Friday, June 29, 2007

From days of yore.

I have no good stories today, and I'm frantically trying to get some shit done as we are going to Duluth this weekend for various family and kid b-days. All I've accomplished so far is:
  • sleeping in
  • few loads of laundry
  • um...does looking at the flowers in my garden count?
  • how about eating oatmeal?
For lack of imagination today, I thought I'd pull a few random-ish photos from the Whiskeymarie vault and post them with my recollections of the story behind them, or stuff I'll make up to make them more interesting.
My post, my rules, kiddos.

This was from maybe 1976-77(?) when me, my sister and a bunch of the neighbor kids decided to have a parade down our road. We donned our Halloween costumes (that would be me- batgirl, on the right. My sis is Wonder woman- bitch got all the good costumes) and we got one of the neighbors to lead the way with his tractor.

Problem is, almost no one knew of our grand parade, and I think the only people that came out to watch were our Moms.

We really should have had a committee plan this thing out beforehand.

This is best explained here.

Note my Mom: smoke and a cup of coffee.

Note: the 1978 kitchen decor. Nice oil lamp.

I call this one:
"Pat Benetar and her white trash family with macrame" circa 1984

Like my pants? Awesome belt.

My dad looks like he works 3rd shift at the hot dog factory.

I'm just wondering why there is no plant in the planter.

Oh, and that's my gal D. She's tall, she played volleyball. That's my one poem for the day.

This was before me & the Mr. were married (so, like 23 years ago) when we decided to take a road trip to Graceland.
I was obsessed with going to the bowling museum in St. Louis on the way, and here I am.
They had a car shaped like a bowling pin and quilts made of bowling shirts. I wanted to move in, but instead bought a t-shirt.

This was the same road trip where we ended up driving 30+ hours without sleep. Long story for another time.
*I just noticed how freighting my pallor appears here. Thank you Mr. scanner. I'm actually not a zombie, lest anyone be confused. Though, I did try brains once. They tasted brainy.

This next one here is of a donkey that came up to our car window when we were lost in the Black Hills on a different road trip years later to Mt. Rushmore.

You will note that the donkey is being attacked by a light-saber wielding Jedi.
My Mr. had received this geektacular camera as a gift- it superimposed various Star Wars characters onto your cherished memories, creating a futuristic and not at all nerdy effect.

Half of our pictures from this trip look like this, with varying masters of the force on them. The Corn Palace really looks space-age with Princess Amadala hanging out there.

Yup. I married him.

So there you go for today.
Yes, you should be disappointed with the lameiocity of this post.
Too bad. I've got 3 hours worth of shit to do, and about 45 minutes to do it.

Maybe I'll see one of my Duluth blogger girls this weekend...
I'll be in Canal Park tonight, and out somewhere tomorrow, just don't know where.

Have a good weekend, my little chocolate-coated graham crackers.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

"Whoo, whoo..." Pull over. Nerd Police, Ma'am. looks like we're going to have to give you a citation this time...

Reason #1) Today I spent 10 minutes standing perfectly still in my back porch while I waited for the robin that we just recently discovered has built a luxury condo in our cherry tree to eat some sunflower seeds that I dumped on the back sidewalk.

Perfectly still.

When she didn't bite, I figured her supersonic bird beak could smell me, so I quietly went in the house and continued to watch for another 10 minutes. Well, maybe it was 20. Who (with a life, hobbies and pride) can say?

Then I realized (after my 20 minute statue impersonation) that I was angry at the robin. Couldn't she see that I put the seeds there for her and her family???
Couldn't she see that I loved them???
Ungrateful bitch.

No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, my sweet red-breasted (tee hee) friend. Please don't go.
I love you, little birdy.

Reason #2)
I watched the English-speaking Russian news channel for 2+ hours today, even though I had no fucking Idea what they were talking about (IN ENGLISH) 95% of the time.
Though confused, I still felt so very continental watching it. And smrt.
Oops, I mean s.m.a.r.t.
I'm drinking vodka right now to celebrate my newfound Eurotrashyness.

Reason #3) When I took off my socks today after 6 hours in a hot kitchen, I smelled them.
For no good reason.
They smelled like your grandpa's perpetually single brother "Hank" that always makes too much noise snorting and breathing eating Thanksgiving dinner after 4 brandys.
Yup, kinda like that.
Well, that intensified in a way that only 5 year-old rubber Birkenstock clogs can enhance foot odor.
Like a dog sniffing another dogs butt, I am.

Reason #4) I own rubber Birkenstock clogs. I want to slap me for that one.

Reason #5) I tripped today and instead of looking around embarrassed, I laughed and said to myself, "watch where you're going you stupid clumsy bitch."
Then I sang the reeses peanut butter cup ditty to myself.

Reason #6) I said "Word." As in "To your mother."

We are at nerd terror level chartreuse today, folks.
I'd take an umbrella and a change of underwear with me to work, if I were you...

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

I'm guessing the F.B.I. has the same picture.

How odd.
I never sent this picture to her, have no idea how she got it. Did you send it? Hmmmmm...?

I guess my beloved lord Clive works in mysterious ways...

Oh, and read her blog.
She funny.
And cute, but we'll let that slide.

Kids, this is what happens when you dare to garden. Heed the warning.

Dateline: Tuesday, 2:08 p.m.

Sources report a large explosion at the St. Irishcatholicsburg residence of Ms. Whiskeymarie Winedrinker.

Eyewitnesses report seeing Ms. Winedrinker watering her garden looking quite unwell from the heat. According to sources, in the next instant, she exploded- apparently from alcohol-laden sweat combined with intense heat from the afternoon sun.

Explosives experts are on the scene and are attempting to piece together how this tragedy unfolded.
WCOK's own reporter, Harry Backbrush, is on the scene with this report:

"We're here at the Winedrinker residence and all I can say is 'wow'. This is utter devastation. It seems Ms. Winedrinker was not aware of the deadly combination of alcoholic sweat and 95-degree heat."
"I've been a reporter for 19 years and I can say without hyperbole, this is the worst disaster I have and could ever possibly see in my whole life, even if I lived to be 112. The street is strewn with perennials, cheap flip-flops and pieces of hose. It seems Ms. Winedrinker herself has been completely annihilated. We see no trace of her other than a dried patch of salt- presumably from the large pool of sweat that is believed to have caused the explosion."
"Neighbors say that Ms. Winedrinker was an angry woman with few friends on the block, often yelling at the local children and calling the authorities on loitering teens. They say, judging by her recycling, that she could, and I quote: 'drink like a sorority girl on spring break'. It appears Ms. Winedrinker's husband was inside sleeping at the time of the incident. He released only this comment: 'Damn. We were going to grill tonight.'
One can only assume the depth of his greiving."

"Efforts will continue throughout the day to clean up after this disaster and try to make sense of what events led up to this tragedy. A concerned group of local citizens has already begun a campaign to ban sweat glands. This group calls itself 'CACS', or 'Citizens Against Combustible Sweat."
"CACS has already drafted a bill to go before Congress requiring all Americans to undergo sweat gland cauterization, a painful but highly effective procedure to stop humans from sweating. The group's president, Harvey Boardinbum, says that, 'If we can stop just one person from falling victim to this sort of tragedy,'s all worth it."

"Indeed, Mr. Boardinbum and his coalition are heroes for our time- yes sir, heroes for our time."

"For WCOK news, this is Harry Backbrush reporting."

And...we're out.

Monday, June 25, 2007

With a distended stomach and a heavy, butter encased heart

Dear bread, cookies, cereal, cakes and sweet delicious pastries,

I don't know what I did wrong, but it is abundantly clear that you are unhappy with me. I try over and over to make you happy by eating you again and again sweatily and hungrily, but my efforts are met coldly, with anger and high-gluten-fueled arguments.
Once, this effect you had on me- this gaseous delirium- well, it was intoxicating.
Now, you and your glutinous pastry ways just make me sick.

This is to inform you that I am taking out a cease and desist order on you. I'm sorry- I love you so much, but all I get from you is pain and misery. You make me feel ugly- your behavior nauseates me and ignites my gasses.

To document your abuse, I hired the famous court reporter, Maurice DeWindinpants to depict my pain in this hauntingly life-like sketch:

Look at this!
You have done this to me, dammit!

I'm afraid we have to go our separate ways.

I'm going to miss your hot, fresh, buttered bread. And your taut, sexy crackers? Mmmmm....gone.
When I think of when we were together, me caressing one of your soft, tasty muffins- well, I blush a little thinking of how naughty we were. So very naughty.

I'll get over you, but it won't be easy. You satisfy me in a way no other can. I get all warm and melty thinking about our long, hot, slathery nights.

But, you have never made me feel pretty in the way a woman needs to. My hips hate you and I know my ass isn't sorry to see you go at all.

Tis' with a bittersweet chocolate croissant heart that I bid you adieu, my sweet, wheaty lover.


p.s. I fully expect for there to be the occasional pasta and baguette booty call. Judge not, judgers. I am merely a mortal. I cannot resist the occasional quickie cookie or long, throbbing sandwich. I'm a whore that way.


Speaking of large midsections-

Hello- it's only June and I'm already sick of seeing (sometimes) hairy, always sweaty man-baby bellies and droopy man-boobs.

Why the menfolk get to let all this tastiness hang out and we don't is beyond comprehension.

Man-teats are disturbing, at best.

Put a damn shirt on already. Or at least paint something amusing on your belly:

That, I could live with.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Reason #125 why I have no friends.

I have never IM'd.

Nor have I ever sent a text message.

I doubt I ever will. My fingers are way too big for the tiny buttons. It's like a bear typing with mittens on.

But, I have become aware that, unless I want to appear to others as a 79-year old yarn store employee, I may need to at least attempt to figure out what those rotten kids are up to these days.

I am one of those old fogies that generally, unless I'm schnockered, tends to use complete words to speak.
I am somewhat lost in the sea of acronyms used for these baffling forms of communication.

For example:
"OMG, My BFF went HGBK it MMB 2UR LOL 8GUG 2U!!! WTF???

I am ashamed to say I have no idea what most of this crap means.

WTF??? - this one is easy
OMG- got it.
BFF- Shit, this one has been around since, like, 1984.
LOL- At first I thought this one was "lots of luck", so it never made sense.

The rest, well... the rest is gibberish. (Really, it is. I don't even know enough of these to follow through with a proper rant. I made most of this crap up. SHT.)

As I am wont to do, I shall refuse to learn this "language". I am a mover, a shaker, a real "go-getter", if you will. I cannot be bothered with something that is already past it's cool peak.
Move along, you dinosaur and make way for the rocket car!

I have decided to start my own acronym revolution. I predict that within minutes of my hitting "publish", millions, maybe even TENS of people will be speaking my language fluently.

I shall call it "Whiskeymarie's Helpful Acronyms Take The Halting Eloquence From Understanding Conversations Kindly"

Or, WHATTHEFUCK, for short.

Try incorporating these into everyday conversation:

WAMP = Where are my pants?

MOON = Making out on Naugahyde

IFGDT = I'm feeling gamey down there

CY = Check Yo'self

PEE = Pre-Entanglement Engagement

POOP = Precipitation On Ovaries and Pooner

TYTE = Takin' your tits everywhere

MY = Makin' yummers

OY = Over You

FUCK = Funny Underpants you Can't Keep

GAYA = Goin' Atkins on Yo' Ass

Here's some guidance on how to incorporate this futuristic lingo into everyday conversation:

"I know you've got the FUCK and you're TYTE, but I am so OY that I'm GAYA and MOON that this morning I woke up thinking WAMP?

Try it.
Work it into the everyday conversation.

Trust me, it's going to be bigger than the Rubik's cube.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Because you know very darn well I don't, and this song makes me happier than Ms. Hilton being granted a conjugal visit.

Kenny Loggins + sweatpants = right into the comfort zone

A Comfort Zone.

We work hard to establish it in our lives- a stable job, a wardrobe of moderately-priced clothing that accentuates our finer features and camouflages our lesser ones, a car that runs reliably, and friends that are tried and true. We like to be busy but not TOO busy. We generally prefer quality over quantity.
We want what we want and that's o.k.

We like balance, it seems.

This thing we love, this comfort zone we hold so dear and guard with all our might, this is the same thing we fight against every day in the battle to NOT BE MEDIOCRE.

To me, too much of a good thing has always been my undoing. Too much whiskey and carousing equals pain. Too much shopping equals broke. Too much eating of the chips equals fat. Too much talking equals pissing someone off.

But, in keeping true to the spirit of the game, too much comfort for me equals uneasiness.
Too much even-keeledness equals me going a little bit nutso.
Too much stability equals me climbing the walls.

Yes, I love a weekend home, lazing around & getting the mundane shit done. I love having date night and the simple joy of dinner and a movie.
These things are good.

But I need more.

I too have a comfort zone, but I like the edges of mine to be a little on the blurry side- a little muddled, like mint in a mojito.

Today I am seeing that I have been too mired in the comfort of comfort lately. There's no challenge, no danger of screwing up. What's the fun in that, I ask? Where's the challenge?

When I would get squirrelly like this in the past, this feeling would manifest itself in ugly and sometimes self-destructive forms. Sometimes it seemed it would get the best of me. It seemed a battle I was destined to lose.
But, anyone who knows me knows of my distaste for losing, and true to form I came out on top.
But this, this...minor victory, it's not enough.

I've been lazy, in both the physical and metaphysical sense. I've rested on my laurels, which is pretty easy to do once you figure out the rules:

1) do what you're supposed to do- what is expected of you- at all times.

2) neither say nor do anything that rocks the boat.

3) be good at your job, but hold just enough back that you're not seen as a threat.

4) don't do the things that make you uncomfortable or uneasy.

5) blend in.

6) don't take unnecessary or seemingly foolhardy risks.

7) never, ever, ever draw too much attention to yourself. it makes others uncomfortable.

Today is just another day.
Today is just another chance.
Today is just another opportunity I can't let slip by.

Today, I start with #1.

You should too.

As my good friends will attest to, one of the more annoying things I say all the time is "move outside of your comfort zone".
Usually, this is applied to shopping and the purchase of an oddball piece of clothing.

Today it applies to me. And if that old, stagnant feeling is there- maybe you.

Move outside of your comfort zone.
You'll find it's strangely comfortable.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Because urine for a fine dining experience

An old story that made me happy I no longer have my former life, and since I have nothing new today (I promise nothing relating to unsavory bodily functions tomorrow):

*I'm sitting here remembering the time a guy came into my restaurant mid dinner rush and sat at the bar, much like any normal, functional customer. He ordered some food (rather coherently, I may add) and a glass of wine (Cabernet, I think). About a minute and a half later, I look over from across the room to see him & his bar stool tipping backwards, as if in slow motion. Before I could even attempt my superhero slo-mo dive...Crash! Right in the middle of Saturday night dinner rush. With a packed-to-the-gills house.

I didn't even have time to freak out as I was overcome. Literally.
About 10 seconds after the fall...
came the smell.

Acrid, dense and familiar. We've all smelled it before.

He peed his pants. In the middle of the dining room.

He was stinking, reeking, lingering-in-the-air-like-a-dog-fart drunk.

My instinct, once I realized he was Drunky McRetard and not "legitimate customer with a lawsuit they will win", was to drag him out to the bus bench in front and leave him there for the bus company or the other drunks to deal with. But, Sir Drunksalot was coherent enough to decide that he was hurt.
Quickly I did a mental inventory- Did we pay our insurance this month? Hmmmm...I think so.
Did we still have that greasy, smarmy lawyer? Ha! As if we could get rid of that little turd. So, yes- check.

All I could do was try and look concerned like a good business owner while the cops were called.
And wait.
And look around to see the mortified faces while trying to figure out who will inform the local food critics of this wonderment.
Well, any publicity is good publicity- right?

In the 10 minutes it took the cops to get there the pee stink had pretty much enveloped the entire front dining room. Thickly.
Did anyone gag? No.
Did anyone verbally express their disgust? No.
Did anyone seem all that concerned? No.

Eventually (about 20-25 minutes into this debacle as reports had to be made in triplicate and oaths had to be taken) the stench offender was hauled off to the drunk tank and we were left to clean up the pee. In front of everyone enjoying their urine-infused dinners.

The funny part was- no one left. Everyone pretty much just watched and kept eating.

People kept ordering, we kept serving.

Because, damn it, we were a fine group of restaurant professionals. We HAD to get through Saturday rush, come hell or know.

Pee or no pee.

Really? I prefer none to some, in this case.

I sometimes wonder if Drunky had any recollection of the evening or if he just woke up in detox wondering when exactly he had gone puddle jumping.

Fare thee well, Drunky. Fare thee well.

Monday, June 18, 2007

V for venting. D for duh.

Hey there, Vagisil-

I neither need nor want your products, but when I saw your brilliant and (one can only assume) award-winning commercial the other day I made a few observations I would like to share:

* Using images of a blowfish and a porcupine to represent "itch" whilst you discuss "itch"- well, you go ahead and give Barry McDouchenbach in the writing department a big fat bonus. This guy is a genius. And that OTHER subtle thing he did- you know, the skunk and the lobster that, lo and behold, represented "stink"? Not since "Earnest Goes to Camp" have I seen such gorgeous imagery and subtle nuances. Beautiful, I tell you- just beautiful.

* And you know the part, at the end, where the women are smiling as if they had just discovered fat-free potato chips that don't cause anal seepage?
No one, and I mean NO. ONE. is that happy about their pooner- no matter how itch and stink free it may be. Those women look like you slipped them some acid and put them in a field of flowers with frolicking puppies, unicorns and teddy bears.

I find your commercial to be both hilarious and insulting. You have demeaned blowfish for the last time, I tell you.

And HOW did you know my pet name for know?
Lady Lobsterskunk is not amused.


Oh, and my favorite Google search thus far that landed some poor unsuspecting & gaseous person squarely in my blog:

"tied up farting"

hey there- Mr. or Ms. Farter- welcome! It seems you are, at long last, home.

Runners up:
"Good things about klonopin"
"taming for wild squirrels"
"moms smelly knickers"
"man in my bed sweat smell"

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Today, like many other days

"All the girls I know seem to have 'daddy issues'- and so do you" he casually stated.

He, being a very close friend at the time, had hit the nail on the head with this crude statement. Nonetheless, I still acted like I thought he was dead wrong and that I was pissed off.

It actually stung a little. "Daddy issues".

I never wanted to be one of those girls.
Hell, I hadn't called my Dad "daddy' since I was maybe 6 years old.

I don't like having "issues", in general. But, there it was- staring me in the face.

I do have "daddy issues". Big ones.

When my Mom died, I was 20. I didn't know how to balance my checkbook, let alone my life.
I didn't really deal with things the way wish I could have. I handled it through denial and avoidance. I immersed myself in my life in Minneapolis, trying to ignore my life back home.
We (me, my sisters, my Dad) were all in our own very private places, dealing with it the best we could.
My Dad was desperately lonely and grief-stricken.

I didn't know what to do. I was just a kid still. I had no way of knowing the scope of his misery.

Once Mom was gone, the family (both immediate and extended) started to unravel. She was the glue that kept us all together. The one who made the plans. It seemed no one wanted to do it in her absence.

We had a fairly typical family dynamic- Dad was the breadwinner, working long hours, then coming home- having dinner and maybe a beer or two, falling asleep on the couch. Repeat Monday through Friday. Weekends were about projects around the house, projects in the garage, and getting together with friends and family.

For how traditional we were, you would think that I would have known him better.

At 20 years old, with my Mom gone, he seemed like someone I never knew at all. We could have just met the day before for all that I knew about what was going on in his head. Truth be told, I think I was scared of finding out.

My sisters and I were a complete mystery to him as well. Aside from the occasional disciplinary action or photo opportunity, he had pretty much steered clear of us during our teenage years, as any smart man with three daughters should do. We were a swirling mass of hormones, moods and unpredictable needs. We didn't fish and had no interest in woodworking or the inner workings of cars. I always wished that we had a brother, mostly for my Dad. Even when I was young I felt bad for him. It didn't seem fair that he was so outnumbered.

In the years that followed her death, we grew apart. I didn't know how to help him and everything I did seemed inadequate.
When he started dating a few years later, I was happy for him. I didn't want him to be alone.

But it was still hard.
She wasn't my Mom.
She was my Mom's polar opposite, it seemed.
Where my Mom was bright light and laughter, I thought this woman was stiff, dark and humorless.
Where my Mom could appreciate a raunchy joke and often had the vocabulary of a sailor, this woman never swore and had never, ever had a drink. Ever.
I couldn't relate to her, and she couldn't relate to me.

Then they got married.
Then he sold our house.

I think he's still angry that I didn't help him move- he thought I was being selfish and irresponsible. I have still never told him that the thought of going there and seeing our stuff gone, the house empty...well, I couldn't do it.
I wanted to. I really did.
I just couldn't.

The following years have ebbed and flowed. At times, though somewhat stilted and uncomfortable, things have been real good. A few years ago I decided to just let the past go- we all (me, him, his wife, my sisters) had said and done some very hurtful and cruel things that we needed to just get over if we ever hoped to move on.
We even have times that border on comfortable and loving occasionally. I like his wife quite a bit now that I understand her more- we, I think, get each other in a way we didn't before. I see the relationship they have- one based on mutual love and respect- and I am very happy for them both.

Other times, like today, it seems I can do nothing right. Nothing is up to his standards. I may never know what I did wrong that made him so cold and curt with me on the phone today, but you can bet I'll be paying for whatever it was for a good long while.

He has never told me the rules of our relationship, and he never fails to catch me breaking them.

I don't know how I can win this- or really, just break even.

I love you, Dad. You are smart, talented, funny and handsome. You were a wonderful father when we were growing up. You are charming and have always had a way of drawing people in (I like to think that's where I get it from- wink). I couldn't imagine wanting anyone else to fill your shoes, as if anyone could.
When I look in the mirror, I see so much of you in me. I have your nose and unruly hair. I have your freckles and love of whiskey. We both love to make people laugh and go out of our way to show others a good time. We give even if giving means we have none. We both love grilled meat and hanging out with friends at home.
These things I love about us. I'm happy to have these gifts from you.

But this- the judgment, the games, the not knowing what will be all right and what won't-

it's not fair and I'm not playing anymore.

I can't.

It's exhausting. And I'm done.

I hope you have a good day today. I'm sorry we're there, at that place again, but this time you need to figure it out.

This time it's not my problem.

Happy Father's day, Dad. I do love you. That should be enough.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Open a letter, open up a can of who gives a crap

Dear Friend that I had to"break up" with a while back:

Today on the news they said that someone had gotten stabbed near or at (the info was vague) where you live. The suspect then set fire to the apartment, for whatever reason.

I immediately thought that the suspect in question had to be you, the incident probably a result of an angry booze and drug-fueled binge. That, or you pissed someone off while in the previously mentioned state and you were, indeed, the victim.

Sorry I assumed it was you, but I still don't want to hang out anymore.



Dear Jane Magazine:

On your cover this month: The words "awesome" and "skanky", the phrase "ways to rock summer", and the promise of "45 hot guys" and "18 life changing concerts".

While I think you are smart, funny, and cute, the fact that your own editor (who looks way older than me) stated that this particular magazine is really just for "20-somethings" tells me that you and I may not be the perfect fit we once were.

Our relationship just isn't working anymore. I think we need to go our separate ways. You can keep the fuzzy animal barrettes and skinny jeans, and I'll take the cheap but cute heels and the travel advice.

We can still be friends, I promise we'll keep in touch. Hell, there may even be a booty call in there somewhere (you are one of my dirty guilty pleasures). I just can't keep going on as we have. You don't appreciate me for who I am, and it's obvious you think I'm getting too old for you.
Maybe I am.

Though, I'm quite sure I have more disposable income than many of your "20-somethings", and I buy clothes & beauty products in mass quantities like a good consumer whore should, and I can bet I easily spend three times the money they do eating out and boozing at bars.

I challenge any of your "target demographic" to a hamburger-eating contest. Let's see who's the superstar then, bitches. Or better yet, a whiskey drinking contest. I have YEARS on your wimpy-assed tolerance, little girls.

But, alas...
it's clear you have moved on. There's nothing I can do except take my pride and go.

I think when the subscription runs out, so does our time together.



Dear newish laptop of mine:

If you don't stop making the cursor jump a(oops, there it goes)round randomly while I'm typing, and if you don't stop ran(shit, again)domly deleting sentences and whole passages,(I am retyping the next items as they were just deleted and I screamed yet again) and if you don't stop refusing to add the letters I KNOW I ty(there we go again)ped...

I will kill you.

At the very least, I think you may be going back from whence you came, or wherever they put bad, untrainable computers like you.

The computer "dog pound", so to speak.

I hope you get put down when you get there, you asshole.



Dear Toes:

I know that I haven't paid any attention to you in, oh, the last 4 months. And I know it's summer. And I know you look like someone beat you with a hammer. And I know that you have the potential to not look like the feet of someone trapped in a cave filled with sharp rocks and puddles for 10 years.

I know you can be pretty, I just don't care right now.

Maybe tomorrow I will.


Thursday, June 14, 2007

Three morsels much like a raised & glazed doughnut - Sweet and delicious, but really not too big on substance.

What we have made in the class I'm teaching right now in the last two weeks:

-4 kinds of sourdough bread
-Chocolate babka
-pizza dough, so it stands to reason- pizzas
-Chocolate-swirl coffeecake
-Jalapeño cheese bread
-Cheddar potato bread
-Light rye bread
-Carrot-herb bread
-Whole wheat bread


Next week includes, along with about 50 more breads- croissants, danish and more doughnuts.

How will my ass NOT look like two GIANT cream-filled, buttered & taped together breakfast pastries by the end of "The great Carbo load of 2007"?

Two more weeks.
Next summer's class- "Lettuce and turkey 45 ways! The road to emaciation is the road to fun and popularity!"

It's still hotter than the underside of Louie Anderson's balls today, so when I got home from work this afternoon, I put on my favorite summer skirt and a tank top before I went out to water the lawn.
As I am wont to do on these hellish days, I took off my sweaty thong & decided to go commando.
Outside, in the full sun with a hose in my hand, I saw the neighbor boy (15-16ish) tinkering around in his driveway, stealing looks at me. Unfortunately it wasn't in a "hey what a foxy old broad" kind of way, but in a "this may turn me gay" way.


I kind of ignored the fact when I got dressed that this particular skirt is relatively see-through when the sun is shining.
It is, in fact, the reason I started buying nude-colored thongs.

He saw the shadow of the pooner.

Poor boy. Hope this doesn't scar him too badly. Years from now we'll read about him getting arrested for trying to hump his neighbor's Great Dane. Or stealing copies of the AARP magazine for the Betty White photos.

The UPS guy just showed up with 2 packages. Again.

This time, one for me, one for the Mr.

Hello, my name is Whiskeymarie and I am in a dysfunctional codependent internet shopping relationship.

-Long white fitted linen shirt and 2 tank tops from La Redoute for me
-Geeky computer crap (probably a game- "Wizards of the Star Wars conquer Lord men of the Ring Pirate Donkey Donkey Donkey Vice Cities Robot Wars" or something) for him.

God, we are such consumer whores.

Next time anyone spots me with my laptop, a credit card and a glass of wine- please punch me in the face. It would save me a lot of money and trips to the post office returning things like assless chaps that were a "Great deal!!"

That's it, folks.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

A rare sight indeed, the elusive passive-aggressive beast on her haunches, ready to pounce.

Someone I know bad-mouthed me recently. They did it stealthily, in a place and way that they probably thought I'd never catch on to.

I am so much smarter than that, dear bad-mouther. I catch everything. Every damn thing.

That's a pretty weak tactic, in my book.

Next time, how about you say it to my face?

I'd even accept an e-mail.

This person deserves to get called out. Loudly.

But, that's not going to happen right now.
I'll save it, wrap it up in a pretty bow and set it aside for just the right occasion.

Despite my instincts, and despite what I want to say, I'm leaving it at this.
Vague venting.
Vague, passive-aggressive venting.

bleu and whiney

I'm not myself today.

I just looked in the mirror, and it turns out I'm not Angelina Jolie either, but that's neither here nor there.

It's hot, and humid, and I'm not doing well.
I never do well in this stuff.

I wish I could be one of those people that blossom when the thermometer edges its way over 80 degrees. People that smile when they wake up & hear the weatherman say "It's gonna be another hot one!" gleefully and with more than a smidge of cockiness to hide the fact that his wife doesn't know he's gay...

I am not that person. When I was watching the Weather channel this morning before work (like you never do. You would probably like me to think that you don't pick your nose while you're driving either. Whatever.) I gave Mr. Generic Weatherguy a hearty "FUCK!" when I saw that there's no relief until maybe Monday.

No, indeed, I am not that person.

I'm tired, headache-y, a little blue, and the humidity is making me feel like I am starting to mildew. I'm going to have to start bathing with Tilex if this keeps up.

Maybe the fact that I have to be at work at 7:00 a.m. this month is contributing to the problem.
Maybe the fact that I'm too hot and tired to work out is contributing to the problem.
Maybe the fact that I can't seem to catch a decent night's sleep is contributing to the problem.
Maybe the fact that I can be a real crankyass sometimes, for no real reason, is contributing to the problem.
Maybe I really just don't give a shit and just want to wallow.

I don't know. And I'm too tired and hot to care.

Now that we've got the whine, who's got the cheese?

Maybe me- if this humidity sticks around much longer.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Pain. And hugs.


main Entry: hang·over
Pronunciation: 'ha[ng]-"O-v&r
Function: noun
1 : something (as a surviving custom) that remains from what is past
2 a : disagreeable physical effects following heavy consumption of alcohol or the use of drugs b :a letdown following great excitement or excess

I am sooooooo...


In lieu of a real post, here's a little game.

Of the following items regarding my weekend, one is false. See if you can tell which one it is.

Only one.

#1) Friday night, after consuming enough whiskey to convince myself I was one with the land, I embarked on my own personal "vision quest" in the dark woods of Madeline Island. I surfaced at neighboring camp a half-hour later speaking in tongues. The phrases "janitorial but that's o.k, tent" and "I'm shoe going camera happy" may have been uttered.

#2) I attempted to stretch my own underwear over my head while still wearing them.

#3) I consumed my own weight in nutty bars and potato chips.

#4) I behaved like an adult and spent my weekend enjoying alcohol in moderation in between long nature walks and 5-mile runs.

#5) I took approximately 435 pictures of myself in one evening- all really unfocused and all now, thanks to the god of technology, conveniently deleted.

#6) I laid in the sun on the beach for 1/2 hour without sunscreen because I was too hungover to walk into the shade and was hoping that the sun might burn off any lingering booze. This was the point where I started to smell like poorly aged blue cheese.

#7) I didn't pee my pants or wake up in a pool of my own vomit.

#8) I had an "Aha!" moment on the drive home where I realized exactly why I usually skip this weekend of fun- and it had something to do with my brain threatening to explode and my stomach wanting to find a new host that didn't combat a hangover with 143 oz. of Coke.
And curly fries.
And a pineapple, sausage and jalapeño pizza.

If you get the right answer I will telepathically send you a hug.

Who doesn't need a hug?

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Working extra hard, clawing my way up to merely normal. *Plus, now with 100% more added cake!

I sexually harassed myself today.

I was about 20 minutes into a work meeting that I had completely lost interest in, even the second-wind "fake" sort of interest that has you nodding and going "mm-hmm" while thinking about whether or not eating prunes and Kashi cereal in the same sitting was going to be a problem later on or not.

I guesstimate the time at around 60-90 seconds that I completely zoned out and emptied my brain of little details like thoughts, or sense, or dignity.

Turns out-
I had been staring at my own boobs during this "lost" time, this departmentally-centered blip in the space-time continuum.

Those of you with these wonderfully bouncy appendages, try it. Look down at them. Not just a glance- make sure you have a good view.

There it is.

You will notice that you are not in a "normal" or "comfortable" position. You may have that double-chin thingy going on like I do when I move my head that way.

Normal people do not assume this position by choice. Normal people would immediately look up- maybe a 2-3 second infraction, at worst. Normal people wouldn't hang out- just staring.
Normal people look at boobs that AREN'T their own.

Even when I realized what I was doing I lingered a few seconds more. "Hey you two! Hey!"

When I finally came to my senses and looked up, two of my coworkers were staring at me.

Not my boobs.

They had looks on their faces that told me they had been present for at least the middle and final acts, if not the whole show.

Let's just put this down as #357 of why I will never run for office, why I will never be anyone's therapist, and why I really really really shouldn't leave the house. Ever.


As I will be drinking and peeing in the woods this weekend I will be away from you, my beloved custard-filled éclairs.

My one goal this weekend: To NOT get poison Oak on my ass. Trust me, it ain't fun. But that's a true story for another day...

Have a _______ weekend! (I'm not the boss of you- I shouldn't be telling you what to do)

What is, I'm sure, a much-anticipated update:

I promised cake pics in my last post, and here it is. It's a little "rustic" as I had to leave it in the pan for traveling purposes, but I think the general feeling of the cake still shines through.

Sweet, delicious cake! Kissing penises!

See you in a few days, my little banana muffins.

I need to go camping like I need a punch in the face.

Against my better judgment- I, Whiskeymarie, wearer of defective heels and lover of flushing, well equipped toilets...

I am going camping this weekend.



Off to picturesque Madeline Island, on beautiful but rudely cold Lake Superior, to be exact.

A group of my friends have been going there every year at this time for something like 15-20 years. Seriously. The entire campground is reserved for this purpose.

The purpose being everyone hanging out shitfaced all weekend and hopefully executing alcoholically inspired asshattery.

The only other time I've joined in on this mess was 2 years ago. It was pouring rain the whole time. I was scared our tent would slide down the hill it was perched on and my soggy, drunk/hungover body would be found days later, partially eaten by raccoons.

Also, last time I went I punched a total stranger in the face. I don't remember this event, per se,
but I've been told it was very entertaining. Poor guy.
Hey- you! The random guy I punched? Sorry. Again. I guess I thought you were this guy.

Maybe this year you can punch me- then we'll be even.

I'm no quitter, dammit, so I'm braving the treacherous and wild landscape of the public campground by myself. My Mr. will be helping his brother and his brother's lovely wife, Maurey, build their new car cabin this weekend.

I decided that rather than risk carpentry, I would go camping.

That, and I promised to bake a b-day cake for two of the camping party's old-timers that are turning 40 this year.
Oddly enough, many years ago I spent considerable naked wrestling time with one of the birthday boys, and have, at the very least (that I can remember) made out with the other.
What a slut.

The cake is going to involve penises as they both have been giant cocks at one point in their lives or another (they would be the first to admit it). One white, one African-American, to represent my boys and their "boys".

I need to do a little planning first. I'm just not sure what direction my artistic vision will go in quite yet.
Trust me, I know both of their wives. They will approve. Wholeheartedly.

I will take a picture once my vision comes to fruition.

I am also going to use this weekend as an excuse to indulge in mountains of food containing ingredients with more than 16 letters in them. And judging by how much I bought, I will be feeding everyone. On the island.

What I have so far in the camping grocery stockpile:
Nutty Bars
Nacho cheez Doritos
Top the tater
2 cans Pringles (Jalapeno & cheddar flavors)
Trail Mix
Spicy Chicken sausages
Cheddar Brats
Whole wheat buns (I thought that was funny- whole wheat. Like it matters at this point)
Starbucks Iced coffee (Light) in the can (this stuff is like crack to me)
Block of Colby
Fluorescent orange Nacho cheese in the can
Tortilla chips
3 different cold salads from Kowalski's (2 pasta, one couscous)
Granola bars
2 cokes
diet 7-up (for mixing purposes only)
Vitamin Water (Energy flavor)
Mineral water
Plain bottled water
Block of lard to suck on between meals
Flask of whiskey (Windsor- duh.)
Tiny bottle Absolut (necessary portion control measures being taken here)

Oh, and an orange and 2 apples. They're pretty much just for show.

Something tells me I should probably pack this.
And maybe this.

And when the weekend is over, I may need this.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Dreaming of a waitress in Tulsa

A few years back, when every day at my restaurant seemed like one of the less coherent scenes from a David Lynch movie and I knew the end was inevitable, I very often had the urge to run.
As far and as fast as I could.
I hated every minute of my life at that point, especially the minutes where I wasn't functioning through a wine-addled haze. I had pretty much given up caring about the business, and being marginally or wholly drunk most of the time seemed like the best solution for all involved. I had come to terms with the fact that there was nothing I could do to save it, so I decided to just ride the party bus out until the end, along with my wonderful, devoted, amazing staff.

But almost every day I considered it. Running.

Away. Run. Away.

And, not just running away in the sense of locking the doors to the place, going home, curling up in the fetal position and turning my phone off while I planned my new career path as night manager at the local 24-hour Kielbasa shop.

I mean running away in the purest physical sense. The climbing out the window while the parents are sleeping and becoming a professional groupie sort of running away. I would return many years later as a highly successful abstract art dealer, with my Brazilian lover Miguel and our love child, Tempesta, in tow. At least that's how it went in my escape fantasy...

More than once when I was running errands on a particularly hellish day (which pretty much means ANY day at this point in history), I would stop and consider for a minute or two what would happen if I just kept driving.

Driving until I ran out of gas.
Or money.
Or adrenaline.

One time I made it as far as about 45 minutes south.
I started feeling guilty. I couldn't just go, could I? What would everyone do? Would I tell them, or would I watch the news every night looking for any indication that they were looking for me? What would I do about my husband? Would people miss me? Would they think I had been killed? If I did tell them, would they want me back or would it actually be a relief for everyone that it was over?
How would it, you know...go?

When I would daydream about it, I usually saw myself getting a job as a waitress at a greasy spoon or roadside bar. I would change my name, probably to something like Marge or Vivian, and I would rent either the apartment upstairs with the wacky neighbor or a beat-up old trailer in the desert (all of my possible scenarios take place in a desert-ish or dustbowl two-bit sort of town). I would live this life for a few years- until someone from my past happened to stop in the diner/bar and my hidden past would be revealed to all. I would then have to run again, hitting the road to look for a new town and a new waitressing gig. And, quite possibly, I would find myself mixed up in International espionage. Kind of like David Banner, but without all the angry Hulk-ish stuff.

But no, I never ran. I stayed and dealt with the whole nightmare that was my life.

I stayed, and here I am now. Sane(er), happy, grounded and relatively at peace with myself.

I don't want to do it, but I do think about what would have happened.

If I had run, to that diner, or that bar.

Who would I be? Would I still be me?

Or would I be the girl pouring you another cup of coffee, or another beer, while you're on a cross-country drive to see the country and "find yourself"?

Funny thing is, sometimes you find yourself in the strangest places.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Hot dog art and hot climate fleas

I'm uninterested in how uninteresting I am today. So, in place of an actual post with marginally interesting content, I give you these bits of interest for you to peruse at your leisure.
Leisure away, my little tootsie pops, leisure away.

Please tell me your favorite and see if you can guess which is my favorite.

For your entertainment, lady-folk and gentleboys:


Or, This.

Or, perhaps, This.

Or, if you're in the mood...maybe, This.

And, if you know any good, short jokes (not jokes about short people- I mean short as in maybe my whiskey and butter clogged brain can remember it short), please find it in your heart to pass them on to the jokesterally challenged.

Like me.

Tomorrow I promise to delight and astound, much like the Ecuadorian Flea Circus.

Sunday, June 3, 2007

Tagged and monitored for future research, like a wild animal.

I've been tagged again. This time by the other WM, of Because dammit I must blog fame.

INSTRUCTIONS: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1) BlondeMomBlog
2) Bun in the Oven
3) You da Mom
4) Worker Mommy
5) Whiskeymarie

Next, (pay close attention here so you'll know if I have harassed, I mean tagged you) select five people to tag:

Maurey, Kate, Feisty, DDG, Lollie
(Do it if you want. Don't if you don't. No pressure. Just be warned that if you do not carry the meme torch, an angel loses it's wings. pressure.)

What were you doing 10 years ago?
* I was 26, fairly newly married and living in a rented loft apartment in downtown St. Paul. My Mr. was still in school, and I was working retail still but hosting part-time at a nearby restaurant. I felt old and thought (if we were going to do it at all) that I should have a kid by the time I was 30.
I was an idiot. But, our family was putting the pressure on, and I still thought 30 meant you qualified for Social Security and a discount at Perkins, so I thought I would have to.
Have to breed, that is.
Little did I know that with age comes wisdom...

What were you doing 1 year ago?
* Catering my ass off and hating it. I didn't have a class to teach last summer, so I had to find a job & catering was it. I was working a zillion hours a week and exhausted. In my delirium, I actually considered quitting my regular job and buying into the catering company & becoming the primary owner. I thank my lucky stars every day that I came to my senses.
If I hadn't wised up I'd be either in the process of getting divorced or the deed would be done already and I'd be setting up my profile on
"I like romantic dinners, monkeys, laziness, cheese, shopping, cheese, at-home cosmetic procedures, plotting against my enemies and drinking too much wine. My perfect mate would look like Clive Owen and be like Clive Owen. Anyone other than Clive Owen need not apply."

Five snacks you enjoy:
1) Wasa Crispbread with Laughing Cow cheese and turkey
2) Jalapeno hummus with honey-wheat pretzel twists
3) Doritos and Top the 'Tater (If you mean enjoy whilst drunkety drunk drunk)
4) High quality dark chocolate
5) Skittles, Starbursts, gummy anything, sprees or any fruity, chewy candy

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:
1) "Tempted" Squeeze
2) "People ain't no good" Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
3) "Doggie Tom" Lords of Acid
4) "Don't stop Believin'" Journey
5) "I wish I never saw the sunshine" Beth Orton

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire: (I am assuming you mean MULTI-millionaire, powerball-style. Hey- a million doesn't go too far these days, that's all I'm sayin'...)
1) Move to Duluth, buy a decent house.
2) Take care of my family and closest friends.
3) Buy a home for a homeless family. (Yes, I really would. Karma is a bitch my friends, and it's best to stay on her good side.)
4) Open another restaurant.
5) Travel, travel, travel.

Five bad habits:
1) Slouching.
2) Sometimes I'm a conversation hog. Oink, oink.
3) Unorganized. Often.
4) I talk fast when I'm nervous. Real fast. Auctioneer-style fast.
5) I don't drink expensive champagne nearly as often as I should.

Five things you like doing:
1) Lazy weekends at home, being mushy with my Mr.
2) Hanging out at restaurants with friends, especially if wine and a nice Antipasti plate are involved.
3) Being nice to people when they least expect it.
4) Now that we have both time and a little money, Traveling.
5) I don't care how shallow this is- dear god, I do love shopping. Of all sorts. ALL sorts.

Five things you would never wear again:
1) Tights/fishnets with short denim shorts and high heeled boots, circa 1991. Hello, hooker school called- you've been accepted!
2) Bike shorts. I remember these were big in the early 90's. NO ONE looks good in these. See #3 for what color I had, besides black.
3) Anything mustard gold.
4) Leggings. I don't care how "hot" they are right now. Not for me.
5) That whole "puffy pirate-y" blouse thing in the early 90's.
5.5) Pretty much anything I wore 1990-1995

Five favorite toys:
1) Electronic Yahtzee, even though I have wasted approximately 4.75 years of my life playing it.
2) Playing "Helen the Horny Housewife"- It's kind of like Pictionary except you don't write anything down and you have to wear stilettos with a frilly apron while you "scrub" the floor.
3) Crossword puzzles (not a toy, but hey- I'm not 8 either)
4) My Kitchenaid mixer, my Cuisinart food processor and blender, and my oven.
5) This:

Everyone should have a tiny accordion to play at home.

It's fun to make up songs...

that make no sense and are accompanied by this little instrument that kind of sounds like a cat in heat when I try to coax beautiful music from it's keys.


Friday, June 1, 2007

Whoops! Looks like I just stepped in a big 'ol pile of assy!

I was going to write a detailed play-by-play account of the poolside catering I worked last night, but I decided to do something different.

Whenever I don't or can't write something down that I might/probably will forget- grocery list, possible blog items, my husband's name, etc..., I use my cell phone's nifty voice recorder option. Just push a button & save.

Last night, lacking pen & paper, and not wanting to be too obvious, I carried my phone around to record my random observations, lest I forget.

Here they are in no particular order. I think this will give you an idea of why I dubbed this "the biggest group of self-centered douchebags (male and female) that I ever had the misfortune of having to cater for"

Pretend that you are hearing these in my nasal Midwestern voice:

"no socks" (EVERY SINGLE man there was wearing loafers, no socks, a pastel dress shirt and pleated dress pants. EVERY ONE. I felt like I had been caught in a time warp to Andrew McCarthy's life in 1987)


"WASP-y wannabes"

"drunk disco" (why do the whitest white people insist on trying to 'git down' at lame parties like this? Drunk does not equal funky, folks.)

"demanding more alcohol" (Several people came up to me as I was bartending to say that their drinks weren't strong enough & that I needed to top them off. For this, I'll give 'em props- they sure do drink like WASPS. A please would have been nice, though. Maybe please is hard to say through a 'permanently-clenched-because-I-have-a-board-up-my-bum' jaw.)

"everyone has the same haircut" (All the men had that "fresh from the yacht" 'do, all the women had fresh charity-whoring socialite blowouts)

"no black people" (Or, really, any color other than overly tanned white. Though...there was one vaguely Eastern-European looking woman there. I'm sure by inviting her, they felt that nice, warm feeling best associated with ignorance and asshattery.)

"goddamn servants, can't get good help these days" (what I can only assume they were saying as they whispered and pointed at us, the servants. That, or- "keep an eye on your silver, Binky. I've heard that these people will steal anything that isn't locked up. Why, Muffy Vandersnatch had her Mummy's silver-plated mayonnaise decanter stolen the other day. I tell you, this is why I don't hire anything but illegal immigrants- at least then I can threaten to ship 'em back to Mexicana, or wherever it is those people breed.")
Delightful women, just delightful.

*Note: this next one is best sung to the tune of "Boogie Fever", cause that's how I sang it into my phone.
"Ugly people...ugly house...Ugly people... I think they're gettin' real plowed"

Ick. Ick. Ick.
I may need to bathe in Lime-a-way to get this one off.

Much like Boogie Fever, I think it's catching...I feel the need to buy seersucker and something "nautical".
And some Ray-bans.
And to look down my nose at people, literally and figuratively.
And I need a cocktail. "But miss, make it a strong one this time- I'm not getting drunk fast enough" (actually said to me last night by a frighteningly thin blonde with Lily Pulitzer pants on).

Damn these "WASPS!" Anyone got the jerk repellent? Oops- I mean, common decency?


On a side note...
The other WM (Worker Mommy) tagged me about 100 years ago (o.k, maybe 3 or 4 days) for a meme. I promise I will get to it this weekend. I guess I've just been too busy wildly swinging between anger towards humans in general and wanting to do my fellow humans favors and niceties.
And...asking my fellow humans to do the hokey pokey with me.

What problem CAN'T be solved by just turning your self around? (Try this on roller skates- you won't be disappointed.)