Thursday, January 31, 2008

Nachos, beer, and stretchy pants that leave very little to the imagination.

Fuck football.

There- I said it.

I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in the game. Never will.
It bores me to tears. No game- with the rare exception of a marathon Monopoly, Risk, Find the Weasel or Scrabble session- should take that long. Ever.

Maybe I'm just pissed that I'm going to have to search far and wide for a place to have bloodies this Sunday with my girls that isn't full of hordes of light beer-drinking, nacho-munching, jersey-wearing "sports enthusiasts". Bucket-o-beer specials will abound, and many a dude (and wives/girlfriends of dudes) will rue the day they discovered chili dogs and fluorescent orange cheese around 11:00 p.m. that night when the slow, steady, thunderous rumble signaling intense gastrointestinal distress sets in. Toilets will be clogged, and plumbers all across this great country of ours will be able to afford that vacation in the Bahamas the wife wants so badly.

And yes, I know many of you are totally into this "sport". I know, I know. I will just never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever get it. The tight, shiny pants not only do nothing for my libido, I actually find them a bit odd and scary.
And yes, I will freely admit I know very little about the game. I couldn't tell a wide receiver from a double-wide. I can't even tell when they're actually playing vs. having a "time out".

I also know very little about fruit bats or the country of Estonia, truth be told. And, as long as I'm getting stuff off of my chest, I don't know nearly as much about freebasing crack cocaine that I could, but I can't say I'm going to run out and pick it up as a hobby.

So there you go. Feel better? You now know my hidden, shameful secrets.

But I still don't give a shit about football.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

A dangerous broad and her secret-agent swine.

The bitch is back, and now she's got a sidekick.

Watch out- Whiskeymarie and her smoky-smelling boy toy are rarin' to go and lookin' for trouble. Lock up your sons/daughters and throw away the key to the liquor cabinet.

Thanks to McGone and Fernando for cheering this mopey girl up- it was just what I needed.

(and thanks to y'all for putting up with my moody-moodyness. I'm giving you a virtual french kiss and a nice little pat on the ass for your kind words and soft-core porn that you sent me. Wait- that wasn't you? Well then, who was tha...?)




Monday, January 28, 2008

Sometimes you're the hammer, sometimes you're the anvil.

Yeah, I know I've been a bit m.i.a. here.

And I think I'll be a bit m.i.a. for a few more days.

You see folks, even I have my "down" days. In this case, I am having a series of them punctuated by acting out in inappropriate ways that cause the people who love me to question their judgment in choosing me as a wife/friend/acquaintance.

90-95% of the time I am the Whiskeymarie you see here- funny, energetic, fiercely loyal, no shame, eternally optimistic and raring to go for whatever, whenever.

Unfortunately, right now I am experiencing the 5-10% Whiskey- a girl who is sullen, unsure, sleeps too much, behaves badly and beats herself up every chance she gets. This girl sucks.

I don't like this girl either, but she's here and I am nothing if not an accommodating host.

Sorry folks, it isn't always about costumes, cooking, drinking and fun. Sometimes it's about the dark stuff.

I'll be fine. Promise. I just need to have a day or two to focus on me.



And, on a lighter note:
For Miss Kate, who was feeling bad that she still has her christmas tree up, I took a few pictures Saturday afternoon.

Yes, that's real pumpkin- rotten and smooshed and apparently wearing a costume of some sort.

Again- pumpkins in January.

Does that make you feel better?
if your tree is still up in July, then we can talk.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Dating, mating and Whiskey: the 80's.

Once upon a time- somewheres around 1988, to the best of my recollection- I managed to get to second (or third? Shit, I don't know what the rules are concerning this anymore) (O.k, I just checked- I guess it was third on one count, third+ on the other) with two brothers in the same year.
I was even going to use their real names, but I just checked and realized that one of them is currently serving as a city council member for one of the larger Twin Cities suburbs, so I guess I'll play nice and change them.

I was 16 or 17 when this all started at a little place called "Faces". I have briefly mentioned Faces before, but for the sake of argument I'll recap:
Faces was an all-ages "nightclub" in the lovely city of Duluth, MN in the late 80's and, I think, very early 90's. They had different theme nights, with "New Wave Night" being the favorite among me & my friends. New Wave Night was AWESOME. All of the kids we thought were so very cool at the time went to it, and it was a most excellent chance to show off new clothing ensembles and ridiculously uncomfortable recently purchased shoes from London that we had to special order with money saved from babysitting or mowing lawns.
Unfortunately for us, New Wave Night fell on a weeknight, so getting permission to go & getting someone to drive us the 20-25 minutes it took to get there was very often equal to, or slightly harder than, getting our parents to grant us the ability to wear a thong and pasties to church.

So when we did go, we made the most of the situation.

Many a New Wave Night launched off with us smuggling cans of warm beer or flasks of whatever into the club- initially in our bags, but once they started checking bags & patting people down for contraband we brilliantly thought to stash the offenders in our unders.
No one EVER checked there. We thought we were criminal masterminds. One caveat: try walking normally with a beer or small flask stuffed in your unders, nudged against your bits.
Not so easy.

There were two brothers that hung out, to varying degrees, with many of the same people we knew. Tom, the intellectual older brother, was a couple of years older than we were, and he and his younger skateboarder brother Tim went to the local catholic high school up on the hill.
I had been dating a classmate of theirs at this point that we'll call Crew Cut. Crew Cut and I had been dating for a while (maybe 6-8 months) and I was the lucky woman who could lay claim to being the dragonslayer that had won the virginity of Sir Crew Cut.
Thus- Crew Cut had convinced himself that I was indeed the sole inventor of fornication and his clinginess grew exponentially each time we made the unfortunate beast with two backs.
(From this relationship on, I vowed to never again be "that girl". No more virgins for me- the pressure is just too much.)

Crew cut had recently graduated, and he made the unfortunate decision to go to college in Wisconsin, 2+ hours away from where we lived.
That fall- well, pretty much the same instant Crew Cut got in the car with all of his dorm gear and mutterings of "I love you baby, we'll be together forever. This long-distance thing won't matter a bit"- I decided to start making up for lost time.

One New Wave Night very soon after my "boyfriend" left town, Tom (the older brother) and I started getting very cozy in a corner of the club. We decided we needed privacy, and our drunken (very drunken) teenage behinds decided to go across the street to Leif Erickson Park to frolic and such. Right there- in the middle of the park- we shamelessly got to third++ that night.
Unfortunately for Tom, I was really more interested in his younger (and in my opinion), slightly cuter brother, Tim. (Tim was a year or so younger than me, but I figure since we were all under 18 no crimes were committed.)

I pretty much lost any interest I had in Tom and moved on to Tim like only a 17 year-old cougar can. I mercilessly hit on him, called him, and tried to wear skater-girly things I thought he'd like. I instantly hated any girls that spoke to him and mentally clawed their heavily rimmed in black eyeliner eyes out.

Eventually, Tim gave in. I think I just wore him down, truth be told.

We met up downtown one Saturday afternoon, as that was the routine: Thursday night was New Wave Night, Saturday afternoon was hanging out downtown Duluth, rummaging through The Last Place on Earth (no Electric fetus yet)and Global Village, stopping occasionally for a burger at McDonald's. Saturday afternoons you were guaranteed that most of the area's punkers/new wavers/skaters/etc... would be hanging out- smoking, being angsty and committing minor acts of civil disorder and such.
After an afternoon of "wanna get a coke?" and "um, yeah" we decided to have a proper date.

We agreed upon a movie (maybe this one?) of some sort and arranged a double-date with my girl Waffle and (I think, can't really remember) her boyfriend Scooter.

A movie was seen, and a post-movie "get together" was arranged at Scooters now-razed kind of dingy apartment on 2nd Street.

Stilted conversation was had, schnapps and Mickey's was consumed, and before you could say "Rock Lobster" Tim and I were making out hot and heavy in the coat closet.

A few days later, I got a call from Tim.

He seemed concerned that I was still technically "dating" Crew Cut. I technically still had a "boyfriend".
My "boyfriend" was technically kind of a lug and could possibly pound Tim into a bloody, whimpering mass of goo.

He was unashamedly scared shitless for his safety should we continue dating.

We ended our brief, yet torrid, closet affair that day.


I wonder if they ever discussed "that slut Whiskeymarie" over the Christmas ham at the Tom and Tim family home.

Poor boys, they had no idea what they were getting into.


And, if you have a second- go over and say a big-assed CONGRATULATIONS to my favorite girl Lollie, who is officially knocked up, a.k.a preggers.

She's earned it.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Currently skies are clear with temperatures ranging in the "holy hell that's cold!" range.

* Confused by: How I can be completely and oddly obsessed with Quaker toasted oatmeal squares, but severely disappointed in the cinnamon version.

* Deciding: I'm going back to school part-time in the summer- debating whether to further my education within my current field (food) or go in a new and entirely unrelated direction. I really don't want to go back to school, but it is currently a necessary evil - kind of like work, bathing and combing my hair.

* Current mood: "meh", with a side of "bah!".

* Contemplating: a trip in March? Go to work early? Use the natural deodorant that irritates my armpits but doesn't contain aluminum vs. the non-natural chock full of aluminum stuff that doesn't make the pits all angry and red.

* Mulling: developing a diet based entirely on rotisserie chicken, Lindt truffles and whole wheat pasta.

*Working on: posting more shenanigans from the "Reader's Choice" weekend extravaganza.

* Attempting: To get my cousin from Winnipeg to leave. Tammie stopped by a few weeks ago for a visit, but she seems to be taking up residence. She is systematically cleaning out the liquor cabinet, she has used most of my hairspray up on her bangs, she almost started the couch on fire when she passed out with a cigarette, she already has a "boyfriend" (a 59 year-old clerk from the gas station down the street) who stays over for "slumber parties", and she leaves streaks of sparkly blue eyeliner and pink blush on my vintage pillowcases.

Bitch has got to go:

Drinking: Green tea- working on my second cup, will probably have a third.

Eating: Nothing- but considering a salad for lunch.

Wondering: Why my cat loves things that smell like shit so much.

Happy for: A short work week, curling irons and "play time" for Whiskeymarie.

Down about anything?: Not so much- maybe the fact that these jeans seem to be giving me a camel toe is bugging me. Oh, and the fact that the neighbor's snow removal company is using leaf blowers to clear her sidewalk as we speak.

Realizing: I have to get my ass ready for work. Now.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

More fun than a barrel of frozen monkeys.

Grab a cocktail, put your slippers on, squoosh your ass deep into the la-z-boy...

I've got a little bit o' stuff for you today.

Part one of who-the-fuck-knows-how-many in the "Reader's Choice" (in no way affiliated with the Reader's Digest or Easy Reader) three day weekend extravaganza that I proposed here.

  • For McGone, who wanted me to recreate the photo from this post (sorry, I had to substitute the beer. Forgive me.):

*The "big beer can" is kinda for Jesswundrun too as I can't get to Lacrosse this weekend. Maybe in the not-too-distant future I can get the real thing.

For Chiada, who wanted to see pictures from Fort Snelling state Park, where the Mississippi & Minnesota rivers meet, we went on an outdoor adventure yesterday.

  • It was sort of under a bridge, just like you remembered:
  • We hiked for a bit even though it was cold enough to freeze the snot in your nose:

  • And, we saw the squirrels that normally reside in my brain (the -19+ windchill didn't seem to phase the chubby little rodents in the least). I had given them the day off and lo and behold here they were- gorging themselves stupid on bird food.

As we were already bundled up in our finest union suits and were feeling like we could handle the snotcicles a bit longer, we went to see the frozen Minnehaha Falls for my girl Patti:

  • Yup. Frozen solid.

  • The elusive and often misunderstood Mr. Whiskeymarie, being stalked by the evil spirit of tropical cocktails in coconut cups:

  • Holy balls it was cold out. We wanted to go to this for -R-, but even we Northerners- born and bred in the frozen tundra- could take no more. Sorry.

Today, I made a little nosh for y'all.

  • For Gorillabuns, I am currently drinking a concoction of Bailey's Caramel, Kahlua and Hershey's syrup. A little sweet? Affirmative. Delicious? Indeed!
  • I baked for 3carnations (bread, not sweets, hope that's o.k. Although I also made an angel food cake from a box mix, if that counts.):

  • I cooked for Wide Lawns- spicy chicken/veg/black eyed pea soup. Sorry, though- no official recipe. I poached a whole chicken with some salt, pepper, oregano and coriander and saved the broth. I pulled out the chicken, pulled the meat off the bones & chopped it up. In another soup pan I sauteed onions, celery, carrots and chopped garlic. I added most of the reserved broth, a can of diced tomatoes and the chicken. I simmered all of that for 20-30 minutes. Then I added a diced potato, cooked black eyed peas (I cooked my own but frozen or canned is fine), some chopped chipotle peppers, ground cumin, more dried oregano, fresh chopped parsley and cilantro and some fresh ground black pepper and simmered another 15 minutes. I added a few tablespoons of cornmeal (to thicken) and simmered 10-15 minutes more. I seasoned with salt, pepper, a splash of balsamic vinegar and a tablespoon of molasses. Then I ate it. Yum:

  • Stacie and NotSoccerMom wanted matching "Pooter and Me" pictures. Pooter is still a bit young and wiggly (and she still has claws) for me to be forcing costumes upon her. So I decided that, instead of her dressing like me, I would dress like HER:

All furry and black and stealthy.


And for Abbs, who suggested a show at the Guthrie- I couldn't go this weekend, so I bought tickets to this in February.
Thanks for making me get all culturified and stuff!
Before you know it I'll have classed myself up so much I won't even be drinkin' Boones Farm "Strawberry Fields" no more. Here's to the future, hee-yaw!!!


And pray tell, what does tomorrow promise?

  • Bikini-wearing snow bunnies!
  • Tom Cruise!
  • Frozen spit!
  • Toast!
  • Dating stories!
  • Tongues+frozen metal!
  • Maybe an overseas phone call!
  • Birds!
  • Noodles or art! Maybe!
  • More cocktails?!?
  • Catching up on all of your blogs!
  • Telepathic garage cleaning and bathroom painting!
  • Such & such!
  • More?!?

Saturday, January 19, 2008

So it begins.

Here is the master list of all of the things y'all came up with for me to do this weekend.

I suspect the results will be seen here as a series of posts over the next few days.

Now I'm off to fulfill my promises, take some pictures and freeze my ass off in the elements (-5 degrees, -19 with the windchill).


And Pooter says to tell you "hi" but that she is uninterested in witty banter of any and all sorts.

"Yeah, nice to see you too. Now shower me with affection or get the fuck out" is what I like to call this look:

*Gratuitous Pooter pic for my lovely gal over at wide lawns.

Until later, my frozen little globs of cat food-flavored ice cream.

Friday, January 18, 2008

There, there. Now, now.

Not wanting to leave a Friday post that reeks of me scowling and pointing angrily at the computer, I decided to come back and say hey.

I'm really not pissed- it was kind of nice to finally pop my "anonymous asshole" cherry. (Wait, didn't I do that once at a party in 1989? Um, nevermind...)

(cat pictured is not Pooter, just to clarify.)

I knew It would happen eventually, I just thought I'd maybe get a box of chocolates or an FTD "dirty whore" bouquet as a parting gift. Or at least an STD of some sort. Nothing says "remember me" more than a case of crabs.

But I digress.

I am finishing my work week today, and looking forward to a luxurious 3-day weekend.

I have no plans.

This is where y'all come in.

I need something to entertain myself this weekend: whether it is a trip to a local oddity/museum, a must-see/must-do event, a blog-post you'd like to see, a picture you'd like me to take, something you'd like me to try doing-


Help me help myself. Help me entertain me.

(Do, however keep in mind that it is going to be cold enough here to freeze spit in mid-air this weekend, so try and limit the outdoor activity to that which takes less than an hour.)

I may have to limit it to however many I can actually fit in the weekend while still having a bit of "laying around playing with my Pooter time" (You're lying if you didn't see that joke coming), but I'll try and accommodate as many as I can.

Put your thinking caps on & give me some ideas, folks.

I am officially no longer a virgin to this sort of thing. Should my butt hurt? Just wondering...

Anonymous said...

Billy Joel has great taste in women. Who gives a damn what your petty, parochial opinions are? Get a life - or at least get some therapy.

January 17, 2008 11:50 PM


Hey anon-

If you don't like my "petty, parochial opinions" then stay the fuck away from my blog. I don't need that sort of shit around here. I try to keep it civil here. I sure as shit won't let you get away with this sort of anonymous "hit and run" bullshit without calling you out.

My blog, my rules.

That's the beauty of choice- if you don't like one thing, you can find another. Why the hell would you read something you find so distasteful and trite anyways? I guess I'm much too "petty" to understand why someone would waste time like that.

My life and my psyche are just fine, thank you.

How about YOU get a life and move the fuck on to another blog.

And, have a nice day.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

A brief pause for narcissism and shameless product endorsements.

If you read Vanity Fair (admit it if you do- it feels good to let it out), you know that, like most magazines, they have a few recurring bits every month. They have the Proust Questionnaire, Dominic Dunne's monthly dish and my personal favorite: "My Stuff".

"My Stuff" is basically where they do a brief little "interview" with a celebrity/socialite/heir/heiress/art world darling/internationally famous fashion designer/media mogul/business baron/trophy wife where they tell everyone what sort of "stuff" they use.

I read this religiously, a self-imposed torture of sorts.

I mean, c'mon- what a surprise! You mean you only use $2500/set bed sheets? Me too!
You wear a diamond-studded Cartier watch? Ditto!
Of course I only brush my teeth with that one toothpaste with the ground-up wood sprite bones in it- duh.

I thought I would take the list presented to this months interviewee, Katie Lee Joel*, and I would supply my own answers and see how they measure up. (Katie's answers are in parenthesis).


Jeans: (j jeans) Vigoss- they hug my ample booty lovingly and cheaply.

Underwear: (Gapbody) Whatever is less than $5 at Target, T.J. Maxx or Marshalls. I do like Barely There boy shorts a lot. They are very stretchy. (In fact once, I managed to stretch them over my head while I was still wearing them.)

Sneakers: (Stella McCartney for Adidas) Converse slip ons in black.

Watch: (Mens rose-gold Rolex) 10-year Old Men's Fossil Stainless Steel

T-shirt: (Yigal Azrouel experimental tee) This one:

Day bag: (Zac Posen's Devon bag) Right now? 12-year old Carlos Falchi multicolored suede bag that I paid almost nothing for:

Evening bag: (Lanvin) Mostly thrift store vintage (and a few new) mostly 70's & 80's clutches:

Favorite accessory: (Me & Ro gold hoop earrings) My wedding rings (yes, I know that's a gross answer, but really, they go with everything, dahling.)

Favorite Designer: (Yigal Azrouel) One I can't afford: Chloe' One I can: Le Tarjay


Where do you live: (New York) St. Paul

Sheets: (Leontine linens) Olive green flannel from either Target or Marshalls, I think.

Coffee maker: (Capresso) Oster- we got it as a wedding gift 11+ years ago and the damn thing just keeps on working.

Pets: (two Pugs) Pooter

Favorite flower: (Hydrangeas) Stargazer lilies

Favorite gadget: (Minicuisinart) MaxiCuisinart

Favorite neighborhood restaurant: (Sant Ambroeus and BLT Burger) The Happy Gnome (kind of in my neighborhood, sort of) and Supatra's Thai Cuisine.

Favorite cocktail: (The Belle du Jour at the Waverly Inn, only by special request) Choose just one? Ha! Heindricks martini with a slice of cucumber, Maker's Mark Manhattans, A lovely glass of Sancerre or Barbera, or a tall, frosty mug of Franzia Chillable Red.

Favorite dessert: (Banana split made with Graeter's ice cream) Creme brulee' or anything custard-y. Also: dark chocolate.

Favorite snack: (Guacamole and tortilla chips) Ditto. Also: Top the Tater with Ruffles potato chips, and hummus and pretzels.

Favorite ingredient: (butter) Ditto. Also: bacon.

Beauty Products:

Lipstick: (Whatever is at the bottom of my purse) None lately. Just Terra Tints lip balm in "Blaze" and/or Aveda lip shine in "night Iris"

Mascara: (Maybelline define-a-lash) Cover Girl Lash Exact- best mascara ever.

Shampoo: (Kerastase) Aveda Shampure or Smooth Infusion

Moisturizer: (Nutrogena healthy Defense sPF 30) St. Ives Collagen & Elastin, Aveda hydrating lotion

Hair Product: (L'Oreal Elnett hairspray) Aveda Witch Hazel, Firmata or Air control (see a theme here?)

Perfume: (Don't wear any) Aveda Men, Estee Lauder Youth Dew Amber Nude by Tom Ford

Toothpaste: (Crest) Whatever is in the medicine cabinet.

Soap: (Dove) Aveda rosemary-mint or Aveda Lavender body wash.

Nail polish color: (Chanel Vamp) Usually none. On my toes: Anna Sui Cherry red Polish

Who cuts your hair: (Marc Mena at Warren-Tricomi) Usually? Me. Sometimes I go to this salon.

Who does your brows: (Julie Tussey at Warren-Tricomi) Again, Me.


Favorite discovery: (Dufour frozen puff pastry dough. It's so delicious, I love it for chicken pot pie.) Top the Tater, Whore baths, Sweater coats and Emmi Pink Grapefruit Yogurt- dear sweet jeebus this stuff is amazing.

Who inspires you: (My grandmother, when it comes to cooking) Ditto. Also: My Mother, my husband, and Dolly Parton.

Necessary Extravagance: (Expensive Champagne) Amen, sister! Also: Expensive cheese, nice boots, Aveda candles and high-quality heavy cream for cooking.

Favorite place in the world: (Kruger National Park, South Africa) The shore of Lake Superior:

Favorite Billy Joel song: ("All my life" He wrote this song for me as a surprise for our anniversary. he's such a romantic) Um...This one?

The end.

*Katie Lee Joel was married to "Uptown Girl" crooner/car smasher-upper Billy Joel in 2004 when she was 26 and he was 55. This picture sums the union up pretty nicely, I think. They're still married as far as I know.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008


My life this week, summed up in one word:

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Meet T.J. O'Pootertoots, feline extrordinaire.

I started back at work yesterday. Guess that whole Powerball plan didn't work out after all.

And I have a nasty head cold, the kind that manifests itself by oozing interestingly-colored substances out of your nostrils in a slow, steady stream whilst leaving your head feeling as if it were slowly being squeezed under a steamroller.

I feel gross.

Maybe this weekend, if I'm feeling better, I'll go and get another of those green drinky thingys.

Or maybe I'll go and get a cat.
Oh, silly me- I already went and got one!
Did I forget to mention this? Did I?
To ease ourselves into the wide wonderful world of pet ownership, I thought we should "build up" to a dog.

Meet Pooter.

I can tell she loves me already.

Busy week. Did I mention that I feel gross? But I love my sexy new feline friend, even though I'm slightly allergic- which is making the head cold that much more spectacular.

I love my Pooter.

And no, I am NOT turning into a "cat person", I promise. I will not subject y'all to piles of pictures of my cat eating, playing, pooping, dressing in costume...(o.k, maybe the last one, but not the rest.) I will not start referring to myself as her "mommy".
I am not, nor will I ever be, a "cat person"
No need to panic, o.k?

Gotta go.
Damn work, always getting in the way of my laziness.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Smoke a cigarette, smoke a ham.

When you mingle with the movers and shakers the way I do, when you're an influential political figure the way I am, and when charm and graciousness oozes from your every pore the way mine oozes, well- people are drawn in to your magnetism.

In addition to numerous invitations to cotillions, bat mitzvahs and retirement parties, I find myself with frequent houseguests at Maison de Whiskey. Why, just last week I was lounging by the pool (bathtub) sipping champagne (kool-aid & gin), eating bonbons (cheetos dipped in nacho cheese) and having a highly intelligent debate about global warming (American Gladiators vs. Ninjas, who would win) with my guest (moocher)- Rob Schneider (Rob Schneider).

This past weekend I was graced with the pleasure of opening my doors and my heart to Fernando von Bakonstein, known affectionately to his friends as IHoG.

IHoG normally resides at the International House of Blogcakes with the witty and totally comfortable with his femininity McGone. IHoG showed up on McGone's doorstep at Christmas, and like most houseguests quickly overstayed his welcome and grew tiresome.
McGone and IHoG mutually decided that Fernando would embark on a tour of the world, making stops at various blogger's homes for fun, laughter...and love. IHoG was then sent off with much fanfare (stuffed into an envelope in the middle of the night) and thus his journey began.

So far, he rang in the new year, then he traveled to the bustling metropolis that is Iowa, and then he shopped, dined and saw the sights in the Windy City.

Now, he has just wound up a wild weekend in the fair capitol city of St. Paul, MN with yours truly- Whiskeymarie von Partypants.

Our weekend, in pictures:

It was a beautiful winter day when IHoG arrived. Our first stop was the Capitol building. It was a bit brisk, so I gave Fernando a jaunty red scarf to keep his jowls warm. He thanked me and proceeded to take a dump on the capitol lawn.

As we are both of German/Austrian descent, I then took IHoG to the Germanic institute on historic Summit Avenue, the avenue of mansions that is also home to our ridiculously inept Governor.
Fernando got into a very heated argument with a gentleman named Adolf about bratwurst vs. knockwurst. Fernando bit Adolf in the kneecap and we were then asked to leave.

We stopped at one of our local convenience stores because Fernando wanted to pick up some Coor's light, twinkies, No-Doz and condoms. He's a big boy, I didn't ask any questions.
But I did buy some Powerball tickets and asked IHoG for a good luck kiss, which he did marginally well (no tongue next time, dude).

Fernando expressed an interest in learning how to ski, being in the land of snow bunnies and all. I myself have never done it, so I figured I was perfectly suited to teach him. Those who can't do, teach- right? Other than a near-miss involving a grizzly bear and the "avalanche" incident, I think we did a smashing good job.

Back at the lodge, I got us some drinks and we settled in to warm our little trotters. We ran into an old friend of mine, Swinella Jamon. Swinella is technically "royalty"- fourth in line to the throne in the now-nonexistent country of Bolognesten. The whole crown-wearing thing is a bit much, but she sure knows how to have a good time, that girl.

The weather took a turn for the worse, so we decided to get a room and stay the night.
We settled in with martinis and the welcome company of the lovely Swinella.

A good time was had by all. I must have dozed off (passed out), and when I woke up Fernando and Swinella had spilled their drinks and nodded off (ditto.) on the floor. I tucked them into separate beds, then I curled up on the sofa and fell back asleep.

You can well imagine my surprise when I woke at 2:30 a.m. to this:


I shielded my eyes and ran out of the room.

Later, in the hotel's lounge, Fernando and I sat down, had a smoke and discussed the weekend's events. We both decided that this moral transgression needed to be absolved somehow.

Since it was Sunday, we decided to take the IHoG to get some spiritual enlightenment at the nearby Temple.
The IHoG? Buddhist? Huh- who'd have thunk it?

The happy Buddha laughed at IHoG's crazy tale from the weekend, and told him he was just a naive young porker needing moral guidance in his journey around the world.
IHoG agreed.

He said he needed to get the hell away from me.

Off to Seattle to see Gretta!

Well McGone, your sweet young Fernando may have left Illinois a non-smoking, sober, Catholic, virgin boy- but he's finishing his journey as a promiscuous, hard-drinking, Buddhist, man-sized smoked ham.

Fare thee well, IHog, Fare thee well.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

An ode to my IUD, may he rest in peace.

It happened now- two years ago,
When you and I first met.
I picked you out, gave you a name,
And hoped the finest, I would get.

At first you hurt, it felt so bad
I questioned your love for me.
That first day out, you crushed my soul
You made me crampy and weepy.

As time went on, our bond grew strong
You did your job so true.
I loved the barren, rocky wasteland
That had now replaced my womb.

Happiness, sweet blissful joy,
No menses did I have to dread.
No Tampax, no Stayfree,
Not even the scary Instead.

But your love grew fickle,
Your performance really blew.
Those fucking cramps that you gave me
Made me really hate you.

What to do, what to do?
I suppose I could take up smack.
That sure would ease the awful pain
And everyone knows "crack is wack."

I gave it some thought,
An ultrasound gave me reason.
This affair of ours has to end,
Tis' the time, tis' the season.

So with a heavy heart and a tear
I bid you adieu.
You have been ripped out of my cervix,
A little pill has replaced you.

Wednesday, January 9, 2008 the thrill that'll getcha when you get your picture on the cover of...Vogue?

As someone who constantly bitches about the unrealistic standards that women these days are constantly being held to (what? You're a size zero? Wow. You must really eat a lot. I'm a negative 6. Beat that, fatty), my next statement may come as a bit of a surprise.

I miss supermodels on the covers of magazines.

Has anyone else noticed that there aren't any "models" on the covers of the big glossies anymore? The celebutantes have reached their sticky tentacles to yet another facet of society that allows them to receive even more attention than anyone ever thought humanly possible. You can't pick up a Vogue, Marie Claire or Elle without seeing the "It" girl of the moment, or whoever happens to have a movie coming out within a few weeks of publication.

This all happened kind of quietly in the mid-90's. I remember when seeing the occasional Drew Barrymore, Lara Flynn Boyle (pre-skeletor), or even Julia Roberts- but it was the exception, rather than the rule. Up until the slow, deliberate banishment of "non-celebrity" cover girls, I think a lot of us looked forward to seeing real, honest-to-goodness models on the covers of the magazines we read to fuel our wildest dreams of fame, fashion and a jet-set life.

At least I did.
I even had my favorites.

I loved Linda Evangelista's (above and below) versatility. She looked like she was one tough bitch, but no one could pull off as many different looks as her. She cut & dyed her hair as often as I did- at the time. One day she'd have a black Louise Brooks bob, the next month she'd be the mousy girl next door, all fresh-faced and innocent.

Christy Turlington (below) was another favorite. When she had only been a rising star for a brief time, she boldly cut off her long, long hair into the infamous 90's pixie cut. Seeing how good she looked with the super short 'do inspired me to follow suit and chop off my hair that I had been growing out for 2 years at that point. I love, love, loved it. Imagine my disappointment when she immediately started growing it back, but whatever.

I even liked that crazy, phone-throwing, assistant-assaulting, serial rock star-dating brat Naomi Campbell. No one could ever accuse her of being boring, that's for sure.

I guess the problem I have with the absence of non-television or non-film faces gracing the covers is this:
Do we, as grown women, as teenagers, as young women (and some men) who still have hopes and dreams of any sort really need to have the bar raised just that much higher? Meaning, now it isn't good enough to gain fame and fortune and the general publicity that goes along with being a star- now you have to add "cover girl" to the mix.
I guess that- for me- when the faces peering out at me in the line at the grocery store were faces that I only recognized because I was a magazine junkie, it was comforting in a strange way.

If these impossibly gorgeous girls weren't household names in the more common sense of the word, then I didn't have to feel bad about neither being a celebrity nor a model. Even the girls we referred to as "supermodels" were primarily recognized as such by those of us that devoured magazines and fashion TV like they were made of money-coated chocolate champagne.
Sure, they had the big bucks and privilege that goes along with semi-celebrity and dating rock stars, but for whatever reason I could identify with many of them more than I could with your every day, garden-variety movie star.

But now, the models are of-the-moment and, other than a very select few- pretty interchangeable. The current crop of "supermodels" all seem to have been bred on a farm in Brazil specifically for Victoria's Secret. And yes, they're unbelievably, stunningly gorgeous- I get that.
They're just not all that interesting, I think.
And most of the remaining crop of models just look blank and scarily thin.
Celebrities that I don't even recognize stare back at me from Vogue and Allure.

Things seem out of whack, somehow.

But then again, I am very easily confused.

file under: cranky old lady crazy nonsensical ranting.