that), but I do it because I want to show that I am not the sort to make sweeping statements and promises that I never follow up on (well, not this one anyways. This one is different. Like how I lost interest in accordion lessons almost immediately upon starting them, but that was only because I didn't fully understand my musical calling: the piano. No, I mean drums. Shit! No, it was the saxophone...).



Randomly nice or sort of nice or let's-just-call-them-nice Whiskeymarie acts in the last 1+ weeks:

* Gave away a VERY lucrative catering, even though I would like the $$, to a mom I like who just had the engine blow on her minivan.

* Sent someone close to me some $$, even though we're not exactly spewing cash from our money fountain in the back yard right now.

* Didn't call animal control on my neighbor that lets her 2 hyper dogs Bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark and bark. (our fair city has a 5-minute dog barking ordinance.) Anyone who knows me knows that I normally DO NOT put up with this sort of shit. I'm giving her another month and another talking to before I act. Maybe not exactly qualifying me for sainthood, but nice for me.

* Didn't tell a coworker she was being a total bitch, even though she was.

* Cleaned up garbage as I walked in my neighborhood the other day. My neighbors probably thought I was working off my community service sentence. I should have worn an orange jumpsuit. With heels and a propeller beanie.

* Had a random dog wander into my yard without a tag and spent the next 30 minutes trying to find the owner. When I found them, and even though it turned out to be the most hated house in the neighborhood, I was still very nice and polite. Though, it was a good dog they don't deserve and I should have kept her. Nice? Maybe, maybe not.

That's all for now- I have to go and do my second catering of the day at some rich asshole's pool party. I got called last minute & agreed to it.

Can I count that one too? I say yes.

Be nice to each other. Do nice things.

Unless you don't want to- then just be an asshole.

It's o.k, I do it all the time.

Like a bug on a windsheild

Oh, oh, oh- I almost forgot.

When I was walking into the wine bar last night,

Just as I got to the glass door & was reaching to open it...feeling cute and sexy...walking with a swagger...

These beauties let me down and decided to get confused as to which direction I wanted them to go in. Generally, my trusty footwear, generally FORWARD is best for everyone involved.





Sorry to scare you there, Ma'am. Yes, I did see the door was closed. Unfortunately I needed it to break my fall as I am basically the social equivalent of a Clydesdale Horse on stilts.
Yes, Ma'am, it is o.k. that you and your friends were laughing at me. Although the Syrah coming out of your nose wasn't necessary- really, it wasn't. Yeah, funny haha.
Why not laugh? Everyone else in the joint was.

At least you didn't applaud.
Like they did that one time when I walked smack into a glass door at a bar. Sober.
It think I did what is commonly know as a "face plant" there, leaving a nice greasy smear and possibly some skin.
I really shouldn't try to walk & talk at the same time. I should know better by now.
My brain can operate my brain or my feet individually, but never, ever together.

Dear Santa:
(Please bring me the following this year as, though I haven't been especially good, I really, really meant to try harder this year. I know I can be good, just let me work through the steps at my own pace, man. You know this isn't easy for a girl like me. Whiskey doesn't just drink itself, you know.)

1) A helmet, preferably in pink

2) Knee pads, preferably sparkly

3) Boxing gloves

4) Tuition to Miss Twinklebooty's Charm School for socially misfitted girls

And if Christmas could come early this year I would greatly appreciate it.

C'mon, hustle, Fat Boy- let's get this show on the road.
I've got lots of shoes and little coordination. Let's do something before I end up in the hospital.

Don't you hate pants too???

I let myself down tonight, just a little.

Out with Mecca, her pals Jo, Chef, and Big Daddy. Usually a night with Mecca alone has me waking up the next day- checking to see what state I'm in and where my pants went.

The faint taste of squirrel lingers in my mouth and I hope my virginity hasn't been somehow lost in the evening's debauchery.

Where do my pants go? Damn pants.


Tonight, well...not so much.
Debauchery, I mean.
Hymen? Check. Bra? Check. Unders? Dirrrty, but...check (another story, another day, my little birds). Dignity? Check.

Tonight, I was RESPONSIBLE and drove home 12:15-ish. Pretty darn sober.
Ish, indeed.

I hate responsible.
Fuck you, responsible.

Our night:
We started out at a new wine bar/wine shop on Washington Ave. called "Spill the Wine".
Nothing too exciting. Cheap wine, though. $15 pretty good bottles.
Atmosphere? O.k. Not bad, just o.k. Good people watching, but a little more "mature" crowd, if ya' know what I mean. Not exactly "Golden Girls", but not really "Girls gone Wild", either.

Then, Grumpy's for beers & bar food.
Mmmm...quesadilla. I love your pedestrian cheesy goodness. I would rub you all over my face and chest if these judgey judgmental-types weren't looking.
They just don't get it. They never will.
Shhh...I know, you love me too, Mr. Quesadilla. Our love is a precious and secret thing that we shall never speak of in public again...(muffled sloppy kisses).

Big Daddy had some porn on his phone that we watched while we ate & drank.
Yup, porn on his phone. A 20-minute "movie." Gigantic donger. Tiny girl. 'Nuff said.
Kudos to you, Big Daddy.
And thanks for supplying the entertainment.

After getting completely SOAKED in a freak downpour on the walk there, we then went to Cue for, well...more drinkies. We looked ridiculous- dripping wet and loopy. I had bright pink lipstick kisses from Mecca on the shoulder of my now-transparent white shirt.
I love being ridiculous and out-of-place. Always. Especially in chi-chi bars.
Somehow, magically, we were treated to a super-secret-v.i.p.-who-did-we-blow-to-get-this tour of the new Guthrie.

It's great knowing people.
Who know people.
Thanks, Jo. Your chutzpah is to be admired and stalked. Just a little.

We went on the roof. WAY up on the roof. A-fucking-mazing. Quite possibly one of the finest, but completely unavailable, panoramic views of Minneapolis in the city. We REALLY weren't supposed to be up there, I think. Our reluctant tour guide seemed to be sweating a bit that one of my drunken cohorts was going to decide that they could fly- "ABC after school special on LSD" style.
No, mostly we grabbed boobies and took pictures.
Sweet, delicious boobies.

Pictures are coming, I promise.
We all agreed that making of the love needed to take place up there, preferably during the fireworks on the fourth. Or during Sunday brunch. Or Friday dinner. Whatever.

We also toured backstage and in the "2.5 million gets you in the door" really V.I.P. room.
This room was designed for watching the fireworks on the fourth.
Seriously.
That's it.
2.5 million. Just to get in the door.
Again we decided that someone had to have some serious nookie on the couch in there as well- the view is way too good to waste. Pristine, unobstructed views of the Mississippi.
This room was way too clean though. It needed some, you know...messes.
Of the making of the love variety.
On the couch.
Bow Bow Chicka Chicka Bow...


But, alas, no REAL debauchery tonight. No one naked, no one making out, no one stealing things.
Not so much as a nipple.

Sigh.

So Mecca says to me tonight, "I can tell by your blog that you're not going out. You're writing about staying home, cleaning the garage...yup, I can tell. You need to go out more."

Damn.

And, amen, sister.

Girl Scout honor- I promise to be the same questionably moral and alcoholically-empowered girl y'all know and love.
I am not boring.
I will wear inappropriate unders and accost total strangers.
I will order more wine than I can, or should, drink.
I will grab my girl's boobies as much as they want.
I will pose for possibly/probably incriminating photos.
I will decide that onion rings DO make a perfectly normal dinner choice.
I will call my husband at 2:30 a.m. and make just enough sense to tell him I'm taking a cab home, maybe. Unless I crash at Mecca's.
I will stay out way too late, doing nothing of any consequence.
I will never use the word consequence again, if I can help it.

I will not be what my age expects of me.

This much, I promise.

Though, truth be told, I never was much of a Girl Scout...

Prophylactic sourdough and other oddities

I'm bored.
I usually love a 3-day weekend, but as I am really not working right now this is as exciting as a gift of a coach-class plane ticket, destination Des Moines, to a flight attendant.
And, no mail. I love mail.
I miss you, mail.

Yeah, yeah, I know how fortunate I am with the whole "time off" thing. I get it.
Indulge this tiny minuscule smidgen of whining, please. I ask for so little...


Highlights of the weekend:



#1)
I am currently experimenting, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew style, with various "wild yeast" types of sourdough starter. They involve organic grapes, flour, water and the natural yeasts that are present in/on the grapes. It's actually a very interesting process.

I'm on day two of one of them (they take 3-4 days minimum) and already you can see the yeasts working. It's a bubbly, sour, wonderfully sticky mess.




Right now it is the consistency of that mucus you get after drinking milk.





It smells amazing.
I can't wait to see how the bread turns out.


Hello, my name is Whiskeymarie and I am a baking nerd.






#2)
I spent a good deal of time cleaning our garage yesterday. Apparently I am the reason it is in such a state of disarray in the first place. I guess my "bag it and hurl it" method of storage is not working, or at least that's what I've been told by Captain Neatypants of the garage police.

Just give me the damn ticket and let me go on my way, officer. Sheesh.


Along with the $4,789 .99 ticket, I got community service- to be served here at 1313 Whiskeymarie Lane.

Sad part is...
this is the AFTER shot.

No, I'm not lying.

The stuff on the right is stuff I priced & bagged up that is waiting to go to Blondie's for our yearly garage sale. Yes indeed, between TWO people we accumulate enough shit to have a sale every year. It's sad, actually.



Tomorrow I am enrolling myself in the "Organize or Die Trying!" lecture series from the prominent Dr. O. C. Dee at the University of Neatniks. Wish me luck.

The rest of the junk? Well, I just decided I had done enough and would deal with it at a later date, to be decided by my parole officer.

This was about 4 hours of work. I'm kicking myself for not taking a "before" picture. This really is a huge improvement- really. I was starting to consider the possibility of just burning it down & building a new garage altogether. Come on over, see the bonfire & let's make s'mores.

Isn't there a "fixer upper" reality show that can deal with this and organize everything with some sort of $20,000 "retail-value" California Closets type of stuff?
Someone give TLC a call. Nominate me. This is a cry for help, folks. It's intervention time.
Please.

#2.5)
(This goes along with #2, sort of)
While going through old clothes & pricing them for the sale I came across two things as interesting as they are deeply disturbing.

My Mr. and I have a soft spot for vintage clothing. Everyone who knows us knows this, so very often we are the tremendously lucky, or, on occasion- frighteningly UNlucky recipients of old clothes.

Long, long ago his parents had given us a bunch of their old clothes that neither had even considered wearing since 1975. I got a few amazing winter coats from his Mom, he got a bin of clothes from his Dad.

There were a lot of cool things in the bin: a 7-11 softball jersey from the late 70's, cool old 60's mens short-sleeved mock-neck Munsingwear-esque sweaters, some cool trousers (yes, I said trousers. I like the way it sounds- trrrroooooouuuusers. Much better than slacks- ick.), a few jackets, a 70's green velour shortie robe and a bunch of other things. Not all of it fit, and some of it was way too "much" for even Mr. WM, who will wear a lot of things most of your average guys won't. Think plaid pants, a red sport coat, saddle shoes and a Fleet Farm stocking cap.
Yup.
God I love that about him.

Anyways, long story long, I was going through some of this unwanted stuff and pricing it for the sale. Suddenly something falls from a pocket.
Two somethings, actually.
These:





Yes, indeed.


Note the small print. (feel free to click on the pic for a better view.)

I'm guessing the "for the prevention of disease only" disclaimer kept the Catholic church happy.






I'm not really sure what to do with these.

They are kind of cool, but having them around makes me feel more than a little, well...icky.

If anyone is interested in possessing this interesting piece of Americana (with the promise that you will under no terms try to use them, even as a joke, cause' that's just plain ol' wrong), I will mail them to you.

Seriously, I will.

I would frame them & put them on the wall if I could look at the without thinking about...well, you know.

Any takers?


#3), #4), #5), #6...)
Other tidbits:

Grilled chicken sausages from the co-op last night, organized the "closet room", got a little bit schnockered for no good reason Friday night, went on many walks, made rhubarb-raspberry crisp, gardened, plucked my eyebrows which were starting to look like this, vacuumed, dusted, swept, cleaned the front porch, watched "Brick" and "The Squid and the Whale" (both really good) and decided against shaving my legs today, even though I'm wearing shorts.

Exciting? Not so much.

But not so bad overall, if things like a clean house, good food, good movies, cocktails and marginally decent personal hygiene are important to you.

This weekend, for me anyways, they were.

I hope I didn't just step in dog shit, for Shorty's sake.

*I'm full of disclaimers lately. Today's post is a little more vulgar than usual. Unfortunately this is necessary to convey the story. Could I just not post this? Sure. But how would that be AT ALL in character for me? So if you are easily offended by (very brief) talk of anal sex, S & M, and balls- move along now. If you are at all surprised- have we met? Hi, Whiskeymarie here. Dirty, dirty, regularly drunk girl with a mouth as vulgar as a trucker on meth. Nice to meet you.


One night, about 2 years ago, I had a "girls night out" with my girl, Bettie.
The two of us are incapable of hanging out without something inappropriate happening.

Once, not on the particular night I'm eventually going to get to here, we went out to help her get over being dumped by a guy that I thought from day 1 was a total douche, but whatever.

We started the evening at JP, a "nice" restaurant with a little food & a bottle of Petite Syrah. We then went to "la Bodega" (a tapas, not topless place) and had a bottle of Albarino (to our credit, we left about an ounce and a half in the bottom of the bottle, so technically we didn't drink it all). Then off to "The Independent" (basically, an overrated bar) for, to the best of my recollection, 7 or 8 more cocktails.

Well, it just went downhill from there. Bettie ended up picking up (with much coaxing from me) some techno-stalker geek who came to Figlio (another bar, folks) with us and bought us MORE drinks (see where this is heading?).

Anyhoo- the evening culminated with me splitting my vintage cocktail dress up the back so my ass was hanging out (at what point this happened, I am unsure), and then me getting tired of my 4" heels, so I laid on the sidewalk while we waited for the cab home.

I was the lucky one.

Bettie ended up consenting to ass sex with the techno geek. Then she basically passed out.

The next day I had to wear Bettie's way-too-small cropped jeans, t-shirt and turquoise plastic flip flops home, while Bettie had to give the both of us (me & the geek) a ride to our cars.

The best part was, neither of us could remember the guy's name.
She basically threw him out of the car with a quick "Bye!" and we drove off, giggling.

I think he stalked her for a few months before she told him off in a less-than-ladylike manner.
I told her he only stalked her because she agreed to anal. What guy WOULDN'T think he had struck gold? A chick that does THAT on the first night? Marry her, my man, quick. If she'll let you, that is.

Well,
This was a pretty typical night out for us.

So,
Moving along...

Another evening out, we started at Jitters (yup, a bar) with a few martinis (or was it Manhattans? Shit, whatever. I can't remember) and all was well. We/she decided I was not going to drive home as she was feeling feisty. Never one to turn down debauchery, I agreed to whoop it up, David Hasselhoff-style.

We decided to go to "Bondage a go-go" at this bar nearby. Basically, this is a sad attempt at an S&M night that this bar regularly has, complete with semi-naked cage dancers in chains, a girl in back offering what appear to be frighteningly enthusiastic spankings, and customers in various states of undress/bondage wear.

So, this should be fun, I thought.

I was wearing snakeskin pointy-toed high-heeled boots, F.Y.I. (this is important- you'll see)

About 1 drink in (maybe two- who can say?), this odd-looking bald-headed man (30-ish) approaches me and says something I think I can't understand.
"Excuse me?" I say.

"Can I lick your boots?" he asks. Yup, guess I heard him right the first time.

I thought a second. "Sure. Why not?"
Really- how many chances does one get to have a man lick one's boots? Hmmm?

I guess I thought he was kidding.
Nope, not so much.
He drops to his knees, cups my boot-clad foot lovingly in his hand and starts, well...licking.
Enthusiastically, and thoroughly. Heels, soles and all.
I pretty much just watched, exchanging looks with Bettie that said- "FREAK".

When he was done, he thanked me and moved on to scope for some kitten heeled pumps, I guess.

We then let two used-car salesmen looking dudes buy us drinks (turns out one really WAS a used car salesman. What a surprise. Guys, we can smell it on you a mile away. Seriously.) then decided to move on.

On the way out, the boot licker gave me this (click the pic for a larger view):








This is real, it's on my fridge still. Just in case anyone doubts.


















Luckily, Bettie and I have not had a night like that since then (and yes, I left a few incriminating details out here- we had more fun than it appears. Nothing immoral, but possibly some questionably legal activities transpired. That's all I'm sayin'...)


Otherwise we may have called Shorty/boot licker to take him up on his offer.


I blocked it out, but the best part here is he had his WORK e-mail on this.


We'll give you points, boot-licker. You've got some balls.
Sore balls, turns out, but balls nonetheless.


Have a good weekend, my little sadists. And if a bald guy asks, I say let him lick your boots. It makes him happy, and aren't we all better people by making others happy?

Happy Friday!

One day, two posts. Try and stop me.

Tonight's catering was easy & uneventful. It was at this place where many people make beautiful pottery, for some guy who wrote a book about pottery, "Kiln time throwin' pots" or something like that.
It was short and sweet. And, oh yeah-

I GOT TIPPED $150. One hundred and fifty dollars.

Seriously. For not much work. A little Asian man gave me the check. I had seen very little of this guy all night, but he must have thought I was super-caterer or something.

Normally tipping for these things goes like this: The service bill for one of us is usually around $120. We would normally get anywhere from $18-30 extra.
Not ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. Nope.

I hope he wasn't expecting sex. I didn't really understand what he said when he handed me the check, so...? God, maybe the hooker in me was showing again. Down Candi! Down!

Thank you, little guy. Even if you thought I was a prostitute. I love you.


**********************


Beyond that, I have a question for y'all to ponder.

What games (excluding sex, scrabble and cards) are good for two people to play? I'm dying for a board game, but "Sorry" sucks with two of us, and Pictionary just doesn't make sense at all.

Oh, and, we've already played "Cooties" to death.

You probably think I'm joking about that one, don't you?

A little help here? Don't make me drag out "Ants in the Pants"

Squirrels, hair and fish. Not necessarily in that order.

*You are about to waste approximately 2-3 minutes of your life reading today's post. No, I cannot give that time back to you.
You've been warned.

I hate talking about my hair. God, it even bores me.
But today, it can't be ignored.

I employed the services of a semi-famous local artist, Brucie Von Custardsnatch, to try and capture the beauty that is me and my flowing locks of brunette beauty today.

Behold:









I'll be selling this on e-bay later today. My reserve is $100, so warm up your credit cards.




No, seriously, when did my hair start hating me?
When did I forget how to deal with this knotted, frizzy pile that appears to the untrained eye as if a small family of squirrels has nested on my noggin?







It's not as if I'm not armed with a full arsenal of products.

Exhibit #1:






This is what's in my bathroom at any given point. I may have a few more waaaaaay back in the cupboard.


I don't even have my "everyday" shampoo & conditioner pictured here.








Exhibit #2:



A drawer in my bedroom for "backup" products.
I have no less than 6 products specifically designed to combat frizz.

Creams, sprays, gels, leave-in conditioners, pudding...

For future reference- pudding, while seeming like a good & tasty haircare product, is best used as a good &tasty snack.






I shall be hiding out in my home, probably ordering more products online, until this dilemma can be solved. I may be here a while.
If an agreeable solution cannot be found, both parties involved will go their separate ways, taking only what they brought into the relationship in the first place. My hair will get custody of the kids, I get the couch.

Seems fair to me.

*****************************

As I seem to be as interesting as oatmeal with skim milk today & feel the need to post pictures documenting my amazingly dull week, I may as well post what we had for dinner the other night:






I'm catering tonight, maybe I'll have a good story tomorrow- something about my wig falling into the lap of the guest of honor while I'm putting out the shrimp balls.

Or something like that.

Or not.









Addendum:
My lovely girl Mecca e-mailed and reminded me that I probably have nothing to complain about with my hair, when she has to deal with this monster on a daily basis:



And still, somehow the bitch always looks kitten-with-a-whip hot.

O.k. sweets, you win. My frizzies bow to yours.

Little orphan Whiskeymarie

I live here.
This is where I grew up with my two sisters- one older, one younger.

It's not so bad here.
The weather kind of sucks- too hot in the summer, spring and fall are always too short, and sometimes the winters make you contemplate a slow and difficult suicide like eating lead-based paint chips- but hey, it could be worse.








My younger sister lives here. Right now, it is the beginning of monsoon season. Up until her moving here, I may have confused monsoon the weather phenomenon with monsoon, an imaginary venereal disease.

It is very hot there right now, a crazy kind of hot that I can only believe would make a delicate flower like me melt into a puddle of sticky but pleasant-smelling goo with cheap local jewelery floating in it.

This is a long way away from where I am.

But...up until today, I at least had comfort that my lovely older sister lived in the same state as I did. We were a mere 2.5 hours drive from a visit.


Not any more.




Today I brought her and her Husband to the airport so that she could move here. For at least 5 years.

I am officially a sibling-orphan.
I hope there is some sort of helpful group out there that pairs socially-"challenged" sib-orphs like myself with caring, nurturing "sisters" and "brothers" that will take me on family-oriented outings and the like.

We could go to a family reunion and start a fist fight.
We could go through old pictures while drinking several bottles of red wine & cry as we simultaneously laugh at our purple teeth.
We could get in a fight about who's more right about, oh, I don't know...ANYTHING, and then not speak for a month.
Or we could argue about who was the parental favorite (I'll let you in on a secret- I was.)






Any volunteers? I'm mostly potty-trained, I love to have the back of my ears rubbed, and I rarely hump on stranger's legs anymore.


Call 1-800-ADOPTME to speak with a sib-orph adoption specialist.
*30-day, limited, money back guarantee for any of the following defects: excessive humping, urinating while laughing in a cackling manner, public drunkenness, binge eating of cheese, identity theft, ultimate fighting, inappropriately tight clothing, bad judgment and flatulence.
No returns on comatose or incoherent adoptees. All terms subject to change without notice or long-term thought.

The P word.

My family would never have been confused with the Bradys. Or the Huxtables. Well, mostly because there were only five of us and we weren't black. But still...

No, we were sort of a middle-to-mostly-lower-middle class clan of five that lived in a secluded house in a small town with a mostly stay-at-home Mom & blue-collar Dad.

I had the ramshackle, carefree upbringing that a lot of rural kids did- loads of freedom, lots of space, chores galore, always playing outside, biking forever to see friends. By all accounts, it was great. Semi-idyllic. Rockwell-ish, at times.

But it was the 80's, there was a recession on, and we struggled financially. Often.
It seemed to ebb and flow. Some months we would be going out to eat at Ground Round or Hardees and all was right in the world, and some months we would be digging deep into the freezer and root cellar to see what dinner would be. We were sometimes fine, and we were sometimes poor.

It was the poor part that got to me.


Most people didn't really ever know this about us, how we struggled, how when my Mom died later on we found out that there hadn't been insurance on the house for years, how sometimes we had to have powdered milk with our generic cereal in the morning. Most people thought we were on par with the Joneses, or in the case of my town, the Johnsons and Juntinens.

We weren't.

By much of my extended family's standards we were affluent- sort of a less hee-haw version of the Beverly Hillbillies. Several of my less employmentally-inclined Uncles thought we were "rich" because we had a microwave in 1982 (junk from an auction), a four-wheeler (much like many slightly WT folks, money gained is often money ill-spent), okay clothes (mostly hand-me-down and garage sale), and a big house (built by Dad & his friends- no expensive "professionals" or "permits" involved).

Were we poor all the time? No.
Would we have been classified as "poor" on a census?
Maybe, maybe not.

We always had food, we always had a roof over our heads, heat, etc...
Just occasionally I was reminded that we weren't like a lot of the kids I knew, and I worked tirelessly to hide this fact.
It was exhausting.

I wanted the same clothes: the designer jeans, the countless outfits to choose from, the Nikes, the Kangaroos, the non hand-me-down winter coat. I grew weary of trying to come up with different outfit combinations so that they would look "new".
I wanted a house that wasn't in a constant state of being unfinished, my own teen phone line, new carpeting that wasn't from the "good as new" section of the want ads, running water that wasn't constantly running low or out due to the advanced age of our well.
We were pioneers in the "if it's yellow let it mellow, if its brown flush it down" movement. As an adult in a constantly resource-challenged world, this is a noble mantra. As a kid it's a social death sentence.

I tried hard throughout my adolescence to keep it up- I'd sometimes ask my Mom to drop me off at the wrong house when I was going to someone's for the first time so that they didn't see our crappy car. Once my cliquey "friends" started to make fun of my house at sleepovers, I stopped having them over. I begged for designer clothes for birthdays and Christmas, knowing it was a financial stretch for my parents, but also knowing that they had a hard time saying no.

They wanted us to have more, they just didn't know how.

Then, I got older. And wiser.
Fourteen and fifteen were very liberating years for me. I started earning my own money via babysitting and mowing lawns. I stopped caring so much what my schoolmates thought of me.
I wanted to be different. I wanted to be unique. I didn't want the same off-the-rack jeans that everyone else had. I started buying Vintage clothes and shopping at Goodwill by choice. I knew how to sew, so I altered old clothes a la "Pretty in Pink" to customize them.

I realized that being the same wasn't necessary. It wasn't even interesting.

And I looked cool. Way cooler than the kids who looked the same, the ones who strove to meet somewhere in the middle.

Being poor wasn't a crime. It wasn't even necessarily a bad thing. It made me the ass-kicker I am today.

I can make my own fun, I can sew, I can cook (!), I learned to take nothing for granted, to appreciate simple things like laying in the grass and giggling about Duran Duran with my girlfriends, and to appreciate what you have, rather than what you don't.
It makes you waste nothing. Everything has value. Time, energy, food, clothes, stuff, people.

I think money, while nice and useful, doesn't make things easier, really. It definitely simplifies things, but then where's the challenge?
I never want to be complacent or indifferent to the struggle.

The struggle is what makes everything worth having, well... worth having.

Serving up a heaping plate of love.

Dear charming lady at the party I helped cater last night:

When you tell your 12-year old daughter not once, not twice, but THREE times (loudly, in the dining room during dinner) how she doesn't need to get her own water because that's "what these people are here for", you made me want to pour red wine down the front of your tacky crochet dress. And maybe there was a slight possibility that I wanted to punch you in your boring, overly tanned, helmet-bobbed, fake-smiling face.

Down the road, when your equally lovely daughter grows up with an overinflated sense of entitlement and she can't seem to find a man who's "good enough", you have no one but yourself to blame for what a selfish, obnoxious monster she turned into.

Just look in the mirror, you shallow piece of crap.

XOXO
WM

The case of the $10 hooker

Last night I had a work "sort of" function. I didn't really have to go, but I thought I'd make an appearance. I dressed up a little (Izaac Mizrahi coatdress-cute in a "dirty secretary" way, snakeskin wedgies and my sweet Nicole miller leopard clutch) and headed downtown.



After snagging a sweet parking spot at a METER (cue angels singing as this truly is a miracle sweet baby jeebus), I was sashaying down Market St. feeling a little like Marlo Thomas when I passed the St. Paul Hotel. Actually the correct phrase here would be "almost passed" the St. Paul Hotel.

Almost.

Anyone who knows me very well can tell you that one of my favorite (and by favorite, I mean a delicious cocktail is involved here somewhere) things to do is have a Martini at the bar at the SPH. They're always perfect: Grey Goose (or Bombay Sapphire) and just the right amount of vermouth with 2 olives. They shake it just so, and there are always a few paper-thin ice chips floating on top.
Perfect.

Like a magnet I was pulled in. A magnet, I tells 'ya.

I like having a nice cocktail by myself. There's something about ordering a $10 martini, settling in, and just sipping and watching the going-ons around you. I'm sure people wonder if you're lonely, or maybe you're a world traveler, or in my case, maybe a mid-to-high-end prostitute.
At least that's what I always kind of hope: "hooker" rather than "businesswoman".
*Sidenote: I always thought that, should I decide to join the Hooker Scouts & earn some "merit" badges, I would want to be just like the one Shirley MacLaine played in "Irma la Douce". Sassy, sexy and not too over-the-top whore-ish. And, Jack Lemmon would fall in sweet, goofy love with me.
Sigh.

I tried to look the part: Successful lady-about-town. I tried to not slouch, I crossed my legs (mostly to hide that I really should have shaved), I purred a little when I ordered.
As expected, I got a near-perfect martini from the very charming and distinguished bartender.

And I sipped.

I listened to the older affluent couple next to me on the right discussing some of the more mundane aspects of the day. I made note of the 40-something shortish man two seats to my left who seemed to have a French accent.

And I sipped.

The Frenchman was joined by a companion in a suit & tie, and the two men launched into animated conversation about their various business travel adventures they've had lately.

I listened, and sipped.

Towards the end of the glass I plopped my card down to pay. I really did have an "engagement" to get to, plus the martini was kicking my ass.

The Frenchman's companion gestured to me.
Uh-oh. Please don't be hitting on me, please don't be hitting on me, please...
"Would you allow me to pay for your drink?" He asked.
I blurted out the most sophisticated reply I could muster up-"Why?" (Confused, scrunched-up face)

Then he said the best thing: "Because I like to do something randomly nice at least once a week. It's Thursday already and I can't think of anything I've done yet. Will you let me do something nice for you- as long as you promise to do something nice for someone else this week. Plus, if it's not you than I have to do something nice for this guy (gestures to Frenchy). Let me buy a drink for a beautiful woman".
I immediately realized he wasn't hitting on me. At all. Nope.
Really? Not a bit? Sheesh.
Oh well...

I smiled. "Of course you can buy my drink."

I graciously (while wobbling a little from the vodka) thanked the pair and sauntered (well, teetered may actually be the correct word here) on my way.

Oh- I almost forgot, the guy who bought me the drink looked a lot like this guy:


But with worse hair.


And a much cheaper suit.


Still though, thank you bad hair guy for buying my martini. It was a sweet gesture that really did make me feel pretty good (and pretty tipsy). I promise to pass on the good deeds.

My first one will be to tell you this: Please get a new 'do. Please. You're a nice guy and you look like a clown.
Seriously.




I realized today that I just wobbled out & didn't say anything to the bartender about the whole "this guy is paying for it" thing.

Next time I try to drink there there'll be an artist's rendering of my face behind the bar as the "drink and dash hooker".
Oops.

Just my luck.

Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?

My heart stopped for a second when I saw...

This.

Thank you, my secret lover Valleyfair for giving me this precious gift. I will set forth on a pilgrimage to the holy land of thrill rides. I will worship at your altar until I am a little queasy from funnel cakes and beer. I will make sweet roller coaster love to you with my quivering buttocks each time I ride.

I love you, new wooden rollerbeast.

You will be mine.

Man-musk, roses, and all that is deliciously stinky.

Today when I was out for a walk I noticed a familiar smell: vanilla-ish & lightly floral, a little thick & sweet- an odor that instantly says "Lilacs!" to me.
Even with allergies so bad lately that I am popping Zyrtec, snorting Flonase and dropping this gift from heaven into my eyes, dang nabbit I do love me the smelly stuff.

Perfume has always been a huge part of my life. I wear it nearly every day. I just like to smell like something other than just me, and on some especially hot & humid days I like to smell like something other than sweat and a musky odor distilled from my intense hatred of the weather gods.

A brief history of the olfactory goddess that is Whiskeymarie:

Once, when I was about 8, I made lilac "perfume" with my friends by smashing up some lilacs and steeping them in a glass of water. This was my signature scent for the summer of '79.

Much like any proud 12-year old in the 80's, I wore my share of the syrupy-sweet, powdery mist known as Love's Baby Soft. To this day, the smell makes me vomit a little in my mouth. I once worked with a woman who wore buckets of it to cover up a rather pungent "gaminess" that hung around her like some sort of toxic crotch cloud.
I got goosebumps of the hurling variety just now thinking about this. Ick. Ick.

Around age 13-14, I switched to a more "adult" scent. Meaning, this one was still powdery, but instead of sickeningly sweet, it was sickeningly floral: Chantilly.

I loved Chantilly. It made me feel grown-up and whatever I thought sexy was at the time, which usually meant it evoked a feeling that someday I might actually kiss a boy who was a loner and smoked his cigarettes the way James Dean did.

Did I mention that I had a little bit of a "thing" for the deceased Mr. Dean at this particular point in my life? I had a door-size poster of him over my bed. This was about the time I thought if a boy was worth having, he had to be B-A-D. God, I do still love boys with tattoos, cigarettes and a snarl. Mmmm....angry boy.

Moving on...

At age 16 I got my first real bottle of perfume: Ruffles by Oscar de la Renta, along with this for my suh-weet 16.

If this were still being made I would wear it every day.
Every. Day.

This stuff smelled amazing, despite the dumb name. I couldn't wear it without getting compliments from everyone- men, women, boys, girls, circus animals. God I miss it.

Once Ruffles was discontinued in the early '90's, I kind of turned into a perfume whore. I tried it all every which way. I guess I don't have a signature scent anymore. I like mixing it up a bit.

What you may smell on me these days:

• Aveda for Men: this is my go-to scent for everyday wear.
• Coco by Chanel: Sometimes during the day, usually mixed with my Aveda for men.
• Antaeus Men's cologne by Chanel: I call this "come fuck me cologne", because it smells like the kind of sex you want to have but rarely do anymore. This is amazingly sexy and bold, I always get compliments with it, and usually get hit on by not nasty guys. Men's cologne attracts men- who knew?
• Youth Dew Amber Nude by Estee Lauder: regular Youth Dew smells like your grandma, and not in a fresh cookies and hugs kind of way. This version, created by Tom Ford, would make your grandma blush in her knickers- it smells that dirrrty and delicious.
  
• Fendi: an 80's classic. A little trashy, but it works on me. What a surprise.
  
• C'est rien que du bonheur! from Agnes b.: I got a sample of this & ordered it because it was totally different than anything else I wear. It smells like what I imagine Lolita would smell like- sweet, fruity, flirty and a heady overtone of sexy sexy sexy. Plus the bottle looks like those Russian nesting dolls. C'est cute.

I like to keep a bottle of Chanel No.5 around, though I don't wear it much. It smells like Mom. So does Joy by Jean Patou and good 'ol Charlie. I love when I catch a whiff of any of these on someone else. It makes me happy.


Perfume is a strong memory trigger for me.


I have the tiniest bit of Ruffles that I keep in a cool, dark place. I drag it out every once in a while and sniff. The 80's and my teenage years come back in waves- the boy I danced with at Faces (a teen dance club) who said I smelled good, so I told him I loved him. O.k, I guess we'll call that an "awkward at best" moment, especially since I now know he's gay- oops. Dorkiness aside, It reminds me of all the fun, all the stupid things I did, all the boys, all the bitchy girls, all the parties, all the heartbreak...sigh.

I can't put on Antaeus without feeling like sex on wheelz. If I'm wearing it, I'm usually going to get in some sort of trouble involving me "eventually" coming home after an evening out and violating Mr. WM thirteen different ways.
I would tell you to buy it for your boys, but you can't get it in the U.S. anymore. And if you come looking for mine I'll go "ultimate fighting" on your ass. Don't even try.

My gal Blondie gave me the most UH-MAZING perfume for my b-day this year. It's a perfume from Aveda called "Rose Attar".
Holy shit, this is wonderful stuff. If you don't think you like roses, man are you wrong. It's a small bottle and I don't want to waste it, but I have worn this three times already, counting Saturday when I first got it. It starts out all roses, then as you wear it, it warms up and changes into this complex, soft envelope around you. It's super-limited and I will cry when it's gone. But for now, I have it and am in LOVE with it. L.O.V.E.

So tell me-
What's your favorite scent & why?

Belated weekend update. Not much to see here, folks.

Saturday in Duluth for a belated b-day outing.

Once in town, I had to kill time as Waffle was still busy buying & wrapping my gifties & I was therefore banned from her house for a while- so I went to Leif Erickson park for some fresh lake air.

I'll have a Whiskeymarie on the rocks, please.




I was hungry so I picked up some grocery store sushi at the recently fancified Mount Royal store.

Note to fancy-pants store:
While I don't expect much from grocery-store sushi, I DO expect my tuna dynamite roll to not be infested with IMITATION CRAB MEAT. You are vile, fake crab.
Dynamite roll = tuna, spicy mayo,maybe avocado & rice. That's it.
Fake crab in just plain 'ol wrong here on 12 different levels.



Dinner was at this place in Souptown called "Le Bistro"
Worst name ever for a restaurant.
But the food was good. Real good. I had a perfectly cooked medium-rare beef tenderloin au poivre (with pepper sauce), a tater and braised cabbage with rapini. Yum. I ate it all.

Oh, and we shared chocolate mousse cake for dessert.
Me, Blondie, Waffle, Ms. Hotpants and Maurey.


"Le Bistro" is housed in a building that used to be the Souptown P.D. Cop Shop.
I have the dubious honor of being "detained" there when I was 20. I got into a car accident (my fault- duh) and in Soup, if you cause an accident, they haul you in. Awesome. I was with Blondie & our friend KT and we had been thrift shopping all day, so we were of course broke.
I had to pay a $75 fine to be released.
Hello, Dad? Can you bail me out of jail? (slight exaggeration here, no bars were involved).

He was never prouder of his ADULT daughter than on that day.

But I digress...

After dinner we went to Frankie's for some high-quality Karaoke. This little, unassuming little gerbil of a woman did the most Awesomely Awesome "Ice Ice Baby" that I have ever seen.
Word to your mother.

Then...Stargate.
To those of you unfamiliar, Stargate is a sad excuse for a "Club" where the people watching is as spectacular as the outfits are awful.
Bad R & B music & skanky guys hitting on you left & right.

Him: "Let me buy you a drink."
Me: "Thanks, but no. I'm married." (note: I rarely, if ever, turn down a free drink. I just saw this heading south real fast if I had accepted. Before you know it I'd be explaining to the Mr. why Tito was moving into the guest room "with privileges")
Him: "I don't see a husband anywhere. Come on."
Me: "I don't think so." I walk away.
A minute later he walks by with what appears to be a mid-priced hooker on his arm. He gives me a look like, "you lost your chance, loser."
I'm heartbroken.


I did get to meet the middle-aged love child of Paulie Walnuts and Johnny Sack from The Sopranos. He seemed unscathed by his fame.

He also didn't find it odd that I wanted to take a picture with him, the mark of a real class act star, I tell ya.



Sunday: hangover, junk food, driving home, more junk food, couch.
The End.
Sorry it wasn't more debaucherous.
I'll try to do something that involves me losing my pants and home bikini waxing this weekend.
I'm long overdue for both.

Sweet Marie...

disclaimer: I want to wish all my mother friends, lovely blogger Moms and all the good Moms out there a wonderful Mother's day. I hold no ill will. I truly hope you have a great day. I do.
I'm jealous. That's all.

Mother's day sucks when you don't have a Mom.

It's just another day that reminds you how much you miss her & wish she was around.

Miss you, Mom.
XOXO
WM

Treet, the other pinkish-gray meat.

Today is my last "official" day of class for the semester. Sweet Jeebus, I don't think I could be any happier about this unless somehow monkeys, cheese and new shoes were involved.

I am as sick of these guys as they are of me. My students are great and all, but we have spent WAY too much time together these last 1.5 years.
Couple that with the fact that the building is about 95 degrees and my entire department is bickering so much we're considering setting up a kickboxing ring in the office (actually, when I say we're, I mean I'm), and well...I've had quite enough for now.

I'm tired & cranky and I need to have some quality Whiskeymarie time.

I need time to catch up on my beloved hobbies: making homemade cosmetics from leftover cooking grease, and my door-to-door missionary work for the church of the divine Steve and Edie.

Sweet sweet summer.
Before you're running out to find your sparkly green "jealous" pants, I should let you know that I am not at the point in my teaching career where I get paid over the summer. Nope. You have to wait THREE years to be considered a "real" employee, and to get all the tasty treats that go with it. At least where I work you do.
THREE fucking summers of finding something else to do, when really all I want is to lay in the front porch, read, nap, drink cheap white wine, watch the neighbors & yell at the young hoodlums cruising the 'hood in my "crazy drunk grizzled old-guy" charming way.

Well, actually...(me getting a little sheepish now)

O.k, I may be exaggerating a bit here. I know, your illusions are shattered. Me? Overlord of all that is only the absolute, factual fact?
Say it isn't so, WM.

My sweets, I may lean towards hyperbole occasionally.

There! I said it and it feels good- like I imagine a hot velveeta rubdown would feel. I feel warm & melty all over- and craving chips & guac for some reason.

But I digress...

Truth is:
I'm not going to work much this summer. Not much at all. And I'll still make enough $$ to get by just fine. I'll just have to settle for jug wine and Karkov vodka in the plastic bottle, that's all.
Give me a can of Treet and a pack of ramen noodles and I'll cook the crap out of that mofo.

Really, I just like to bitch. At least today I do.

Summer may actually be satisfactorily awesome this year.

I just have to get through today and 1/2 of Monday.

If you're looking for me today, I'll be the one rocking back and forth mumbling something like, "must not kill them, must not kill them, must not kill them, one more day, one more day, one more day, monkey, monkey, monkey..."

Have a good weekend, my little banana cream pies.

*******************

I'll be in Duluth belatedly celebrating my b-day with the girls on Saturday. If I knew for sure what we were doing after dinner, I'd let the rest of you D-town ladyfolk know. Tomorrow is going to be pretty random, though.
If you happen to see me out, say hi. Or slap my ass. I like those sorts of "surprises".
XO
WM

My humps, my humps, my lovely celebrities I'd hump.

Let's keep this civil and simple.

Celebrities I would gyrate wildly with, possibly while naked, I mean...nude.

a.k.a. "Celebrities I would most graciously participate with in the knocking of the boots, unless they have the herps or chlamydia.


#1) The man who turns my undies into an intricate jell-o mold with gummy bears and canned pineapple:



Sir Sexypants Clive Owen. I'm pretty sure there is no man alive who can make a woman think the incredibly inappropriate thoughts that I'm having right now more than you, baby.

Just Call. You totally know my number, silly. Remember me? I sent it to you in that e-mail. And the 14 others, just cause' I maybe thought you weren't getting them, sweetie. Oh, and, hahaha, remember that time I mailed you that cow heart, symbolizing how you broke mine by sleeping with that SLUT in that movie? Good times...




My husband totally gets it. I think he would even consider being "accidentally" gay for an evening in your make-my-thighs-quiver in a pleasantly uncomfortable way arms.

I would understand.


#2) Just hear me out...Craig Ferguson.


Actually I don't know how to justify this.

He's cute.

He's got an accent, which is "charming".

He's funny. Funny gets my pants off quicker than smoooooth anyday.

I'm laughing while I toss my undies aside as we speak...


I hope he's not short. I'd hate that. Short just isn't my...thing.

Dear Craig- Please be 5'10", at least. I can't justify an affair with anything less. Sorry.


#3) O.k, just so you know, my choices only get MORE unconventional as we go, folks. If you're hoping to hear how I'm, like, sooo obsessed with Nick Lachey, well...move along now. I'm seeking the intellectuamals now, lady trashy.

Number three is Jeremy Irons. Circa 1992. Meow.


You make me wish I were a tortured English lass who just needs the guidance of a worldly gent like yourself.

I don't care how old you are now.

If you're not too tired, from well...being "distinguished", and if the reruns of "Are you being served?" are boring you to tears right now, give me a call, sweetie.



I'll be waiting. But not too long, cause' then we might need the help of this:










#4) Oh Lloyd! Yes! Lloyd! Oh. my. God!!!! Lloyd!!!!!

Whew. Just a little Lloyd Dobler moment there.



Whatever. Like you don't still think of Mr. Cusack in a less-than-puritan way. Lloyd, you can take my virginity in a car anytime.
I heart you.
I vagina you.

Say anything? Sure. I'll say you're the King of the world, if that's your thing, Mr. C.

XOXO, WM



Also, in no particular order:

Simon Le Bon, Elvis Costello, Chris Cornell, Vince Vaughn, George Clooney (yes, I KNOW- but I'd still fuck him), Chris Noth, Leiv Schreiber, Jeff Goldblum, Julian McMahon, Dominic West, Gerard Butler, John Malkovich (sometimes wish I were kidding with this one, but no. I love him.), Nick Cave, Tom Waits and many, many more.

But this is enough for now, kiddos. I'm a little hot & bothered & Mr. WM is out of town.
And yes, this is why I'm hot & bothered. And posting about humping celebrities.

So sad.

Who do YOU covet in the celebrity stratosphere?

Who makes your undies all warm & tingly?

Hmmmm????

Do. Share.

Office space, kitchen space.

Typical conversation from a normal person's place of employment:

"Say Bob, do you have the numbers for the Spaztran account? The boss says we need to get this thing hammered out by the weekend."

(or)

"Marge, have you pulled Mr. Clutchcolon's file? He has a 10:00 with Dr. Fingerprober and I need to see his lab work."

(or)

"I swear, if Cathy eavesdrops in over her cubicle on one more of my calls, well...I might just let everyone around the water cooler know what she did in the Janitor's closet with Ted at the last Christmas party. I SWEAR I will." "Oh, HEY Cathy! Didn't see you there. I LOVE your top! So cute!"

*

Now! Introducing...

Typical conversation at Whiskeymarie's place of employment:

"Wow Francine, here you are, about to graduate- and yet you still can't remember the difference between beef and lamb. God, I feel so, well...fulfilled as both your instructor and a human being.
Let's try again:
Cow goes Moo and weighs about 8-900 pounds.
Lamb goes Baa and weighs about 40-50 pounds.
I know, it sure is easy to get them confused."
(me to nice, but unfortunately brain-dead student.)

and...




*Poster I just got in the mail and can't wait to find a home for in my home.

"Yeah, we had to send her to the ER yesterday because she cut the top 1/2" of her finger off. It was really bloody. Funny stuff."
(Co-worker to me)

and...

"Someone in this kitchen has B.O. so bad it's overpowering the fish stock."
(Co-worker to my class. Class then decides to stop & smell their pits. O.k, I did too.)

and...

"Yeah, I have to go to 'sensitivity training' cause I called Buster a fucking idiot"
(Co-worker to me. Awesomely awesome.)

and...

"You call that a sausage? It looks like a cat took a shit in a hog casing."
('Nuff said)


-File these under why I love my job.

Not-so-wully Bully

I am a person who prides herself on her fearlessness.

I rarely turn down a challenge- the few times I have it was because I was positive that great bodily harm (myself primarily, but I am not entirely unconcerned with the safety of others lest you think me cold-hearted) would be the inevitable outcome. I rarely get nervous about new situations, I have almost no fear of public speaking, and some of my more unfortunate fashion choices speak volumes of my bravado.




I am, however, still intimidated by bullies.

Mostly of the grade/middle school variety.

I was out for a walk today, and I passed one of the many private catholic schools that one finds in St. Catholicpaul. Across the street, loitering on the corner before class, were four boys, probably around 11-12 years old. They were heckling their classmates mercilessly, making fun of the fat kids, directing grunts and snorts to the girls (for future reference, boys, this is the point of your life you can reflect on in your adulthood as the reason you can't get ever laid- it's because you're an A-S-S-H-O-L-E, dude) and generally just being, well...bullies.

Then they saw me walking across the street.
Me, in my cut off "capri" yoga pants, bandanna around my head, old tennies, stretched out & stained t-shirt and sports bra.

Generally, I hope in this situation that, like many a soft drink/dorito/feminine hygiene product commercial, the boys will stand, slack-jawed at the "hot" chick old enough to be their mom as she drinks seductively from the garden hose in her short shorts and halter top on the sweltering hot summer day. They will carry this image with them through the years, and they will always date older women who can teach them the ways of the making of the love. They will idolize us for the marvels that we are. In college they will have an affair with their roommate's hot mom (think Class with Rob Lowe), eventually settling into a pool-cleaning business in order to hopefully score a nice, rich Cougar.

That wasn't happening today. Nope.

Instead I got pig snorts, chuckles and a few "hey's". But not the good kind.

In 6th grade I was as tall as I am now, I had size 9 feet, the beginnings of boobs, and I weighed about, oh...118 pounds. I was almost 5'8". I was a rail.

On the way back from some sort of excruciatingly painful sporting event at the football field, I hear the voice of the one boy I my grade I actually thought as a little cute. "Hey, fatass!" I heard. I started looking around to see which of my more rotund classmates were getting it this time. No one- it was just me and a few of my 5', 75-pound friends. Who could he be talking to?
"Hey, fatass!"
I turned around.
He was talking to me.
My heart dropped, my face flushed, and my pace quickened. I practically ran back to class and just tried to pretend he wasn't talking to me and laughing about it with his other asshole buddies.

That was the day that my teenage body-image issues were born, and from that day on, I was fat. A fatass.
I'm fairly over it now, but my hatred (and slight fear) of bullies has not waned.
Picking on the weak, the insecure, the challenged- you're really a MAN now, aren't you?

Well, fuck you, Mr. Bully man- Y'all kind of looked like you were growing "man babies" at the last reunion. And, where's your hair?
It's a shame you guys had to turn 40 before the rest of us.
Oh, and how's that job towing cars treating you? Still living at your parent's house? Still struggling with the Meth?
Good luck with that.
Karma's a sassy bitch sometimes, my boys.

But seriously, I must thank you and your douche friends, as you helped shape the ass-kicking broad I am today.

Though I still hope that you get your ass kicked by a girl someday, and I hope it will be me.

You better start working out now, fatass.

Dull as dishwater, but twice as shiny!

After two weekends of non-stop action- the weekend with the Mr's family, a trip up to Duluth, the trip in the small plane to an Island where my fantasy to go back in time to the old-timey west and run a saloon, "Miss Kitty" style was granted by that lovely tall Latin man and his tiny little friend...
well I'm pooped.

Even though this was my b-day weekend (thanks for all the sweet wishes, my little bon-bons), I chose to stay home & do nothing except clean, organize, cook, drink margaritas, read trashy magazines and, well, not much else. I now have a little spot to call my own, complete with the sweet kidney-shaped desk and rotary phone:

It took MUCH rearranging of the furniture, but I now have a work space in our guest room.
And it's cute.
And I have a furry leopard chair in which to rest my buttocks whilst tap-tap-tapping away as I am doing right now.
Tap. Tap.
It's more fun in here. The dining room table was not ideal, to say the least.

To anyone staying with us anytime soon:
Sorry, the t.v. had to go.
Deal with it.



We moved the extra t.v. into our bedroom- now, I KNOW you're not supposed to have one in the bedroom- messes with your sleep patterns, ruins your sex life, gets you hooked on phonics- I know, but I don't really care. I really like having one in there again. Half of the time Mr. Whiskeymarie falls asleep in front of the t.v. downstairs anyway. I was tired of the nightly game of "will he go upstairs of his own free will, or do I shake him, sing to him, drag him onto the floor, poke him/get the tazer?" He really hates the tazer, but seems to like it more than when I would wax his chest hair with duct tape to wake him.
Ahh, love.
It's all about the little things, you know?

That was my weekend, in all it's glory.
Yup.

To sum up:
Great, quiet weekend. My favorite kind. Plus the bonus of having a clean, freshly organized home sweet home.
Oh, except I forgot one room. Seriously. Didn't even occur to me. I was feeling smug, content with my superior "haulin' ass and gettin' the job done skills, then I realized what I forgot.
This mess, a.k.a "the closet room":

Maybe I'll get to it next weekend, maybe not.

I'm o.k. with that.

Next weekend, belated b-day for moi in Duluth on Saturday.

I have been assured it will be neither clean nor organized.

At least that's what I'm hoping- all this clean living is making me a little squirrelly.

Landing squarely on the wrong side of thirty-five.

Look at this precious, innocent little thing.

Who would guess that 36 (yes, THIRTY FUCKING SIX) years ago today such utter loveliness would have entered the world?

Man, what a big head (then and now, I guess).




So I have to decide, do I wallow in self pity, gorge myself with cake, cake, cake and anger at the gods of time, aging and all that is wrong with being 3ofuckingsix?

Or, do I gloriously gorge myself with cake, cake, cake and champagne and happiness that I have a pretty great existence here with the rest of y'all?

I lean towards choice #1, as I love, love, love to wallow.
But, the disgustingly optimistic little leprechaun that lives in my pancreas tells me to suck it up & just enjoy all that is the damn birthday.
#2, I reluctantly choose you.

So gorge myself in the moment, I will.

Now, a choice needs to be made:







Is today a curl your hair and put on a patchwork jumper kind of day?








Or...










Is it a put on your seat belt & ride a turtle kind of day?



I guess as long as cake & champagne are involved, I'm willing to get a perm & ride a jackalope, if needed.






Have a gloriously indulgent day, my little potato dumplings.
XO-
WM

P.S. As an addendum...Really good Champagne, cake and flowers were waiting for me after a particularly crappedy-crap-crap day at work (mine was bad, his was worse). Plus the whole brand new laptop & scanner thing.
Yes. He's pretty great.
I'll try to think of nice things I do for him so no one starts a "why Mr. Whiskeymarie needs to find a better wife" campaign. But, honestly, I would understand if you did.
To my credit, I had no problem with him leaving just now to go to a midnight screening of "Spider Man 3". I let him get his geek on whenever he wants, birthday or not. I am way too tired for the making of the love, I fucking hate movies like this piece of beetle dung, and this way I can finish the pricey bubbly myself.
Oh, and watch bad t.v.
Right now I'm watching "Three's Company". Where the kisses are hers and hers and his.
Janet REALLY needs to get laid. Seriously.

Word to your mother. And the Ropers.

********************

P.S. Don't forget to see if you've been "tagged" in the previous post. You may be surprised to see your name there, my lovelies.
Just do it. You know you want to.