Traditional: Steel. Modern: Fashion jewelery.

Today feels different.

Technically, it's just another Friday in the endless rotation of Fridays that have gone on and will go on indefinitely. Technically, it's just another day in August, one of thirty-one. Technically, it's just another day to go to work, do what needs to be done.

It's really not just another day, for me.

Eleven years ago today I woke up in another city, in another state. It was scorchingly hot outside. I was excited and a little nervous. I put on that cute dress and had my friend N fix my hair. I slapped some pretty on my face and emerged from the hotel room ready to do this thing we had set in motion months back.
I really didn't know what I was getting myself into at the time (does anyone, really?), but I'd be damned if I was backing down now. I believe in follow through, if nothing else.

You looked so good- tan, dark, tall, lean and handsome. You can tell in the cheesy video that we were giggling a fair amount of the time. When the minister started getting all preachy you can actually see me roll my eyes. Really, we didn't care about the ceremony so much- it didn't matter, in the long run.

You can see how absolutely happy we are in the video. When you couldn't get the ring on my finger at first we started giggling even more.

Some of our friends cried, some of our family cried (though I'm pretty sure our family was crying because they thought we were making a huge mistake). I almost cried. I'm not entirely unconvinced that maybe even we thought we were making a huge mistake. All I know is we were willing to make a go of it. We'd do our best and just see what unfolded.

We really didn't have any idea then- this thing we created. We had no convoluted, grandiose and well-diagrammed plans.
This together thing. This partnership thing. This vague thing. This bigger than us thing.
This amazing thing.

Have we done our best?

Not always.

I expect so much of life, I often spin near the edge, hoping I don't fall off, but prepared to deal with what happens if I do. Early on, I wanted you to be more like me, I wanted you to be less like you. I wanted two of me.

I didn't realize that you being solid, steady, thoughtful of your actions- that was what I need.
You help me fix the things I sometimes think are beyond repair. You listen more than I give you credit for. You don't lie.
You were patient and beyond understanding at a time where we thought that our thing had maybe- possibly- run its course.
When I tried to convince myself it had, you waited for me to convince myself otherwise.
Had you not been the person you are, had you not asserted yourself, had you not waited, patiently, when waiting patiently completely ate you up inside...

Had you not. We would not.


I'm grateful every day for who you are, who we are, and where we've been.
We are lucky to have what we have- we are fortunate to be at this point.

We make a good pair, you and I.
I wouldn't want it any other way.



Happy Anniversary, Mr. Whiskeymarie.

My not-so-secret mac & cheez recipe for you...

I promised this to a few of you, so I thought I'd just post it.

A few tips:

*When you add the macaroni to the cheese sauce, it will seem runny. Let it sit a while- the pasta will absorb some of the liquid, plus it will get thicker when it bakes.

*This is a HUGE recipe, enough to make 2 large casserole dishes. Enough for a crowd. Feel free to cut it in half.

*You need to use SOME american cheese in this, but go ahead and use any combination of cheeses for the other two. I have used $27/pound aged romano, smoked gouda, aged goat, Irish cheddar, pepperjack, Cotswald cheddar with chives, etc... it's all good. I know it seems sacrilidge to mix american with fancy cheese, but trust me- I've made this a million times and it's totally necessary.

*You can omit the bacon, just don't omit the love.

Mac & cheese

1/2c. butter
10 slices bacon, chopped
1/4c. onion, very finely minced
1/2c. flour
1-1/2 qt heavy cream
4c. whole milk
2t. yellow mustard
1# American cheese
1# cheddar cheese
½# parmesan cheese
Salt & pepper, to taste

2c. oven roasted tomatoes, coarsely chopped

Bread crumb mixture: 4c. soft bread crumbs pulsed in the food processor with 1/4c. melted butter & 1/2c. cheddar cheese (can be mixed in a bowl as well, it will just be chunkier)

2# elbow macaroni, cooked al dente


Heat the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the bacon and cook 1 minute. Add the onion and cook until onion is soft & bacon is crisp, 3-4 minutes. Add the flour to make a roux & cook 1 minute. Whisk in the cream & milk. Heat, while stirring until mixture is boiling & slightly thickened. Add the mustard & cheeses. Stir the mixture until cheeses are melted, then season to taste. In a large bowl, mix the sauce with the macaroni & let sit 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Portion into one large or several small oven-safe dishes, top with tomatoes, then the bread crumbs. Bake @350 degrees until browned, bubbly & heated through, about 20-25 minutes for one large casserole, less time for smaller sizes.

Any questions- just put them in the comments...

*Also, I take no responsibility whatsoever for any heart "episodes" that this recipe may induce. The fat is what makes it delicious, but it is what also makes it so sexy and dangerous.

Tell the truth- does this machine make my butt look big?

As I sort of mentioned in the previous post-
I now have an elliptical machine.

I have used it once so far, with mixed results.

I think I will love it after a few more tries, and after my "injuries" heal (again, see previous post).

This is the "before" picture.

This is why I married an engineer.

I would rather give Dick Cheney a sponge bath than attempt "much assembly required" type projects.






Aaaaannnndddd...








After.

Yes, it's ugly, and yes, it's taking up much of my bedroom, but I'm o.k. with that.

Maybe I'll paint it to match the wall, hang some lights from it...you know- gussy it up a bit.



I'd sacrifice a 3x5' space in my bedroom for a nice, firm, well- muscled booty any day.


I think I can already feel it working, simply through its presence in my life.











But hey- you tell me...









Looking good, huh?




Really, it's not like you can improve on the beauty that Mother Nature bestows on you, but hey, I'm game to try.



Bootiliciously yours,
WM

A Public Service Announcement, brought to you by the Whiskeymarie Von Partypants Committee for Abolishing Idiotic Workout Ideas

Dear Citizens:


We here at the WVPCAIWI want to urge you today to think before attempting any strenuous workout that may result in grievous bodily harm.

If you have led a sedentary lifestyle for greater than one week, if you have consumed carbohydrates in excess of 50% of your body weight in one day, and if you have consumed the other 50% in wine...
we implore you to think before jumping on a newly purchased piece of exercise equipment- even if it is a cool new elliptical machine that you swear makes you thinner just looking at it.










Consult with a physician before attempting warp speed on said machine as injuries that may be inflicted may include any of the following:

Inflamed toes
Herniated rectum
Dislocated hip
Fallopian bruising
Head-bobbing syndrome
Hamstring blisters
Mammary overextension

And in very rare cases some people have reported intense shame and self-loathing due to disproportionate sweating in relation to actual time spent on the equipment in question.

We here at the WVPCAIWI would like you to reconsider any delusions of grandeur you may be experiencing with the purchase of workout equipment. You will not look like a Victoria's Secret model in one week. Studies have shown that results like that take 2 weeks, minimum.

We urge you to exercise responsibly, set only mildly delusional goals, and follow a diet rich in water and egg whites for optimal results.

Your attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.

-Sweativa DeJiggleputz, Chairman, WVPCAIWI

Advertising that doesn't make me angry or confused

Do you think you can get a prescription for this? Is it covered by my insurance? What is the co-pay on this sort of medication?
And, can I get name brand, or will Walgreens give me the generic equivalent?

One more question, doctor: Will pharmaceutical-grade Pinot Noir or Maker's Mark have the same health benefits?

I look forward to my exam, Dr. Haveashot.

Hiatus, Schmiatus

Well, I made it to Friday. I should have figured out by now that if I say it out loud (or put it out here), I fill find a way to make it not happen. It's my inner karma's way of fucking with me.

Whatever. I'm o.k. with my shortcomings.

Aaaanyways...

Kids, it's been a full week. Classes started, and from the looks of things, it's gonna be a tough one. Long, hard and possibly sweaty, and not in a good way (wink wink, nudge nudge.)
Preeeeety sure I'll have stories to tell soon. Maybe I could start with the one about the guy who showed up two hours late the first day and not at all the second.
Kids these days- sheesh.

Honey, go in the nightstand and get mommy her "happy pills". No no, not the Aspirin- I NEED the little pink ones. There you go sweetie. Bring them here...quicker...there you go! Good girl!
Mmmm...happy pills. Go outside and play now honey, mommy needs "quiet time".

*********

Not one to leave things undone (yeah, that's me, a real follow-through sort of gal), I have crawled out from the muck to do my meme like a good little blogger should.

Rebel Boxer tagged me for a "four" meme for you for which you may peruse for fun, for now.

And up, up and away we go-

Four jobs I've had or currently have in my life: (I'll try to give a variety here as I have had a LOT of jobs in my life. I'll leave out the ones involving me using an alias or exchanging bodily fluids of any sort)

1) Hotel maid in Duluth (age 19-ish): Worst. Job. Ever. Though, if there was unopened booze it went home with me, you can be sure of that. Surprisingly enough, I never had any really horrifying stories to tell from this one. Just that the Head Housekeeper was possibly the biggest bitch I ever met in my life. I would stay late to help out on a regular basis, and that c**t would find something to bitch at me about. Evil, rotten, miserable woman.

2) Bowling-alley waitress (19-ish, again- I very often worked 2 or 3 jobs at a time): This job was exactly what you think it is. I served whiskey cokes to bowling dudes and usually took home a sweet $20 in tips. Asshats.

3) Cake decorator: I loved this job, but I started getting carpal tunnel from all the squeezing (you think my former career as a professional hand-job artist would have prepared me for this one. My name was "Magic fingers"). Plus, my right arm started getting noticeably larger than my left, which I was not happy with. Plus, I got tired of wasting my talent making things like this- even though the pay rocked.

4) culinary Arts Instructor: Best. Job. Ever. Well, except for professional lottery winner- and I'm working on that one.

Four countries I have visited:

1) Oh! Canada!
2) Panama
3) Bahamas
4) Does Wisconsin count? How about North Dakota? California?
Europe is coming soon- I promise!

Four Places I'd rather be right now:

1) Home, just mucking around doing whatever. I love home.

2) Hanging with my girls, gossiping and eating and drinking wine

3)Travelling with my Mr. He's a pretty good traveller- he'll go anywhere I tell him to and I like that.

4) Cashing in my winning powerball ticket.

Four Foods I like to eat: (My love of edibles is well documented by now)

1) Much like Mr. Boxer, homemade mac & chz. Anytime, as long as I make it. Mine rocks.

2) Anything on a good antipasti plate, especially the pork products and olives.

3) Good sushi

4) My foot (you'd think so anyways, it's in my mouth so often)

Four personal heroes, past or present:

1) Mom.

2) My Grandpa Herman, a.k.a. "Joe" - he was German, came to the U.S. for opportunity, faught for our side in WW2 with honors, and then was thrown in a hush-hush internment camp in New York for 9 months. He never let it get him down, but he made it his mission to fight the government every chance he had. He was a prolific letter-writer and was never afraid of the good fight. The family joke was that you couldn't say the two "R" words to him at any family function: Republican and Reagan. Man, I miss him.

3) Great writers, past and present: Camus, Kazantzakis, Kawabata, Mishima, A.M. Homes, Joan Dideon, Jeanette Winterson, Burroughs (both), and so on...

4) Beyond that, I'm not much of a "hero" person. I think many of us have great potential, and I like to think we all are our own heroes, in a way. Yes, gross- I know.

Four books you have just read or are currently reading:

1) We tell ourselves stories in order to live, Joan Dideon (HUGE collection, currently reading and loving)

2) Sexing the Cherry, Jeanette Winterson (will re-read soon)

3) Holidays on Ice, David Sedaris (I read this faithfully every Xmas- it never fails to make me laugh out loud)

4) Vindication, Frances Sherwood (a great pseudo-autobiography. Brilliant.)

Only four? That's like asking me to pick only four pairs of shoes I love, or limiting me to four glasses of wine! What are you- Communists?

This one's mine- Four kinds of people that have pissed me off today:

1) The slow, weaving walker. I'm in a hurry and I have a big cart that I need to push around your weaving, dilly-dallying ass. Move it!

2) The speeding, non-signaler. Yes, I'm sure your time is more valuable than anyone else's. Please! Take my life in your hands and just drive wherever, whenever. You rule the road, douche. I hope you get herpes this weekend.

3) Slow talkers. Again, can't you see I'm in a hurry? Cut to the chase or just stop. Please. I can't listen to you for even a second more without imagining how many different ways I can slap you.

4) People who bitch about everything. Hey! Wait a minute...

People who don't piss me off:

#1) All of you, my purring newborn kittens.

Happy Friday, and forgive any typos as I have no time to proof this. I'm at work and really should be, you know...working.

Have one for me at happy hour, my sweets.

Damn you, life. Always getting in the way and stuff...

And I'm not 100% sure I'll follow through on this, but I think I need another brief "hiatus".
Work kind of stealthily snuck up on me (and by "stealthily snuck" I mean I had all summer to prepare but really didn't).

My ducks have arrived, and they can't seem to get in a row without my help.

I'll be back by Monday the latest. Hopefully chock full of interesting things to share with y'all.

Maybe even before then because I'm compulsive like that.

I'll miss you, I may be commenting randomly, I don't know...
XOXO
WM

p.s. Until then, I have added several new and wonderful links to blogs I read and love. Go ahead, cheat on me for a while. Read them in that sexy, dirty way you do. I understand. I know you have "needs" too.

p.p.s. I was tagged by boxer rebellion earlier this week. I will break my silence at some point to do this, I promise. I haven't forgotten.

Gratuitously sexy sandwich bitches

Tonight was a good night.


We all had a Mecca sandwich, which is as tasty and finger-likin' good as you'd think.*

Especially with Stacy takin' up the rear.

Man, my girls are some sexy bitches.

On the right is my main piece of Irish ass, Ian.
Turns out Irish eyes ARE smilin'.
I heart you, Ian my dear...









Nuff' said.


I love this girl.

We are truly ebony and ivory.


"Live together in perfect harmony..."


Anyone want to be the corned beef in our sexy Reuben?















*Holy crap I'm going to get some stalkers off of this one. Sorry, corned beef and chicken wing fetish freaks. This is what you all get.






Me and Mec.

XOXO











And, In case you were wondering...




Oh, snap!


Yup, properly used there.


Snap, indeed.

My inner Esther

It's time I introduced you all to someone.

Her name is Esther, and she's the cranky old lady that lives inside me.

Here she is with her chickens.
She loves those chickens.

Esther doesn't make a lot of appearances as she's 89, arthritic, and tired from eviscerating poultry all day.

But it's not chicken killin' season right now, and Esther has been making quite a nuisance of herself lately, what with all the free time on her hands and all. She doesn't know how to knit, her family dropped her off at the nursing home years ago without as much as a phone number, and the other old ladies don't like when she takes her teeth out at the dinner table, so they won't play canasta with her anymore.
She's got nothing better to do than to sit around, drinking coffee (that smells suspiciously of Jim Beam), eating goulash and telling me what to do.

Damn, Esther needs a hobby.

Today, as an example: Esther tagged along with me for eight hours of in-service meetings, "breakout sessions" and, well... more meetings. I couldn't get her to sit still for more than two minutes at a time (peeing from all the coffee), and my coworkers seemed a little annoyed when she kept sticking her tongue out and going "pffffthhhttt" out of boredom. I attempted to distract her with shiny things while I tried to get some work done, but she kept poking me in the sternum with her bony little finger while she repeated "I'm bored" over, and over, and over, and over...
Until I slapped her.
Probably shouldn't have done that as it just pissed her off. Now she's pouting in the corner. And I couldn't take her to the bowling alley today either, because of work. I also had to cancel for our water aerobics class for tomorrow morning (again, work). Last I checked, she was making a needlepoint pillow cover that looked like a depiction of me being eaten by wolves, but I can't be sure. She's really not a very good "needlepointer".

Esther hates being told no. Well, that and being slapped, I guess.




This is Esther (middle) and her friends.
Don't they look like they're having fun?

Esther hasn't seen her friends for a while, as I have been busy and couldn't drive her to Shady Acres to visit. I told her to take the bus, but she thinks you can catch "the herpes" from bus seats, and no amount of evidence to the contrary is going to get Esther's saggy bottom on a bus.

I promised to take her to visit them tomorrow afternoon. I said I would sneak out of my meetings and drive her to the VFW to meet Mecca and Stacy.
Esther is very excited. I rarely let her have any fun anymore as I'm busy and quite frankly I don't like the old lady smell too much. Esther smells like lavender and sauerkraut with a touch of Gold Bond medicated powder. I have trouble washing it out of my clothes sometimes.

Other that a screening of "The Grapes of Superbad", Esther didn't have much fun this weekend either. She toiled in the kitchen in the basement of St. Purgatory's Catholic Church, cooking for the yearly "Celebration of toast" festival. White, rye, wheat...she slaved all weekend cooking up tons of toast. She didn't even have time to write anything for her chicken enthusiast blog.
Poor old girl.
But, the toast festival went beautifully, and luckily no one noticed that Esther had slipped upstairs and drank all of the communion wine. I figured it out when she called Mabel McPriss a "fucking cunt". I decided it was time to take her home, put a few vicodin in her and put her to sleep.

Alas, my dear Esther, I am growing weary of your company. I think you need to go back to the home for a bit- they have that pureed cheeseburger thingy you like so much and I don't know how to make it the right way (I figured that out last time I tried and you threw it at me. How was I to know you like your cheeseburgers with velveeta? Huh?).

I need a break, Esther. You aren't much fun to be around.




How's about you send your sister Lola over?
I love Lola.
Lola knows how to have a good time.

Lola knows how to party.

Perhaps you know her?

She used to be a showgirl.

But that was thirty (or fifty) years ago...

Superbad? Hell no. Super AWESOME. (A quick review)

I never thought it would make me so gloriously happy to hear someone say the words "penis" and "vagina", but when Michael Cera says them it is so very adorable.

I need to see this movie again (no, not the one at the left. This one.) because I was laughing so hard I missed about 50% of what was going on.

Sweet George Michael, I never knew you cold be so filthy.

I like it. A lot. Talk dirty to me baby.

Go see this movie.

Now.






But don't go in with a full bladder, like I did. We nearly had a "situation" on our hands, if you know what I mean. I really should have worn that diaper.


In conclusion: Superbad is superhilarious. Especially if you like cartoon drawings of penises.

Which, it turns out, I do. Quite a lot.


*Oh, and as a side note to "Skippy", our overzealous server at the crappy mall/chain/pretending-to-be-upscale restaurant that we went to after the movie- It's generally best to let your customers get fully seated (meaning both cheeks firmly planted) before verbally assaulting them for a drink order. And, if they take a while to order because they are actually having a conversation, it's best to not make fun of said order (he said something like: "you took that long to order an appetizer?"). And I'm sure that you just think you were being attentive, but checking back on our table every 4.5 seconds was getting a teensy bit annoying.
You were pissing me off Skippy, and I wanted to bunch you in your boyishly impish face.

I think you need to double-up on the meds, Skippy. Your ADD is showing a bit.

dive, hive, jive...what else rhymes with five?

1) I am unable to participate in this today. My heart is officially broken and I hate myself for it. Lots of boring reasons why I can't, but there you go. I am aware that I am missing out on what would probably be the single most awesome event in the history of all things awesome. I am aware that not many chances come along for a lady like myself to dress up like the King and run down a downtown Minneapolis street. I am aware that I could easily fill a week's worth of blogs with tales from the event. I am aware of how lame I am.
I am aware.
I'm crying a King sized tear as we speak.


2) Candy review: Good, not great. Mine was kind of grainy, but that may have been from melting in my husband's car then being put in the fridge so I could eat it. Good banana flavor, nice with the peanut butter, really really sweet. Was good with Sauvignon Blanc.
Overall, C+.



3) When I was waiting for a prescription to be filled yesterday I was watching a couple sitting near me. I was thinking to myself, "He's much cuter than her- you don't see that very often. I wonder what's wrong with him." I sat there a little longer, waiting. Finally they called his girlfriend's name and she went up to the window to pay for her prescription.
He proceeded to scratch his head, pick something off of his scalp, inspect it for a minute, then...
(wait for it, wait for it...)
EAT IT.
Guess we know who the winner is in that relationship.


4) I had the full-on-have-no-modesty skin cancer check yesterday that I waited over FOUR MONTHS for. Best part was, I even waited a little longer so I could have a female doctor. Yet, when I finally got to my appointment that I waited FOUR MONTHS for, I was informed that not one, but TWO youngish, cute-ish MALE doctors would be inspecting every inch of me under fluorescent lights. Which- though it sounds like the plot line of one of your better-quality pornos- is not as sexy as it sounds. Horrifying, to say the least. Almost as horrifying as the time I got poison oak on my ass (don't ask- it involved my youth and a rave on the beach) and had two VERY cute young doctors looking VERY closely at my bum saying things like, "Wow, I've never seen anything like this before." Nonstop fun, my life is.
Sorry doctor boys, had I known that we had a date scheduled, I would have done some groundskeeping, if you know what I mean (wink wink).


5) I'm going to this tonight. I'm so excited about it that I may have to wear a diaper.
Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Michael Cera is so cute. I want to cover him in sprinkles, roll him in powdered sugar drizzle him in chocolate and eat him up like a doughnut.
I'm counting on this to make up for missing the running of the Elvises.


That's it for now, folks.



Happy Friday my little chocolate-glazed cake doughnuts!
XO

(Insert your own "fish taco" joke here.)

I had a disappointing fish taco last night. Nope, that's not a euphemism for mediocre sex.
I really ordered, received and was subsequently disappointed by a fish taco appetizer last night.

I sent it back, they took it off the bill.

Riveted yet?

Yup. Me too.

So you see, that is the quality writing you're going to get from me for the next day or two- I've got a buttload of work to get caught up on by Monday.

I'm going into the non-witness protection program until Friday.
My new name is Mavis "Crystal" Methberg. I'm moving to Guam.
Oops, I probably shouldn't have told you that. Don't tell anyone else, o.k?


Until then, I leave you with a sweet piece of Elvis booty from the permanent collection:




What's that?

You say you DON'T have a solid gold (plated) Elvis decanter that plays "My Way" sitting in your dining room?

Geez- I thought everyone had one of these.




See you Friday, my little sweet cherry pies.

The Wonder of You and Elvis too.

It's Elvis week.
This time, every year, thousands of people journey to the hallowed city of Memphis to celebrate this guy. Mr. WM and myself made that very pilgrimage back in 1995- a year before we got married.
The trip itself is fodder for another post on another day, but I will give you a preview, in bullet points, to sum the whole experience up:

• Fucking hot
• Driving for 22+ hours with no sleep
• angry Motel 6 housekeeper that yelled at me
  
• moldy bathroom, hairy carpeting
  
• check into different hotel
• Graceland kind of, well...didn't suck, but the pseudo-word "meh" comes to mind.
  

So- yes, we went to Graceland.



And yes, we were married at the Elvis chapel in Las Vegass a year later.

And yes, we looked like this:


The Graceland Chapel is every square inch a monument to all that is gloriously tacky and genuinely American.

My dress was white satin and short, short short. The veil is intentionally 60's poofy. The Mr. was oh-so-cute in his white coat, black open-collared shirt and black pants. He grew the sideburns and dyed his hair a little darker than usual for the occasion.

The chapel even provided us with the sophisticated flowers and a stunning white limo to take us to dinner (cheeseburgers at the Stratosphere) afterwards.
It was perfectly cheesy and perfectly perfect.

Elvis week always reminds me of that day, as the old wedding anniversary is just a couple of weeks away.

A lot of people (relatives mostly) think that because we went to Graceland and did the Elvis wedding thing that we are "fanatics" of some sort- kind of like people who collect Hummel figurines and women who obsess over their pets.

Not so much. I don't want any more Elvis merchandise. Please. I beg you all. No. More.

Really, what I love about Elvis isn't on a coffee mug (got one) magnet (several) or pillow (sold in garage sale).

I don't even love the young, skinny, early-to-mid 60's Elvis so much. Although...every once in a while I see a picture of him from this time and I get a little misty in my undies. Me-ow.

What I really really love is the late 60's-early 70's Elvis. The jumpsuit-wearing, sweaty, karate-kicking, a little more meat on his bones Elvis. The way he could belt out a gospel tune gives me goosebumps. He had so much more soul and energy at this point, and it seems like he genuinely enjoyed performing, as opposed to (in my blindly opinionated opinion) the stilted, obviously staged for the teenage masses rock n' roll/blue suede shoes sort of stuff.



My name is Whiskeymarie, and I love me some Sparkly Elvis.


This is one of my favorites- he totally gets down at the end. And, I must say he looks pretty Mmmm Mmmmm good here- I'd totally let him slather me with peanut butter and make a sandwich with his banana:





P.S: It's Elvis month on T.V. Land. Do yourself a favor and have yourself a little slice of the King this month. He would want you to.

P.S.S: I almost forgot. Jon Bon Jovi got married at the same chapel, and for a while (it still may be, I don't know), our picture was on the wall with his. Awesome. And the owners at the time were from Duluth and good friends with my in-laws, so when they decided to start selling commemorative plates with wedding pics on them, our picture was the one they used for the display model. We are so cool.

P.P.S.S: Sorry to keep changing this, but I also forgot to say that for all of you that requested letters/postcards, they're all finally in the mail. Some of you may even have them already. Enjoy!

The letter that proves I pretty much believe anything I'm told.

Dear Mr. Lynne-
Sorry I thought you were dead. It appears I had false information. I blame my girl Blondie, who is my reference for any and all music trivia. She fed me this info and I believed her. We will be re-evaluating her status as pop culture queen in the coming weeks and a full report will follow.
Though, I just went upstairs to inform my Mr. that you were, indeed, alive and hopefully well, and the following conversation took place:

Me: "You were wrong- Jeff Lynne isn't dead."
Him: "Yes he is. He's been dead for a long time."
Me: "Nuh-uh. I just Wikipedia'd him and he's still around."
Him: "I doubt that."
Me: "I'll double check, but I think you're wrong."

I double checked my info. I am right. I'm glad I'm right- both for my love of being right and for you, Mr. Lynne. Congratulations and welcome back from the beyond.

As to the whole "becoming your rockstar concubine" thing, let me discuss it with the Mr. and see if we can't come to some sort of arrangement. He's a very understanding man- as anyone who has read my blog can well imagine. We'll see how that goes. One only gets so many chances to be a concubine of any sort, and I'm not getting any younger...

Anyways, I was wrong and I apologize.
Sincerely yours,
Whiskeymarie.

***********

Also:

Dear Blondie-

You're still my pop-culture queen. Always.

XOXO

WM

I guess I'll be getting a visit from PETA now...

The blogosphere's resident firearms expert, Gunfighter, shot something in my honor this week.

R.I.P, Fluffy. Alas, we hardly knew ye.

As per the previous post...

Um, I won't delete it, cause I rarely do that, but wow, do I have energy when I've had too much wine or what?
I really should channel that pent-up energy into something more productive, like knitting or, gosh- I don't know- my life.

Going back to bed now...

P.S. sorry for all the f-bombs. I'm like a trucker like that.

Seriously, if you have, like, 45 minutes to waste- it will TOTALLY be worth your time...trust me.

Tonight felt like the kind of night that should make me feel lucky to be alive.
Really, it did.

My Mr. suggested going out for dinner- my choice. Um...what?
All me. All my choice.

Well, I took that dare, and like Wilbur I kicked the everloving shit out of it.
Here.




Dear god it was the best meal I've had in a long time. I had mid-rare Copper River salmon with heirloom tomatoes and micro greens and green onion couscous and buttermilk cucumber sauce and...
dear god it was wonderful. I think I peed a little just loving it...
Also, one of the more glorious pork products, rillettes. With sauerkraut crackers. Oh, there it goes again, the sweats. I get so excited when I get anything cured or brined...

Oh, sweet Jebus how I love pork.

O.k. I'm better now. Stopped sweating anyways.

After dinner, we agreed that we needed to have another "dance party night", which basically consists of us going to Cheapo after dinner, buying cd's, and going home and playing them, along with some of the bazillion LP's we have.

Right now I'm listening to very old Duran Duran. The Mr. has already tuckered out, so it is up to me to fill you in on the goings-on of the evening:

Basically, by the time we get home I am a little loopy. We pour cocktails, and then proceed to get even loopier. Hilarity ensues. Tonight I attempted both the New Kids "Running Man" dance and mimery. Neither was successful.

Tonight, we also decided to drag out all the oldies. We have no... (insert class here)
Oh, just changed it to Alison Moyet. Damn, I'm old.

God I love her voice. Especially the Yaz-era stuff.

Also on the lineup:

Circle Jerks. Yup. Man, I loved them. I don't care if you don't.

Wall of Voodoo. Not this song, but this is the only video of them that I can find...

John Denver. Man, I bet he was totally awesome in the sack. Seriously.
Totally a "giver", if you know what I mean, ladies. (wink)

Roy Clark. Holy cow, I love me them old country boys. One of the strangest pairings ever here.

Digital Underground. C'mon, do the Humpty Hump. C'MON!!!!!! (this one takes a few seconds to start)

Amy Winehouse. 'Cause sweet jeebus of all that is debaucherous, she makes me look like a sober nun. Damn, I love this girl.

ELO. Fuck. I love ELO. If Jeff Lynne weren't dead I'd leave my husband for him and be his rockstar concubine. Seriously. He was a Goddamn genius. Goddamn. Genius.

Burl Ives. Yes, that's the Mr. WM's selection.
Though, the song where he makes fun of Chinese people is starting to grow on me...

Bee Gees, Jive talkin'. Cause' they know what's what in the world of jive.
Word.

A little Mac Davis... We have an album where he is pretending to be a professional skier. Fucking hilarious. Tight pants does not make you a professional athlete, Mac. However, it does make you a professional DOUCHE.

A little Conway and Loretta... Can I just say that I think Conway would have been awesome in bed? I bet he was one of those arrogant fucks that thought he ruled the vagina, until he was told otherwise by a smart woman. Then he would do all he could to "improve", if you know what I mean...

A little more Duran Duran (the nasty, non- p.c. one- you know what I'm talkin' about) Holy Shitsters I love this video-When Simon makes out with the girl in the pool- that was totally me.
I'm a little over stimulated right now, if you feel me... I'll be back in a minute...
God I love that video.
Whew.

And this one? Breaks my heart every time. No better song to be depressed to. Sometimes I just play the Tears for Fears version and this one over and over. then I pretty much feel like shit. Kill me now. Nothing makes sense. How do you NOT get depressed here?
Tell me, please.

How about this one? Don't look if clowns scare you. Seriously, don't look.
I love the Dickies. Me and Waffle drove down from Duluth once because I wanted to see the Dickies. Then they canceled at the last minute and we ended up watching some group that thought it was interesting to play in their boxer shorts.
Not so much.
You're no Leonard, my man.

Feeling bad? How's about this? (pretty much my favorite angst song- ever.) Or this? (yeah, I figured out he's gay- duh.)

Well, remember who really is Rio. Fuck yeah, me. God, It's so embarrassing how much they show this old video of me...

Let me leave you with this one.

Rock on, Fuckers.

WM

That was the day Wilbur T. Frupenfartz thanked his lucky stars that he chose "truth" at the geriatric slumber party

Traffic was a real bitch this morning. Think 5mph. Yup. And for once I actually had somewhere to be that didn't involve a couch and my ass.

It wasn't congested for the reason you think. The Hot Wheels style reconfiguration of our Twin Cities freeways due to the bridge collapsing was not the culprit here.
Nope.

It was, in fact, an elderly gentleman of questionable mental clarity wearing a purple hunting hat while riding a shiny red Hoveround. No lie. It had one of those orange safety flags attached to the seat.
At least he took a little precaution, I guess. Kind of like wearing a helmet when you jump out a plane without a parachute, but hey- I guess he's just a risk-taker like that.





He had somehow managed to make it onto I-35E with it (which, let me tell you- isn't always easy in a car, never mind a shiny red motorized wheelchair) and was cruising at "top speed", possibly to get to Denny's in Maplewood for the Grand Slam breakfast- or, possibly not. He wasn't on the shoulder either- he was in the right lane- I can only assume he thought he was driving his 1965 Chevy- cruising for tail and looking for a drag race.

Nonetheless, there were 3 state patrol cars (one in front, two following) giving crazy grandpa a mighty fine police escort. It took FIFTEEN MINUTES to go 1/2 mile. Grandpa probably thought it was a parade in his honor for kicking Mildred's ass at "bingo for meds" on Sunday.
Once off the freeway (this happened to be the exit I was taking), I passed the guy, now parked on the side of the road and getting a seriously stern talking-to from the Popo.

He had the biggest grin on his face.

Like he had taken a dare and kicked the shit out of it.

Good for you, crazy Hoveround dude.

Good for you.

A week past the expiration date

The lovely Christina tagged me to pull out 5 or so posts from my shady blogging "past" that are my favorites/I think are funny/I don't hate/make me look smart. I'm supposed to be looking for "perfect" posts. That would be zero, so I'll go back and find the ones that- while in the clearance bin- are still a pretty good deal.

And remember, I'm still pretty new to this whole blogging thingy.
I'm still a toddler wearing an Elmo diaper in a world of cool, school-skipping, chain-smoking teenagers.


In no particular order:

* Where I shamelessly discuss my long love affair with Duran Duran.

* Where I rant about bullies.

* Because I'm not always channeling Shecky Greene- sometimes I'm not so funny.

* Because Shorty and I shared a special bond that fine evening.

* Because, really- who doesn't feel like this sometimes?

* Because sometimes size doesn't matter.

* And, sometimes when I think I'm not that funny, I pull one out of my ass that just works.


I'm supposed to tag 5 other people, but I'm not going to . No reason. Do it if you want, don't if you don't.

I'm not the boss of you.

I have a hot mailman and I want to impress him.

Inspired by an old post from Sandy, and also from my constantly friendly doppelganger Constant Winter (who has gone into hiding- I miss her already and hope she lets me know where she is exiled to but that is neither here nor there), I am embarking on a letter writing odyssey.



I want to write letters. I miss good, handwritten mail.



I want to write letters to you.









I will write letters and/or lengthy postcards to whoever wants one. I promise they will have substance beyond "Hey! How are you? I'm good...", and if there are any questions you'd like to ask me, or if there is something in particular you'd like me to write about, well, by golly let me know. I'll oblige wherever possible. I may or may not post some of the letters. We'll see. I'm indecisive like that. Blame it on my vagina, if it makes you happy to do so.

Catch is- you have to send your address via my e-mail in my profile, so I know where the hell to send this.
I promise to not sell your info to the highest bidder (the lowest, on the other hand...).

Your address is safe with me, but hey- it's entirely up to you.

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

On other notes:

No, I did not go to the block party. Fuck the block party. A couple of reasons why-

#1) Party was not its usual, 1/2 block from my house, potluck, everyone sitting at picnic tables conversing in what can best be described as a civilized manner whilst drinking wine or beers.
It was a huge gathering at the nearby community center with a band and such and such. I'm trying to figure out where the community bonding starts and the drunken brawl ends.

#2) The Mr. has had a particularly ass-raping work schedule this summer, and he did not come home until after 7-ish tonight (after starting at 6:00 a.m.).
Poor boy was tired, dirty and primarily- tired.
I did not want to go to this weirdness alone. No. Never. I'm socially stunted enough as it is.

#3) Instead, I made a goat cheese, roasted pepper and sherry vinaigrette salad, along with smoked sausages and sauerkraut, and we stayed in. Season two of the U.S. "Office", vodka sodas for me (Jameson for him) and...well that's it.

Oh, and I'm not taking the "Caution" tape down from the house or a while.
As it bears repeating: Fuck 'em. When I move away I'll send them all a goodbye card an let them know that the whole "Avian Flu" thingy was a joke.
And I'll make them cookies- just to seal the deal.
(as an aside- I live in a nice, respectable neighborhood with perfectly fine, upstanding citizens. I just ant a new house, that's all.)


And Ms. Christina- later today or early tomorrow I will have it done. Unless, of course, I am abducted my the legendary tribe of monkey Zulu warriors. Then it may be an extra day or so. Bear with me

Um, ouch?

I don't need no stinking professionals- just cut the damn things off, will ya?

When social retardation meets lack of motivation

Is it so wrong that I don't want to go to my neighborhood's "National Night Out" Block party?

I really don't. I just don't feel like it. I'm not one of those "people". You know- the kind of people who excel at everyday conversations and not being an ass.
We didn't go last year either.
I want to move in a few years anyways, so it's not like we'll be neighbors for much longer if I have my way.

Do I have to go? Is it my duty as the neighborhood shrew? Who will keep an eye on the local hooligans if I am otherwise occupied? Before we know it, they'll have ransacked our homes, orchestrated major drug deals and LITTERED. Someone has to keep on top of these things, you know. I don't see anyone else holding vigil in their front porch, cellphone in hand- 9, 1...just give me a reason to dial the other one, you hoodlums. I dare you.

Am I a bad neighbor if I don't go? Do my neighbors hate me? Or, are they just jealous of my surrealist art skillz as interpreted through gardening and my seemingly entire lack of modesty?


Crappedy, crap crap. What to do...

Make a cold salad, have a glass of wine and boldly head over, or- shut all the blinds, tape off the house with "caution" tape and pretend we're quarantined with Avian Flu?

Dammit. I hate decisions.

Whiskeymarie's big adventure

Unless y'all have been living in a cave in the remote portion of northernmost Saskatchewan, you may have heard about this. In no way am I trying to minimize the devastation here.
This is huge, horrifying and ugly. People died. People are permanently injured. Things have changed in a way only tragedy can change them.

It is also a fact that, in our fair Twin Cities, traffic pretty much sucked before this happened. Between poorly planned roads and the ever-present summer construction, backups are pretty much a way of life now- all day, all the time.
And now, it has managed to get even worse.
I'm trying and failing to find a word that adequately describes what driving around town has turned into these last few days.
I have taken the liberty of coming up with my own:

Supramaxisucktacular.


So, knowing that I was expected in the Duluth region this weekend, I left nice and early, hoping to spare myself the inevitable screaming and fist-shaking that normally accompanies me plus large amounts of other cars.

Problem is, everyone else in the city pretty much had the same plan.
Bumper to bumper at 1:30 in the afternoon.
Egads.

About halfway there I couldn't take it anymore.

I decided that I needed to be anywhere but the freeway. I exited and jumped on good 'ol highway 23, a much lesser known outlet into Duluth.

Pretty much the best decision I've made in the last year, with the exception of deciding to legally change my name to Whiskeymarie Von Partypants.
Ms. Partypants, formally.

I'm calling this "Whiskeymarie Von Partypants' awesome solo mini accidental road trip"

Come along...




Once off the freeway to hell-
I slowed down to a respectable 55mph, opened the sunroof, and pretty much decided to actually enjoy the journey for once.

First stop: Some little Lutheran cemetery in Askov, MN.

It was very peaceful and pretty- kind of like a really nice park, but with dead people everywhere.











Next stop: Holyoke, MN Population: 6

The sign for the town seems to be pointing at a burned-out restaurant/bar building.
And that's it.

I imagine Holyoke's town slogan to be:
"It ain't much, but it's ours so just quit judging us you big fancypants snobs!"

Go Holyoke!








There is nowhere on I-35 where you get a view like this. Really,there is nowhere along I-35 that I haven't already seen 9,495 times and would want to stop and take a picture of. If I could close my eyes and have a robot drive my car I would. I fucking hate that drive.

Two big, hairy biker guys wanted to be my friend here.

Time to go. Bye bye, scary guys!











This is the gateway to Gary New Duluth, where I lived for the first 5 years of my life.
Gary is a VERY odd part of Duluth- it's on the fringe both literally and figuratively.

I kind of think of it as sort of the "Twin Peaks" of the North. You kind of expect to see a midget walking a sheep on a leash down the street, or something like that.

It's worn and faded here in Gary. If Gary was an article of clothing, it would be a ruffled pirate shirt with ring around the collar and gravy stains down the front.








This is the house where we lived.

It's pretty ugly now- I almost didn't recognize it. I think I freaked whoever lives there out when I sat across the street staring at the house ad taking pictures.

Some guy came out & was talking on a phone, so I left. Quickly.

If you hear that the police are looking for someone matching my description for stalking, pretend you don't know me. Thanks- I owe you one.











To give you an idea of the level of weirdness in Gary, I took this one of a local drinking establishment.


"Moldeez."

Um, was "Vomiteez" or "Gangreenz" already taken?












Friday night's dinner was here.

If I lived in Duluth again, I would weigh 450 pounds- because I would be eating here all day, every day.

I would have a plaque there commemorating my eating achievements.

When I died of a sudden but expected "heart episode" or "choking because I was shoving it in so fast" they would play "Danny boy" on the bagpipes in my honor.










Time for the street dance!

West Duluth is known far and wide for their love of hair bands, monster trucks and spandex clothing.
I have, in my youth, spent much time in the West End.

I like to think of the West End as our own "little Tennessee".

This was my accessory for the evening- a fine bracelet from the Coors Light line currently being sold on QVC.








I'm probably holding onto someone else's beer here along with my own, or I'm just two-fisting at this point- who knows?

Unfortunately, none of the pictures I took of the crowd turned out.

This, or this may give you some idea of much of the crowd attending. Just add in a few frat-boy types that are so drunk their pickup lines come out as "Mwhhh...beer blahhhmmmm swuup tits niiiiice pwahhh" and you get the picture.

It was, in a word, Awesome.

By the end of the night, the street had several layers of crushed beer cans on it, creating a sort of Bud Lite "silver brick road".

Kind of a White Trash "Wizard of Oz". We'll let Britney have the lead role in the movie. She deserves it.










Saturday afternoon at Fish Lake with my boyfriend Bullet. He's a real dog.


He's an amazingly good swimmer, that furry boy.
My BFF Waffle and Mr. Waffle were there too.
Sort of an inter-species double-date.













Me, right before I lost even more brain function due to high-speed tubing.

I haven't laughed that much in a looooong time.

If you could see the swimsuit I'm wearing (borrowed) you'd laugh too.

Horizontal stripes.
Not good.











Gratuitous titty shot- My suit was still wet when I put my monkey top back on & it started soaking through.

Mr. Waffle kept asking me the rest of the weekend if I was still lactating.

I have been dubbed "the Lactinator"












Mr. Waffle took me for a ride on his motorcycle down to Canal Park to go to dinner here.
(as a quickie review- entirely underwhelming.)

I spent a ton of time on my hair before we left, and I thought that if I twisted it into a barrette before we left (no helmets- I KNOW, I know. You can be the first to say I told you so if I ever end up wearing a helmet permanently, I promise) that everything would be fine.

By the time we got there I looked like this.








Also: Drinks here, and here, lots of sleeping, a stripey sunburned back, lots of bruises, a dog that eats toothbrushes, and hanging with my girls.

I'm home now.
I'm tired.
I'm achy from the tubing.
I need to eat some vegetables.

Damn, I had a good weekend.

It's like my brain pretty much consists of squirrels and monkeys playing twister...

I have been more than a little schizo there days with the blogging.
I know.
I haven't been here much.
I know.

So, I figure- why ruin a good thing?

More randomness:

#1) I think my ovaries shriveled a little just reading this.






#2) I realized today, after they had been on my feet for 3+ hours that my Birkenstock clogs had taken on the same smell that my garbage can has on a 95-degree day & the flies are swarming. Time to soak them in bleach, methinks.










#3) I'm going to Duluth this weekend. I will be attending the West Duluth cotillion/street dance this evening. The band Hairball will be playing, and with any luck the Busch lite will be free-flowin'. I thought this dress would be appropriate. Any thoughts?


















#4) I got these awesomely awesome clutch purses at the thrift store the other day. God I do so love other peoples' unwanted crap. And I really do use clutches. They're both leather and were about $1.50/a piece. The turquoise one looks very 1983, but the tag inside tells me it's more 1973. Either way, they make me happy.










#5) I also got these sweet crocheted pot holders at the same store for $.95 each. I'm thinking "grandma chic".
I love them.
XO to you, little birdie.











#6) Last night we had two, count em' TWO different soirées we were invited to. The first was throw by a colleague of mine and consisted of a fabulous wine tasting (nine, to be exact) paired with a ton of food. We were given glasses upon our arrival, then we went around to different "stations" where a description of the wine and such and such was posted. We mingled, ate fabulous food, fell in love with her Danish-modern decorating, and overall, felt classier then we actually are.
The second shindig consisted of a BBQ at a friends house with bacon-wrapped ricotta-stuffed chicken and libations that we drank out of mismatched glassware and mason jars.
Here- let me loosen my jeans a bit and pick this chunk of whatever out of my teeth with my finger.
Ahhh...that's much better. Now I can be myself.
Indeed.

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

So, hopefully I will have tales of glory and valor from the great north and the hee-haw street dance.
As an aside: I met the boy who would give me my first kiss at this very street dance when I was 14. Imagine a giant fish mouth, dipped in a bucket of spit and attached to a vacuum cleaner.

You get the idea.

I will take pictures this weekend.
I promise.





Have a fabulous weekend, my little honey-dipped Circus peanuts.

Hey! You cut me off mid-funk!

Things are kind of glum in these here parts right now.

I thought I'd remind everyone how important it is, when life isn't "right", to find something that makes you happy.

Booty-shaking makes me happy.

Take some time today to do the Rerun dance, o.k? It will change your life. Really, it will.

Here. Fine. Good.

My "irrational" fear of bridges collapsing while I'm driving on them doesn't seem so irrational anymore.

People were asking, so here I am.

I'm fine, the husband is fine.

All I can think about is someone like me, driving home in the heat and humidity and rush hour traffic- all you want to do is get home, or go out and see your friends...then the ground gives out and there you are.

Everything changes in an instant.