Sunday, September 30, 2007
Puffy pancakes, puffy Whiskeymarie.
Saturday morning started here, at home, with a puffy apple pancake. Anyone remember Pannekoeken Restaurants? I thought they were all gone, but I guess there are still a few around in the Mpls/St. Paul area. If you've never been, they are a "Dutch pancake Huis" that specializes in these kind of pancakes, with varying toppings. The gimmick is, when they bring it to your table they have to move very quickly, as the pancakes deflate really fast, so they kind of run to the table yelling "Pannekoeken, pennekoeken!"
At Whiskeymarie's pancake Huis, I yell "Get the fuck down here NOW and eat this crap you ungrateful bastard!" Or, something quaint like that.
Full of pancake, we were off- on the road to Duluth for fun and frivolity- a.k.a. family, bad food and drinking ourselves smart.
Dinner was here. Ick. That's all. Ick. My Mr's family loves this pizza. I hate it. The end.
After dinner, we met up with Mr. & Ms. Waffle to go out for the evening.
This picture pretty much sums up my night.
So do the words "strippers" and "nachos."
Once again, I woke up with no pants.
Last night's excess has left me a little limp and bleary today. It has also necessitated the administration of non-traditional medicines to help ease the pain:
"10 cc's of bacon- STAT!"
Lord I love the squishy, technocolored goodness that is Kraft Deluxe Mac & Chz.
I thought that mixing the powdered cheese product, butter and milk today would be too damn tiring. I don't have that kind of energy- bring on the packet of smooshy "cheese" stuff, please.
And I had a piece of chocolate cake too.
Oh, and I had two of these with my breakfast this morning. Plus coffee. I generally like to have a large arsenal of beverages around for my hangover support. Cokes, water, vitamin water, juice, chocolate milk...
What's that dear? The Surgeon General is on the phone? He can't figure out why I'm still alive? The government wants to use me in an 11-billion dollar research study? They say I don't have any choice and will be here later to take me kicking and screaming obscenities? Did you just mumble something about electroshock? I can't hear you through my stuffing anything cheese coated into my mouth noises! Hmmppphhh...
Tell him I'll call back tomorrow. That Us magazine isn't going to go and read itself, you know.
Friday, September 28, 2007
My belly be warm from liquor, my buns be cold from...well, the cold.
I almost forgot- I'll be in Duluth tomorrow & Sunday!
If any of my D-town peeps (you like how I used the "urban vernacular" so gosh darned eloquently?) happen to see me wandering drunkenly down 1st Street tomorrow night, just try and keep the drunken hobos from dragging me away and impregnating me. That would be great- thanks. I have no interest in living upstairs from the Cozy (does the Cozy still exist?) with my new life partner, One-tooth Gary.
Do yourselves a favor and do something completely out of character this weekend. Just for fun.
I plan on speaking with a French accent all day tomorrow whilst wearing comfortable shoes.
How about you...?
Until Sunday, or whenever I get around to putting together a weekend recap-
Have an uncharacteristic and lovely fall weekend, my little nubbins of chocolate-dipped crickets.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Dating, mating and Whiskey: part one in a series.
A glorious ritual wherein a pair of human beings join up for an evening (or day) of fun, conversation, and hopefully romance. The "getting to know you" moments, so to speak. Occasionally awkward moments arise (alcohol sometimes being the impetus for said awkwardness), sometimes awkward mornings are involved, sometimes someone ends up with a big 'ol mess to clean up, literally and figuratively.
I dated once- a long time ago. It was the pre-internet boom years, the fashion black hole that was the stretchy-black-clothing-filled late Eighties and early Nineties.
Here I am in a hotel in Winnipeg (1991? 1992?) with my gals Blondie and J, all wearing stretchy black articles in one way, shape or form. I believe we were still underage in MN at this point, but not in Canada!
Bless you, oh Canada.
We were all single here, though I believe I may have "technically" been living with someone that I pretty much didn't want to be living with anymore. My flexible morality allows me to call that "single". So there.
Unlike most normal people, I LOVED dating. Loved it. I loved the nervous anticipation before the first date, especially trying to find something to wear ("do fishnets scream 'I'm easy?' or do they say I'm a confident, sexy broad? Do these Doc Martens go with this black miniskirt and my Dead Milkmen t-shirt? Or, should I wear my KMFDM shirt to show how badass I am? How about jean shorts with tights and heels? Too much?"). I'd like to say that I liked the anticipation of waiting for them to pick me up, but I generally dated the special breed of men that didn't have cars, rarely had jobs, and generally expected me to plan the date, drive on the date, pay for the date and put out on the date. True to form, me- being 20-ish, employed, in possession of both a car and a vagina- well, you can guess how that generally went.
We- as young, single females sometimes do- tended to go out on the weekends, frequenting local drinking establishments and basically trollin' for skank of the male variety.
One such drinking "establishment" was in Superior, Wisconsin. Superior (especially at that point in time) was the logical choice for a night out for most Duluthians, as it was just a couple of miles and one big bridge away, and the bars stayed open until 2:30, compared to Duluth's (at the time) puritanical 1:00 a.m. Superior had the distinction, at the time, of having 150+ bars in a 2-mile stretch of roadway. Nothing said drankin' like a trip to "Suptown".
This "establishment" of choice in Superior (especially as a last stop, if you catch my drift- wink) was a lovely and quaint little pub called the "Joker's Wild". The Joker was always good for man-watching as the $1.50 knock-you-on-your-ass cocktails and giant jar of (shudder) pickled eggs seemed to draw them in like flies to shit.
Speaking of, the Joker was quite possibly the filthiest bar I have ever set foot in- and honey, I've been in one or two in my time. The toilets had steaming hot water in them, the bathrooms-I swear- never got cleaned. I think they just took out the trash once in a while and occasionally threw some sort of paper product in there for the hell of it. The dirt was black and caked in the corners, the walls were filthy, graffitti'd and peeling, and the lights were, thankfully, dim.
The Joker was condemned and razed a few years after I got married. I'm kind of surprised it made it that long, really.
The Joker is where I met (picked up) this guy I called J-Crew (irony intended). He had the quirky and healthy all-American good looks of the male models in that catalog- tall, handsome & lean, with unruly curly short hair- but none of the blue-blood background to accompany the package. He was a cruel joke to the female population. Gorgeous and jobless with a warrant out for his arrest on some driving-related matter, as I found out later on our first date.
On looks alone, though, I was smitten.
I tended to not wait around for guys to make the move- I'm extremely impatient that way. I caught his eye at the bar, flirted for a few minutes...then went in for the kill. I (fueled by, I'm sure, several whiskey cokes) sauntered on over and struck up conversation. J-Crew and his buddy Chuck regaled me with tales of how bored they were, how lame Duluth was, and why did I want to live here. Funny, I remember having a lot of conversations back then that were pretty much a variation of this one, yet most of the same people still live there or really want to live there. Hmmm...but I digress.
I believe we went to an after-bar party that night at one of the UMD Rugby player's place. J-Crew and Chuck were there and I continued to shamelessly flirt. Subtlety has never been my strong point. I've bought men drinks, 70's piano-bar style. I have no shame.
Numbers were exchanged, a first date was planned.
Being that he was broke and I was unwilling to invest a big chunk of change in a date, we decided to go for drinks at a bar in Duluth called R.T. Quinlan's. It was a weeknight, so the place was pretty empty. We ordered drinks, I paid, and we sat down. I was uncharacteristically nervous for this one- extra cute always throws me off. He was busy enlightening me on the finer points of avoiding the Po-po when you have a warrant out (something like driving with a revoked license, if I remember correctly), and why he dropped out of College but still lived in a College Town that he seemed to hate. He was aloof and distant, I kept staring at his hair.
It was about 30 seconds into our second drink (paid for by...?) when I decided to flail my arms about wildly in some sort of spazzy, descriptive conversational idiocy when my arm grazed his drink, sending the entire contents into his crotch, ice and all.
I was so horrified, I jumped up and started yelling "I need a towel!" like I had somehow managed to sever an artery and needed to make a tourniquet RIGHT NOW!
The bartender brought one over with a look on his face that pretty much said "you are crazy. Please do not try to ever date me or my friends" and walked away. The crotch was blotted. To make it up to him I bought another round. All was well.
Well, that is- until we were going to leave and I decided to make a pit stop to pee and walked head on into a doorway.
Or, when we were getting into my car and I knocked my noggin (again) on my car door.
Or, until we were going to his place (ahem. For Parcheesi and ice cream, you dirty little monkeys) and I nearly bit it on the ice on the sidewalk.
I pretty much decided then that he wasn't "boyfriend" material when I realized that I was the only one laughing at my retardedness. He so obviously didn't get me. He was a humorless, unemployed sexypants.
Too bad. Our children would have been stunningly cute.
But, lucky for him his good looks made him perfect booty call material.
Indeed, my car and my vagina served me well in that relationship. Plus, the lack of actual dates meant no one had to pay for anything except the occasional cab ride- which was totally worth it.
I loved dating.
I just never said I was any good at it.
Coming soon: Part two of the series Dating, mating and Whiskey-"What the hell was your name again?"
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Pa, why is Ma curled up in the corner of our little house muttering "so much work, so much work, damn kids, so much work...?"
Work is seriously cutting into my leisure time these days.
I don't know where you all find the time, inclination or energy to:
a) Have a life that includes things like "activities" and "socializing" and "bathing".
b) Wake up before the crack of 9:00.
c) Have time to read literature that doesn't have the word "Interview", "Vanity Fair" or "Dairy Goat" on the cover.
I mean, come on. I so miss the sweet days of this past marginally-employed summer of mine. Remember when I used to have time to write about things like sniffing my kitchen clogs, bloaty gassyness, vaginal itch creams, sadomasochistic boot-lickers, and drunk camping while eating penis cake?
Yeah, I miss those magical Little House on the Prarie-esque moments too.
Maybe tomorrow, my probably-migrating-south-to-more interesting-pastures little songbirds.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
But your legs will get cold...
Work is kicking my ass hard until tomorrow.
Just a random oddity:
At the soup kitchen today where I volunteer (yep, you heard that right. Been doing it for a while- figured maybe I'd bank some bonus karma points for future use), I had another run-in with the tall guy that wears the short, SHORT jean shorts and mutters to himself. You know, the one I said could possibly be Cisco Adler's dad, judging by the frightening man-unit he seems have barely restrained in their denim prison? That guy?
Well today, he looked right at me and said:
"Avalanche dumptruck. Avalanche dumptruck."
Monday, September 24, 2007
Eau de sirloin, also available in Eau de toilet.
We had some pretty amazing storms last week, and one on Thursday was particularly fun and nasty.
I was at work, well- working, and one of my students walks in the kitchen and says, "there seems to be a river running down the hallway."
I went out and checked, and sure enough, there was a river running down the hallway. There may or may not have also been a bear catching salmon as they swam upstream- I'm not entirely sure my memory is reliable.
About a minute later we were told that we had to evacuate the building- immediately. Or, as they politely put it, GET OUT NOW!!!!!!
So, we quickly put all of our prep in the coolers, cleaned up as well as you can in 3.4 seconds, and got the hell out.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to any of us that the power would be getting turned off. And I never really even entertained the thought that said power would be off for about 24+ hours, which it was. Actually, once I figured out I had Friday off, paid (!!), I pretty much entered into the "long weekend zone" where shopping is plentiful and work becomes an ugly memory not entirely unlike high school prom. All weekend my face had a delirious smile and glazed "Valley of the Dolls"-like expression.
The building was closed Friday and Saturday. We weren't allowed into the building until today, so I had no idea what I was getting myself into until I opened up the cooler door. Dumb, dumb move, my dear.
I now know what death smells like.
It smells like four different kinds of rotting meat, mixed with various produce in different stages of mold growth. If you've never smelled truly rotten beef or chicken, well...I'll tell you this- It kind of takes your breath away and makes one wonder if one will be revisiting the eggs that one had for breakfast, the smell is so amazingly putrid. I feel like the stink has seeped into my pores as it took nearly 45 minutes to clean the damn thing out.
Hi, my name is Whiskeymarie and I just stepped in the Bog of Eternal Stench.
So, how did I spend my pre-stinkypants three-day weekend? Here are some highlights, in bullet points for your squishy comfort:
- Shopping at the MOA with my gal Blondie on Friday. I put a nice little dent in the bank account buying yet more sweet fall booty. Someone please take my check card away before I end up living in a van down by the river. Blondie, however, beat me by a mile or twelve in the spending department, for once. Her snazzy new Swavorski braclet and ring make me happy she is my friend and that maybe someday I can borrow them and not give them back. We also had two martinis with lunch. Yes, two. Judge all you want- I know you're just jealous.
- Me & the Mr. went to a play Saturday night. Shakespeare's Coriolanus at a little theater in Mpls. For a former English Lit. major, I really could take old William or leave him, but I wanted culture, dammit, and I will not be denied. Plus, the Mr's cousin was in the play. It was a lovely night out and just what my existentially-challenged mind needed.
- Sunday was supposed to be my all-day-in-jammies-no-showering day, but we got invited to dinner at our friend's place, and me not wanting to cook overruled me not wanting to bathe. Food tastes so damn good when other people cook it.
Now I'm tired, I have a boatload of work to do in the next two hours, and I smell like an un-airconditioned slaughterhouse on a 95-degree day.
But I had a pretty great weekend. Hope y'all did too.
Happy Monday, my little meat puppets.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tick tock, you damn dirty clock.
Like a lot of you, I'm sure, I keep several notebooks around to write myself notes, make lists, write random thoughts, draw pictures of what I think I'd look like as an alien from the planet Funkytron...
you know, the usual.
I wrote something down the other day that has bothered me ever since I put my ultra fine point sharpie to paper.
"She/I woke with an urgent sense that time was running out."
I can't even remember what I was thinking that moment to make me want to write this down, but it has my undies all bundled up and chafing me in undesirable locations.
"Is time running out?" - Well, technically, yes. Unless you know something about sacrificing virgins to volcanoes to sustain eternal life that I don't, then yes, time is always running out. Every second that hand on the clock clicks or sweeps 1/60th of the total trip around the face is 1/60th more- gone. Then two, then three...
I think I've been feeling that my sense of urgency has dwindled a bit. And by "a bit" I mean that I seem to have formed a callus on the left side of my face from the extra hours spent sleeping and having dreams about dating homeless dudes from the soup kitchen (specifically the dude that wears short, tight jean shorts that highlight his junk in a frightful way. I think he may be Cicso Adler's dad.) It's not at critical mass yet, but if I start googling "where to buy bedpans" and "home remedies for bedsores" then please, please intervene. Someone come here, drag my ass out of bed, prop me on a chair in front of everyone I know and a few t.v. cameras and bring down on me the iron fist of shame. Please. This is not who Whiskeymarie is, and nothing gets this gal going more than a healthy dose of shame and self-loathing. Mmmm, mmm, good.
Those of you that know me know that I can sometimes, on occasion, be a woman of extremes. I tend to "go for it!" with all the gusto I can possibly muster up, not entirely unlike Angelina Jolie driving down a country road and seeing a large box labeled "free babies!"
I tend to throw myself into things wholly and unconditionally, usually without a plan or any idea of the outcome. I really have never seen this as a bad thing. I hate to over analyze things- I dare say that as expressed in a proportion, my time spent thinking about the details of most of my big life decisions as compared to the amount of time that said decision will affect my life is somewhere around 1/3,429.
I've been lucky, this has (with the exception of the unfortunate decision to adopt that family from Mongolia and have them move in with us) worked pretty well for me, overall. I have done some interesting things, had some great jobs, met some amazing (and some monumentally, impressively, astoundingly unamazing) people.
Problem is, I haven't done anything of any consequence lately, unless you count closely monitoring the progress of an ingrown hair on my bikini line as noteworthy.
I've been here before, some of you know this. Don't worry- I'm not depressed, I'm not blue (unless you count my skin tone mid-January. I'm a little blue-ish then- stay tuned.). I've been there briefly some years ago, and this...well this is not that.
I just need to kick myself in the ass, or possibly beat myself with a sack of oranges- so as not to leave bruises.
I need something noteworthy. Something other than, "Wow! that's some kick-ass sock organization, if I do say so myself! Hoo-wee, that's awesome!"
Because, today, I did wake with an urgent sense that time is running out.
And it is.
It always is, dammit.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
'twas toward but not 'twixt with twine.
I got this card in the mail today from my gal Waffle.
It's like I have my own personal Nostratwatmus.
Because, lo and behold, just today I found myself wondering, while looking adoringly at my own reflection in my glass of cheap white wine:
"Self? I said in a whispery/sexy voice- are you a total twat or are you just more of a marginally bitchy cunt with overtones of raging batshit crazy?"
I wonder these things sometimes- don't you?
I guess all of my questions have been answered.
I guess I is a twat.
I can live with that.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Quit poking my bum!
This was a 1/2 block from my house. As I was pulling out of my driveway to leave, I saw one of those GIANT firetrucks pull up to my neighbor's house. Seems someone called about the possibly dead man in a recliner in their yard.
I say these neighbors were pretty much begging for a bum to pass out in their front yard. Don't park your unwanted la-z-boy out there and not expect someone to pass out in it. It's a nice neighborhood, but we seem to have a touch more than the average number of drunkies here. Duh.
Here they are, trying to wake him up.
(click the pic for better bum-o-vision)
He looks comfortable, and it was a lovely morning.
If I hadn't had somewhere to be, I may have snuggled in there with him for just a little more sleep.
I love that they pretty much just poked him to see if he was alive or not. Poke. Poke.
And comfortable- let the man rest, will ya?
This Mad Dog 20-20 hangover isn't going to sleep itself off, you know.
If you or anyone you know is considering a career in either bummery or the hobo arts, I suggest you start doing your homework.
A quality bum is an educated bum, I say.
Maybe more on my weekend later, after work. I'll try to think of the non-hobo related things that happened, if there were any.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Anything you can do, I can do better...
We ALL know this person.
With a few cocktails, perhaps we have, briefly, been this person.
Who, you ask?
The person I like to call the "One Upper"
If you've done it once, they've done it 14 times backwards.
You broke your arm once skiing? Well, did I ever tell you about the time I broke every bone in my body except for one toe bone when I was bobsledding with the Jamaican Bobsled team and Katie Couric in the Swiss Alps? Funny story...you have a few minutes?
You know this person.
I am blessed to know several/way too many One Uppers.
One, who I'll call "Fester", works at my place of employment. We share an office with 4 other people, so conversation is inevitable. Sometimes we have typical, somewhat productive exchanges with one another, but normally I find myself cursing myself afterward, pissed at the 15-20 minutes of my life I'll never get back. Example:
Fester: "So, how are your classes going?"
Me: "Good, for the most part."
F: "For the most part? Uh-oh, that doesn't sound good."
Me: "Well, I just have a couple of problem students that are making things a little difficult."
F: "Problems? How?"
Me: "Well, I have one with a Heroin problem and the other one, I think, is smoking crack. Plus the one started talking about guns and knives the other day in class. I'm a little worried."
F: "Did I ever tell you about Bob Bobson?"
Me: (sensing that I was about to age considerably but seeing no way out) "Um, no."
F: "Bob was my student and wasn't doing so well in class. I had a little talk with him suggesting that he find another career to pursue, which he didn't seem to agree with. So one day Bob just stopped showing up, and I figured that was that. But he started showing up at my house, and I would see him wherever I went. The grocery store, the bank, even at my colonoscopy, there he was. He started following my family, and tried to start dating my daughter. He became more and more destructive. I called the cops, but they said there wasn't anything they could do as he technically hadn't broken any laws. Finally, he went too far. He followed us on our yearly vacation to the lake."
Me: "Really? Holy cow!"
F: "Yeah, we go to Cape Lear every summer. Nice place. Well, things got pretty heated that year, and Bob didn't come out of it so well, that's all I'm saying."
F: "Well, I've got a meeting. Good luck with your 'problem' students."
And, well, you get it.
In the food industry we seem to have more than our fair share of these charmers. Being a debaucherous bunch, for the most part, leaves most of us with piles of really juicy stories about everything from abrupt and dramatic job exits to who snogged who in dry storage. I have piles, Ms. Mecca has piles, Stacy has piles... but we know how to dole them out and use them primarily for good, comedic relief, rather than evil (usually). But over and over in this business you meet "that guy" (or girl) who has done all of it, been everywhere, cooked everything, fucked everyone (literally and figuratively), and luckily, lived to tell about it.
Lucky for us. Wheeeee!
Typical interaction with this type, who I'll call "Douchie"
Me: "Hey Douchie! How's the job going? Are you still at Snooty's?"
Douchie: "Snooty's? Christ, I quit that job months ago. You know the owner is wanted for Murder, don't you?" (You know this is a lie. Everyone in the business already knows that Douchie got unceremoniously fired for smoking weed in the wine cellar a week ago and the owner is just having tax problems. But, you keep this to yourself.)
Me: "No, I didn't know. Sorry. I thought you liked that job? Too bad- I like Snooty's. I think the food there is really good, really interesting."
Douchie: "Seriously? You have got to be joking. That place was so beneath me. I mean, I trained (um, worked one week and left in tears, I heard. But do go on) at Chez Fancypants in New York, for christ's sake! I could run Snooty's with my eyes closed. In fact, I pretty much was running the place. People thought I was the owner all the time. Jorge, the 'real' owner was begging me to come on as a partner but I just didn't want to. You of all people know how fickle the business is, right? If I have my own place I'll be much smarter about it- I mean than Jorge, not you of course. But hey- what are you up to these days?"
Me: "Oh, I'm teaching now. I love the hours and the pay rocks."
Douchie: "Yeah, I'm thinking about teaching at Le Fancypants du Blanc. They're totally bugging me to run one of their programs. They offered me a $90k gig, but I don't know- I think I'd miss the biz. And- no offense- but, I feel like my talent would be wasted there, you know?"
(You last heard he was delivering gourmet pizzas part-time)
Me: "Yeah, you might get bored. I don't, but hey."
Douchie: "Hey! Did you know that Wolfblitzer VonDuck contacted me about possibly doing training for his new place?"
Me: "No, I didn't. I thought he was going to have Helga St.Stern do that."
Douchie: "That's just what the papers are saying, but it's not true. Wolfblitzer's people called me directly. (about "missing" information on his job application. Specifically, the "previous employment" section wasn't filled out properly. Douchie had just written: "Let's talk, its a long story.")
Me: "That's great Douchie! I hope whatever you pick works out for you- but I have to go. You know, work and stuff."
Douchie: "Hey! Good to see you too. And, not that I would necessarily do it, but if anything opens up where you work..."
Another example. This one involves myself and the woman that I cater for who we'll call Dramatiste. I know she's done a lot, and I know that she knows a ton of people, but puh-lease already! It's starting to get silly:
Me: "I went to Chez Poopybum for dinner last night. Have you been there yet?"
Dramatiste: "Yes! What did you think?"
Me: "It was o.k, nothing special"
Dramatiste: "Really? I thought it was great. What did you order?"
Me: "Well, I had the fried baby deer eyelashes followed by an entree of braised wood sprites in a baby tear reduction and we had the candied rare stinkflower sorbet with monkey milk foam for dessert."
Dramatiste: "Well, I can see why you didn't think it was that good. You didn't order anything interesting. Don't you know the owner? Well, I do, and she always makes me something special as I am her very best friend and we hung out with Andy Warhol and Lou Reed and we created the very idea of food, and we were like rock stars and got in everywhere and know everyone and we hang out with Yoko Ono, and we taste food better and differently than you do, and we singlehandedly developed the concept of food on a plate, and...
Well, again- you get it.
I simply can't take it anymore. I can't stand the one-upper. I'm just going to start slapping them, one by one, as a service to everyone else.
You can thank me later.
On a side note:
The fall shopping has begun!
I bought these along with some sweaters, etc... here the other night after hanging out with my girls M & S for a few drinkies:
I wasn't even drunk.
I can't wait to get them delivered. Plus I got free express shipping to boot. (Ba-dum-dum. Yes, just call me Shecky)
I will wear the crap out of these lovelies. With jeans, skirts, metallic orange hotpants...you name it.
Have a good weekend, my little deep-fried angel wings coated in opium-poppy syrup and sprinkled with candied love.
And p.s. I will make an honest effort to get caught up on all your posts at your respective blogs this weekend. I know I've been a bit m.i.a.
It's been a looooong week, my dears. Long.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
I promise the next post (after this one) won't be gross. Really, I promise.
I lived with 2 other girls in a big apartment in Duluth. I had very short, dark hair, by BF Waffle had long, jet black hair, and our third roomie, Granola, had really long, light brown-red hair.
One morning I plodded into the bathroom, sneezing and sniffling from what I thought was allergies. I blew and blew my nose, but that "tickle" was still there. And my throat itched too.
I glanced in the mirror and saw something sticking out of my left nostril.
It was a 1/2" hair.
Holy crap! Are my nosehairs out of control or what?, I thought.
I tugged at the offender, but it wasn't attached.
I pulled and pulled, and more just kept coming out- kind of like the "scarf in the sleeve" trick scary half-assed magicians do.
All in all, I pulled about 18" of hair (singular) out.
I had somehow inhaled, and swallowed WITHOUT NOTICING, one of Granola's hairs at some point.
I stopped sneezing, though, and my throat felt better.
But I felt a little pukey, so I went back to bed.
Label: Disturbing party tricks
P.S. If you have a minute read this- make sure you don't miss the accompaning mug shot. God I love my weird, weird city.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
You really shouldn't read this. Do something better with your time- I beg you.
And, it clogs your drains.
When my tub drain starts getting a little slow and I am starting to feel as if I'm taking a shower during a massive flood, it can only mean one thing.
The hairy drain monsters have returned (be afraid):
(read this in a quiet, nature show announcer voice)
Shhh. We must approach quietly so as not to scare it. When they're caught in a trap like this they've been known to chew their own limbs off to escape.
(no flash photos please- it frightens them.)
Just a baby this time.
We'll carefully capture him, tag him, and set him free back into the wild.
The fully-grown ones are the ones you need to be scared of. They've been known to take a man's hand off in one bite.
We here at the Higher Achieving Institute for Recapturing and Bilingually Assessing Long Locks do our jobs with the integrity, dedication and strong stomach that the work demands.
As long as HAIRBALL is around, we will continue searching for ways to allow man and drain monsters to peacefully coexist.
This has been another production from the Eeeew Broadcasting Department.
Stay tuned for "When toenail clippings attack!" followed by "Smelly bellybuttons- the hidden epidemic".
Monday, September 10, 2007
Insert "Chariots of Fire" theme here.
One of those days where you feel like a starting gun went off instead of an alarm, and you feel like you should be wearing 80's terrycloth running shorts and a sweatband.
I really could use a crowd on the sidewalk, cheering me on and handing me glasses of ice cold chardonnay as I hobble on by, 18.5 miles into my 26-ish mile day.
This is the point in the race where I would be soaked in sweat, my mascara running down my face, my lipstick smeared and my bikini top ripped (oh, wait. wrong event. That's "foxy boxing", not running. Oops.)
Well, I'm pretty sure this is the point in my race where I would start bargaining with the gods of hurryupedness. "Give me more time! Give me the energy to not pee myself today. I haven't any time to go and I need a bladder of iron! Please, dear benevolent ones, grant me the power to get all the stuff done I should have done this weekend! Please!!! Let me not humiliate myself by finishing this race in the dark, long after they've pulled away the finish line and left me on the road with no one for company except the 89-year-old with not one, but two rebuilt hips. Please just let me get through this in a timely and calm manner and I promise I will leave clif bars and gatorade at your ceremonial altar. Please do this for me and I promise to try and think about being a more organized person. I promise! I'll really consider it this time!"
You know when you wake up and the first thing out of your mouth- while you're still in bed- is a whispered "Oh shit!" that, well...
gotta go- stuff to do, excuses to make, fires to put out, bullshit to deal with.
p.s.- if you can't remember the theme- here it is. You'll be humming it all day...
Friday, September 7, 2007
Nanuk's house of haute couture
My favorite time of year. Gone are the light fabrics, unwittingly exposed skin, sweaty cleavage wet spots and "flip flop" feet.
I am aching to usher in the fall clothing. Wool, cute jackets, chunky heels, tights, and sweaters, sweaters, sweaters. And boots. I miss you, boots.
I have never liked summer clothes all that much. In May & early June the novelty is still there, and the light skirts, tank tops and sandals still seem charming. By August, I'm caring so little that pajama bottoms and a stained t-shirt from 1995 seems like an acceptable outfit. I've pretty much lived in wife be**ers for the last month now. I own about 30 and have just kept up a steady rotation. It's really sad. Especially on the days I don't bother to shave my pits. Luckily the intervention I was expecting never materialized- I pictured my Mr. pinning me down while my friends cut up my offending garb, me crying and mumbling "I don't have a problem. You guys have the problem...".
I had given up hope and needed saving- it happens like clockwork for me. Until the temp holds out in the low-70's I'm a fashion retard.
Heat aside, normally I have my shit together, clothes-wise. I shop like a ninja- quick and exacting, scoring odd pieces that I can generally force into some sort of ensemble that at the very least can be called "interesting". I'm a cheap-ass tightwad when it comes to clothes too- I have never spent more than $30 on good cashmere, and I really don't think I've ever spent over $40 on a pair of jeans. And I love thrift and vintage shopping - as I've said before, I love other people's old shit. Love it. I'm so excited about clothes right now I could spank myself.
So, thank you fall. I'm happy you're back. Shopping will commence shortly.
I've been poring over catalogs, trolling the internet, looking at what I already have, and basically just trying to stop myself from draining the bank account just so I can look cute.
Not entirely sure what I'm going to get (you know I'll post pics as purchases are made), but I can tell/show you -without a doubt- a few things I'm NOT going to be sporting this fall.
(warning- these pictures are graphic- graphically ugly, that is. And, sorry to any of you that my be workin' any of these looks. You are obviously a stronger person than I am, or you are 22. You can wear anything at 22.)
These boots make me want to find each and every member of the "Bangles" and kick the crap out of them, while wearing these lovelies, of course.
Walk like an Egyptian, my ass.
Maybe I hate these more than I should, maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I truly hate these with every fiber of my being.
This is a look I like to call "when pirates mate with Eskimos".
Knickers and muk-luk-ish boots, with a ruffly shirt.
And, I suspect that is a vest peeking out at the top of the picture.
This is what happens when you leave Adam Ant (who I must say, yum yum back in the day...) and a group of Renaissance Festers locked in a room with too many bottles of ye olde mead for too long.
They end up collaborating on a fall fashion line.
Here we have the "Urban bag lady"
If an outfit makes a 5'11", 85-pound model look like, well...
I have to wonder how well any of us would fare.
But hey, honey- the cute wedgies pull it all together, don't you think?
This falls into the "seriously?" category.
From the waist down, things are fine, but that jacket.
You need to look closely at these two, click on the pic for a better look.
I bet that turquoise number will be a big hit with the S. Florida lady-retirees. I imagine they will wear it with gold tennies and swishy nylon pants with zippers at the bottoms.
I'm assuming the dress is some sort of high-end halloween joke. Or a bumblebee outfit for the rich and mentally unstable. I hope so anyways.
There seems to be a fair amount of "haute Eskimo couture" going on this year.
I am confused by this vest.
This vest makes baby jeebus cry.
And finally, visual proof of something I suspected all along:
When fashion designers get bored, they simply raid the closets of 45 year-old unmarried, cat-loving, harlequin-romance reading, painkiller-popping, diet RC cola-drinking secretaries named Delores who bought their entire wardrobe at Montgomery Ward in 1983 for inspiration.
Either that or they hate us and think it's funny when we look bad.
Happy Fall- glad it's finally here.
Oh, and- Happy Friday, my little rosebud corsages.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
This disposable American life.
Have you seen these yet?
If you haven't- they are basically zip-style bags designed to be used in the microwave for steaming food (I think they're vented or something).
Thank jeebus almighty that we finally have reason to stop actually using that fancy stainless-steel cookware that Aunt Gert spent $600 on for our wedding gift. How relieved are we that we won't have to actually use our two functioning hands to go through the physical drudgery of actually loading the dishwasher, or HOLY SHIT NO!- wash dishes by hand.
What is wrong with us?
I regularly meet people who consider this sort of product to be innovative and yet another fine representation of American ingenuity at work. Is it clever? Sure. Do we need another plastic product that we simply toss in the trash with the mantra "out of sight, out of mind"?
If you're wondering- the answer, my kiddos, is no.
I rarely get preachy here, but someone tell me how this product is necessary. Someone tell me how this improves our quality of life. Sure, I guess the argument could be made that, by not having to wash dishes, the user of such a thing would have 22.5 more seconds to spend with their family. By simply tossing the soiled bag aside, the user would have all the time needed to (finally!) complete their thesis on the impact of hairbrushes on 18th century Chinese literature.
I seriously doubt it. My guess is they would just waste the extra time updating their blog.
I actually saw individually wrapped prunes in the grocery store the other day.
Individually. Wrapped. Prunes.
So, you're telling me that having free-flowing bowels is well worth the 36 plastic wrappers that will linger in a landfill until long after You yourself are fodder for worms?
I eat prunes. I try to buy them in bulk in canisters (they used to be paper/cardboard, but of course now they're in plastic- I can't win) that I re-use as many times as I can.
I'm trying to think of an occasion where I would want an individually-wrapped prune. If I wanted some with my lunch, I would just use a reusable container of some sort. Yes, I know that would involve actually WASHING something, but I consider that my cardio most days. Perhaps if I had a sudden urge to carry prunes around and hand them out like candy to strangers...but I'm not sure how well that would go over.
"Her sir- have a prune!"
"Have a prune! Keeps you regular!"
"Fuck you and your dried plums, weirdo."
Yeah, not so much.
I guess I'm just consistently amazed and appalled at the amount of crap out there. I don't need my prunes packaged 13 different ways. I don't need that many choices. I don't want that many choices if it means more and more garbage. I am capable of taking out a pan and cooking things. I am capable of putting food in a container.
When did life get reduced to: "how fast can we do this?" "can I just throw this away?" and "sure this kitchen cost $50k to remodel but I'll be damned if I'm going to get it dirty!"
I find myself yelling at the t.v. a lot lately, usually the same question:
"Is this really necessary???"
So much of it isn't. Disposable toilet brushes, disposable bags, one-use disposable eye cream dispensers, disposable prune wrappers...
I guess as long as people keep buying it, they'll keep making it.
Personally, I have been trying to do what I can to stop this nonsense. Am I perfect? Hell no. I use ziplocs occasionally, I use saran wrap occasionally, I occasionally buy a bottle of water.
I think the difference we can make is in how often we use this crap. My roll of saran wrap is only half gone and I bought it before Christmas. I use a regular toilet brush.
I'm not telling you what to do, I'm not the boss of you.
And, I'm really not looking for a lengthy debate or sermon on the evils of these sort of products (obviously I get it) or why I'm a liberal nutjob for even suggesting that we shouldn't buy shit that we don't need but that our inherent laziness steers us towards.
I just have to question what drives us to buy this junk, why even people who are usually fairly eco-conscious wouldn't think twice about buying microwave steaming bags because, hey! they're easy, and I'm tired, and I need to walk the dog, and I need to wash my hair...
When did it all start becoming just about what's easy, what's quick, what's the shortest route? I know the media is a huge part of all of this, I get that, and that's a whole other discussion entirely. I just have to wonder when we became so much like beef cattle being herded on slaughterin' day- the many guided by the few to what promises to be a tremendously unhappy ending.
Is it all really necessary?
Are we better for having it?
Are we really saving time?
Or, are we blindly forging forth, oblivious to the consequences?
Like you, I don't have all the answers either. Just lots of questions.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Next week I'll be headlining at "Pappy's house of Yuk-Yuks" off of route 75.
And with that, the Panda walked out of the restaurant.
The hostess then rushes to a dictionary, looks up 'Panda' and reads..."Panda, n., mammal, eats shoots and leaves."
I am finding work uninteresting today, as you can see.
Or not. Whatever.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The story where I eat a hot dog and live to tell about it.
* Made breakfast (apple-almond pancakes, turkey sausage, roasted taters).
* Changed out of dirty wife b**ter into a clean wife b**ter (sorry my p.c. friends, that's the best I can do), and decided to wear a bra today.
* Moved around some furniture to better accommodate the elliptical, probably won't actually use the elliptical today, figured moving furniture was all the exercise I need.
* Made a mini sandwich out of a leftover pancake and peanut butter, contemplating making another- it was that good.
* May or may not shower- really haven't decided yet.
* Looked outside once for the Sunday paper.
* Looked in the porch for the mail, twice.
* Remembered that it's Monday, and a holiday, three times.
Not a bad day, so far.
My weekend, with photographic documentation:
Saturday morning, after a monumentally disappointing breakfast here, I slathered on about 47 coats of sunscreen and we headed off to the happiest place in Shakopee, MN...
Holy mother of all that is amusement park related I have been sooo very excited to worship at your altar all summer. It has been far too long, my cotton-candy encrusted purveyor of all that is fun. The wait has, however, only strengthened my resolve to conquer all of your roller-coasters, be they big or be they small.
I was giddy and wide-eyed, hopped up on the smell of sweat, fryer grease and fear. I practically ran to the new wooden roller beast, Renegade. I hoped my first time would be memorable and exciting, but a little rough- just the way I like it.
Damn. That's a loooooong line.
Damn. It's hot.
Damn. That's it? That's all? It's over already?
Damn. All I can say is, meh. Good, not great.
I shake my fist at you, Renegade. You stole my re-virginized roller-coaster cherry and I want it back. And, oh yeah, quit bragging to your friends. Really- you weren't all that and a bag of chips. Nuh-uh.
Now THIS is what I call a thrill ride.
Round, and around, and around, and around, and up, and down, and up, and down...
Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do....(creepy carousel music)
The guys running the merry-go-round looked a little suicidal. Can't say I blame 'em.
*Speaking of merry-go-round, anyone else remember the store by the same name? I bought many hoochie outfits there, including this silver sequined minidress around 1990:
I want this statue for my back yard.
Anyone who can steal it for me will be the proud owner of a nice, crisp $5 bill. And maybe a shiny quarter too.
They were giving out free corn here all day. I like corn on the cob and all, but seeing all sorts of people walking around gnawing on a cob all day really grossed me out. They were like vultures around this stand.
But, even more disturbing than all the Midwesterners "gnawing on a cob" I have to say, was all of the 10-14 year-old girls walking around dressed like sporty hookers.
I can't even tell you how many pairs of short-short-short-tight-SHORT shorts I saw walking around that place- usually paired with either a bikini top, or a minimalist tank. Yikes. Even worse than that were the 18-20 something guys following these girls around and hitting on them. When we were waiting in line for the old wooden coaster (still my second favorite ride there), there was a group of 12-14 year-old girls in front of us (honestly- there is NO WAY any of these girls was older than 14). They had two 19-24-ish guys hanging out with them, and it was obvious from the bits of conversation I picked up that they had just met that day. The one guy with the fucked-up teeth, that we'll call "Cletus" kept putting his arm around one of the more "mature" looking girls, and then would casually let his arm drift down to her ass. She'd shrug him off, then a few minutes later he'd try again. The other dude, we'll call "DJ Jazzy Douchebag" was clearly along as Cletus' wingman. I guess when a trucker hat jauntily cocked to one side paired with droopy jean shorts still passes as fashion for you, you haven't really moved up into the realm of real men. But hey- hitting on a girl that was probably born in 1994 is pretty much still not o.k. by any stretch of the imagination. I wanted to call the authorities of some sort. Or Chris Hansen.
Dudes, it's called being a pedophile. Look it up.
Moving on again...
My new favorite musical group- "Let's Groove"
Their new album "Keepin' it real in the Cul-de-sac" is available at Sam Goody stores nationwide.
Man, if you can find a bunch of goody-two-shoes suburban white kids that can do better renditions of Earth, Wind & Fire songs than this group of tan, healthy youngsters, well, I may have to hug you, or something.
Shake your groove things, Trevor and Britney and Thad and Pepsi, and...well, the rest of you.
This may be when they launched into "Shining Star".
Wow, boys and girls, you sure do know how to channel your inner Bootsy Collins.
Any less soul here and we'd be watching Dan Rather singing "Lady Marmalade".
Who's got the funk?
We got da funk!
About 4.5 hours into my amusement-park punch-drunkenness, the heat and the people started to get to me. Really. Even I get tired of gawking at big guts, black socks with shorts, women "of a certain age" wearing bikini tops and way too tight jeans/shorts with stuff hanging out all over, rednecks, farmers, suburban "gangstas" and "1987 called and they want their look back" metal dudes and dudettes.
I needed to go home and wash the stink off.
But it was still awesomely fun. I rode 6 coasters, the merry-go-round and a super-scary swing ride.
I broke my 15+ years of not having a regular 'ol hotdog, I ate crinkly fries and ice cream. I paid $3.25 for a bottle of water.
I had as much fun as I could take.
We drove home, rested for a few hours, then got ready for dinner.
We went to Zander for dinner, a semi-regular stop for us. They just remodeled (for the 3rd or 4th time), and I have to say I was disappointed a bit. It was very beige. Very. Beige carpet, beige walls, beige art. I'm used to it being a little livelier in there, but this time I felt like I was eating in a funeral-parlor lobby, or a very chi-chi hotel lobby. It was a little odd.
The food was good, the wine was better.
Once we ordered, my Mr. unceremoniously tosses a little blue velvet bag on the table.
"I don't know how to do this, so there you go."
He's such a gushy romantic, that one.
I was really excited. Even more so when I saw what was inside.
Garnet and white gold studs to match my engagement ring.
I love my studs- both the earrings and the man.
Good job on the gift. Really good job. Kind of sorry now that I didn't get you anything, Mr. WM. Oh well.
(And yes, he reads my blog, so he read Friday's post. He was touched, then I was "touched"- wink.)
After dinner and before dessert, we stopped at Garrison Keillor's bookstore here in St. Paul- "Common Good Books". What a great store. I bought Bill Moyer's son's addiction memoir, Broken. So far it's pretty good. Maybe I'll finish it today. Maybe not. If you're in or around the area ever, stop in at this store- it's everything a bookstore should be- independently owned and quirky.
This is after dinner and dessert, which we had here. Dessert was delicious. Chocolate tres leches cake with coconut ice cream. Pedroncelli Merlot for me, Jameson and coffee for the Mr.
I'm a little schnookered here at home, after dinner. I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but you can bet I'm thinking about my new earrings. And monkeys.
Sunday morning was a 2 bloody mary, cheezy hashbrown affair at the Triple Rock with my gal Blondie. Needless to say, the rest of Sunday was less than productive. Us magazine unproductive. Made for t.v movie starring Teri Garr on the Hallmark channel unproductive. Blogging about my weekend with pictures unproductive.
Whatever. It was still a good day.
Gotta go- we're moving furniture in the bedroom and I fear the dust bunnies may stage a coup and hold the Mr. hostage if I don't supervise.