You heard it here first, hotard.

Settle in, fix yourself a purple hooter, microwave some nachos and get ready to be here a while. Like it or not, I'm going to be shoving every little detail of my whirlwind New Orleans trip down your throat much in the way that I managed to shove approximately 42 pounds of butter down my gullet in 3.75 days.

My dear friends, I give you:

Whiskeymarie v. New Orleans: Ma'am, just put down the fork, step away from the plate and no one gets hurt.


Day 1: 10:05 flight to Atlanta, one hour layover, then off to N.O.
I threaten my husband that I am going to try and work the word "hotlanta" into as many sentences as possible today. He is grateful that my anti-anxiety meds will eventually render me mute. I am seated on the first flight next to a very stinky hipster guy with really tight jeans on. Dude, it's called soap. Check it out sometime.

1st meal: Crappy salad and sweetened ice tea that we were assured by the waitress wasn't sweetened at the "Budweiser Cafe" in the Atlanta airport. And to answer your question- no. No, there wasn't a better option than the "Budweiser cafe". Trust me.

Both flights were on time, but unfortunately "misplacing" my luggage means Delta Airlines is dead to me now. I'm totally not inviting them to Thanksgiving dinner this year. Lucky for them I was so zonked out from the Ativan that I was unable to punch the luggage guy in the face, even though I really, really wanted to. I take his "what to do when Delta Airlines can't do its job and some disgruntled and underpaid airline worker goes on break early and just leaves your new suitcase sitting on the tarmac" brochure and we catch a cab to the hotel (3:30-ish)

Our hotel is lovely. Super clean, comfy, great staff and quaint in a distinctly Frenchy/New Orleans-y kind of way.

I need a nap at this point, it seems.

We lollygagged a while, then decided to wander in the city a bit.
I am officially in deep, deep love with the French Quarter. Every house has shutters, everything is painted in bright colors, music pours out from every nook and cranny, and you can take your drinks with you wherever you go as long as it's in a plastic cup. Bless your heart, New Orleans.


Dinner was casual, we ate here on my girl M's recommendation. I took her advice and had the muffaletta. Man, if calories weren't an issue I would eat a muffaletta every day for lunch, and possibly dinner, if allowed. Maspero's was my kind of place- sort of dive-y, but fantastic, simple food and $1 glasses of crappy house wine. Yum. Oh, and the Mr. had a GIANT plate of various fried fishy/shellfishy things.
The shrapnel that was the remnants of my sandwich:


After dinner I decided to hump a fire hydrant:


We took another of M's suggestions and stopped by The Spotted Cat after dinner for a drink and some live music. What a great place. Cramped, smoky and dark, with a really good jazz quartet playing. We didn't stay long 'cause we were POOPED, but I'm really glad we went.

*It was odd that there was smoking allowed EVERYWHERE we went. People were puffing away in restaurants, bars, stores, in the hotel, you name it. I don't smoke, but I have to say it was kind of nice to not see people huddled in doorways and alleys for a quick puff. Most places we went were open-air, and so the smoke really wasn't much of an issue at all. I kind of miss people being able to smoke wherever. I don't care what anyone says- it DOES look cool. Send your angry letters disagreeing with me to: Whiskeymarie, 1234 Drunkypants Lane, St. Paul, MN, 55100.

Remember these? They're everywhere in this city:


Lastly, a quick drink or two in our hotel bar, then sleep, glorious sleep.


Day 2:
Since everyone said we HAD to get beginets and coffee at Cafe du Monde, we decided to go there for breakfast. Call me naive, but I assumed that there would be additional food-like items available for purchase at this landmark, but nope. Nada. Overall, I have to say, "meh". I love deep-fried balls of doughy goodness as much as the next person, but I wasn't impressed with these. I've had better. Plus, I was kind of hoping to, oh- I don't know, have something along with my fried dough. Fruit? Nope, move along. We ate our dough balls, drank the scalding coffee and went about our business for the day, unimpressed with Le du Monde.

We spent the bulk of our day wandering around, just soaking in the city. We decided that Bourbon street stinks. Literally. Every few feet we would step into some unholy odor (garbage, sewer, puke, etc...) that seemed to hang thick in the air. None of the other streets had this stink. Bourbon street- what up?

We sat at an open-air cafe on the main drag/touristy street I can't remember the name of and had lunch. Every cafe had someone standing outside hollering for people to come in and eat, and every menu lists something as "world famous". I had one of the best bowls of jambalaya that I've ever had in my life. I wanted to go back for dinner, it was that good. The Mr. had gumbo and a muffaletta of his own. Maspero's muff was better, but this one was still pretty good. We had a couple of drinks, which would help explain our next move.

When, when, when will I ever learn to just skip the touristy crap? It's never a good idea, and it usually just ends up pissing me off in multiple ways.

So...we see this sign for Steamboat rides. Hey, that might be fun!, we muse. We can take a leisurely cruise down the Mississippi, relax a bit and just enjoy being somewhere warm. Yay! Boats!
We plop down $40 for tickets and wander around the riverside to kill time until the boat leaves. 2:00 arrives, so we head back to the landing to board.
Fuck.
A freaking LOUD organ playing circus music, 1,287,473 people waiting in line to board...ick.
In what was quite possibly my lamest attempt at a life of crime, I tried unsuccessfully to scalp my steamboat tickets. The dude looked at me like I was crazy. C'mon! Half price! C'mon!
We decided to suck it up and just go.
Me waiting in line to board:

Awesome.

Luckily, they had a bar, and the trip was kind of interesting and scenic. The bazillion other people on board made it less than stellar, and it was pretty cold on the water- but we lived.

I really should have signed us up for a tour with these folks:

*My new favorite insult word. You hotard.

Another nap, then a dinner I'd rather forget at a place whose name I have blocked from my memory. Turns out, there is shitty food in New Orleans- you just have to be super smart and lucky like we were to find it.

For our after-dinner cocktails, we wandered back off the beaten path near the Spotted Cat. We went to the Hookah Cafe, which was cooler than it sounds. We didn't partake of the hookah, but they made me a mean watermelon martini, and it was good & mellow people-watching. I don't get the whole hookah thing, but hey- I don't get a lot of things, so there you go.

And...sleep.

Day 3:
I find myself wondering: New Orleans, why do you hate breakfast so?
In an city that doesn't seem to even wake up before 10:00, where all of the stores don't open until 11:00, and around dusk is when things seem to just get moving...why oh why was it nearly impossible to find breakfast of ANY sort around 10:00a.m? We seriously walked for about an HOUR before we found anyone serving anything resembling breakfast, and we ended up having unimpressive egg sandwiches at a sort of "self-serve" joint. Let's work on that one, o.k. N.O?

More walking, this time we wandered out of the French Quarter and into other districts in the city. One of my favorite things about New Orleans was the fact that there are gorgeous city parks everywhere you go. Statues, flowers, giant trees, people eating lunch, napping, basking in the sun, great public art...

We just plopped our butts on some steps in Lafayette Square and enjoyed the sun and watched people going about their business. I think that's my favorite thing to do when traveling.

Lunch was at another cafe in the French Quarter, not bad, but nothing special. I had a pretty good salad (I really needed a few veggies at this point) and the Mr. had gumbo again and really good sweet potato fries. We went to this particular cafe mostly because they had a 2nd floor terrace we could sit on to get a few more bits of sun and people-watch while having a few cocktails.

More walking, a little shopping, then back to the hotel for nappy-time.

We had dinner reservations at 8:30 for the Commander's Palace that night.
I say had because I canceled them.

Yes, I know. Sacrilege.
I get a reservation for a landmark, an institution- and I go and cancel them.
Let me explain:

Up to this point, we had been lucky to have eaten some really good food, for the most part. I knew that for our last big meal in town I wanted something really special, but I wasn't getting at all excited to go to the Commander's Palace. I wasn't really even looking forward to it.
When it comes to big-ticket dining, my instincts are rarely wrong, so I decided that I wanted to go to this restaurant near our hotel that we had walked by a few times so far. Something about it just seemed like it was our kind of place. I was done with the gumbo/jambalaya/muffaletta stuff. Now I wanted something that was "New Orleans with a twist".

Best decision I ever made, canceling that reservation, and making a new one.

We went to Stella!, a not-too-big cafe with an ambitious menu. This was easily one of the most inventive and interesting menus I've ever had the pleasure of choosing from. I was giddy just reading it.

We had white-glove service (which was a bit odd at first, I must say. The whole thing had an early 80's Michael Jackson vibe to it) in a dining room that can best be described as "fusion" decor. Think old-school foofy French meets Tokyo circa 2045.

Pre-dinner: A glass of bone-dry rose' for me, a Heindrick's and soda for the Mr.

With dinner: Fiddlehead Cellars 2001 "honeysuckle" Sauvignon Blanc. Heaven in a glass.

1st course:
For me- Veal and shrimp (yes, I took a chance and ate the gross little things) gyoza with tempura mustard raab and spicy peanut sauce. So. Freaking. Good.

For the Mr.- "Peanut butter and jellyfish" salad. Tempura-battered baby octopus and jellyfish with watermelon, cucumber and a light, somewhat peanutty vinaigrette. I didn't eat the wiggly things, but I tried the watermelon with the dressing. Holy crap. Delicious.

Entrees:
For me- Duck 5 ways: Seared, pepper-crusted mid-rare duck breast, mini "mu shu" style duck with summer squash, "lacquered" leg and thigh, duck miso broth and foie gras wontons. If there ever was a more perfect dish, I challenge you to tell me what it is. God I love duck.
For the Mr.- Miso and sake-glazed Black Cod with shark's fin omelet, wilted mustard greens, roasted spring garlic and lobster-scented butter. He just kept smiling and saying "this is soooo good" while eating this, so I assume he liked it. I tried the shark-fin. Odd, but good.

Dessert: (shared)
Dark chocolate cake with "hot buttered" pink lemonade, which can best be described as pink lemonade buerre blanc. My arteries cried a little just typing that.

One of my most expensive meals ever, but worth every penny and then some.

Back to the hotel for a drink at the bar, then good night.

We had to fly out earlier on Thursday, so we just had breakfast at the hotel. Not terrible, but not great either.


All in all, it was a pretty great trip.


This city has a feel to it like no other I've been to.
Laid back, welcoming, food and music-centered, and really, really pretty in a faded and elegant way. I felt instantly comfortable, like I had been there a million times before but still had a million things to see and do.
But most of all I liked just sitting in the cafes, a cold cocktail in hand and a plate of something delicious in front of me, watching it all go by.


Thanks, New Orleans. As soon as I lose the ten pounds I put on this time around I'll be plotting and planning when I can go again.
And again.
And again...

XO
-WM

Go fill two gallon-size ziplocs with buttery grits. Then stuff them down the back of your pants. Now you know how I feel after this glorious trip.

Ahhh...


We're back. Full of jambalaya, grits, muffalettas and enough cocktails to give a Frat party a run for their money.


I got my luggage, FINALLY around 7:00 on Tuesday night, after three angry and fake-tearful phone calls to Delta's "luggage handling center" and a lie about needing my prescription medication that I had checked and desperately needed.
Shut up! I was having a Flonase emergency. And possibly a "Holy crap my fuzzy, dirty windblown hair needs Aveda NOW!!!" emergency as well.
And dammit- I only packed 2 pairs of unders in my carry on and I'd be damned if I was going to scrub my delicates in the bathroom sink and hang them from the shower curtain to dry.

I wouldn't have even been so pissed if they would have just told me the truth. "Having" to go out and buy new stuff isn't exactly a bummer for me, you know? But the fuckers kept telling me "any time now..." so like a dumbass I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. So pretty much 1/2 of my trip was spent having fun, but worrying about my stupid luggage and believing the dirty lies that Delta Airlines slipped into my cocktail.
And it was hard to make dinner plans, not knowing if the super cute dresses that I packed for the express purpose of wearing to dinner were going to be there or not.

I'll give you the whole trip/food/fun rundown in a bit, I need to organize my thoughts/pictures/etc... a bit first.

But I am very very happy that my pretty new monkey luggage is back with me, along with all of my lady-belongings squished inside, where they will most likely sit until a week from now when I finally get off of my giant jambalaya-filled butt and clean it out.

Full trip post coming shortly...

I really don't know how to properly "vacation", it seems.

I'm siting here in my lovely hotel in New Orleans' French quarter. We are currently sipping cocktails poolside whilst planning our next few days.

Oh! And Delta lost my luggage. MY BRAND NEW KIPLING ROLLING DUFFEL THAT I BOUGHT YESTERDAY!!!! NOT CHEAP!!!!
So, if you see me wearing the same combination of red dress, black jacket, jeans and various t-shirts in all of the pictures- IT'S NOT MY FUCKING FAULT.
Did I mention I have no makeup/toiletries/prescription drugs (except my ativan for flying. I keep that in a secret compartment in my spleen.)
And no jewelery.
And I only have two pairs of unders.
Delta, you had better find that bag and send it to me on the wings of angels so as not to incur the wrath of the girl that packed for THREE fucking days, just to get it "perfect".
Preferably today. Preferably NOW.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty...

I need more ativan. And a cocktail. Stat.

Signing out from New Orleans...
WM
XO

Who you callin' big and easy? Huh?

This time tomorrow I will hopefully be full of beignets, turtle soup and the kind of hurricanes that actually make you feel good.

Yup, my sweet little internet darlings, tomorrow morning I am off to New Orleans for a few days of hopefully warmer weather, no damn snow and food, food, glorious food.


I'll try and eat/drink something in your honor. And I'll take lots o'pictures. Promise.



Maybe I'll see y'all before Thursday, maybe I won't. I'm coy like that.

I'll miss you. Try and have a good week, my little deep fried crayfish balls.

XO

Eight, on a date, went out and ate, ain't it great?

I know.

I said no more memes for a while, dammit. But I was sucked in by the charm and flattery that is the Evil Genius. How can I say no to a declaration of love? Plus, you know how I love me some evil.


One more, than my moratorium on memes is back, dammit.
Dammit.

8 Things I’m Passionate About
1. Any and all pork products.
2. Being right, occasionally.
3. Wine
4. Jake Ryan
5. Bargain shopping- I dig through racks like I’m collecting evidence at a crime scene. Every freaking inch gets searched, cataloged and tagged as evidence.
6. Perfect carrot cake and my homemade mac & chz.
7. Making time to do nothing but lay around the front porch and read magazines.
8. Singing badly, often.

8 Things I Want to Do Before I Die
1. Win the lottery.
2. Become infamous.
3. Open another restaurant.
4. Find a cure for “old”.
5. Finish my quest for the perfect Rueben.
6. Master the art of saying “no”.
7. Kick Dick Cheney in the balls.
8. Clive Owen.

8 Things I Often Say
1. “Awesome”
2. “um…”
3. “douchebag”
4. “are you going to finish that?”
5. “yes, I’ll have another glass”
6. “where are my damn pants?”
7. “Fuckety, fuck, fuck”
8. “No, I don’t mind. Not at all.”

8 Books I’ve Read Recently
(And by recently I mean in the last year. This has not been the most “literary” period of my life)

1. The Heroin Dairies, by Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue
2. We tell ourselves stories in order to live, by Joan Dideon. (I’ve been plodding through this for freaking ever now)
3. Candy Girl by Diablo Cody
4. The good life, by Jay McInerney
5. Music for torching, by A.M. Homes
6. Slack Jaw, a memoir, by Jim Knipfel
7. House of the Sleeping Beauties, by Yasunari Kawabata
8. 1965 Esquire Party Book

8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over
1. Duran Duran “Rio”
2. Elliott Smith “Pitseleh”
3. ELO “Turn to Stone”
4. Gnarls Barkley "Smiley Faces"
5. The The "Love is stronger than Death"
6. Joy Division "She’s Lost Control"
7. Big Black "Bad Houses"
8. The Smiths "I Know it’s Over"

8 Things That Attract Me to My Best Friends
1. We all stopped giving a shit a long time ago.
2. Our love of VH1.
3. They drive much better than I do.
4. Our mutual adoration of Top the Tater and Doritos.
5. Extravagant birthday gifts.
6. Nice tits.
7. They hold their liquor much better than I do, and that is worth noting.
8. Forgave me for peeing in the plant that one time (see #7).

8 Things That Drive Me Crazy
1. Tall, dark and handsome.
2. People that can’t just get to the fucking point in a reasonable amount of time.
3. Badly cooked eggs.
4. “Texting”.
5. Bold, blatant selfishness.
6. Fat dudes with no shirts on the first few warm days of spring/summer.
7. The smell of bacon cooking.
8. When I lose my pants.

8 People I Think Should Go All "Crazy 8's" on Us
Tagging innocents for memes makes baby Jeebus cry. Do this if you want, don’t if you don’t. I’m not the boss of you.

We have well established by now that this is where memes go to die.

And, so...no more memes for a looooong time, pretty please. Please? Even if I give you a virtual french kiss?
Fine.
No tongue.
Whatever.
Prudes.


Happy Friday, my eight-legged, hairy creepy-crawly thingys.
XO

I hear springtime in Paris is almost as nice.

Ahh...springtime in Minnesota. When the birds are chirping, the tulips are blooming and the warm sun caresses your face.

Glorious, isn't it?

Tags: What I woke up to this damn morning, why MN sucks donkey balls sometimes

Pot and Kettle

Two quick pictures for y'all:

Back in October, my lovely gal Twisted Noodle challenged me to go all the way. All the way through Nablopomo, that is (whatever else could you have been thinking?).
Nablopomo is this silly "challenge" where you post on your blog every day for the month of November, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Trust me. Go back in the archives and look if you don't believe me. By the end I was praying for a tidy little padded room where I could curl up into the fetal position and mumble about feet. But, I'll probably do it again this year, for whatever that's worth.

Anyways, she promised me a sassy t-shirt from this place if I did it, and lo and behold, here it is.
My awesome new shirt:

Note the giant bruise on my arm. I got this by running into the door to the butter compartment on my fridge, sad as that is. Damn delicious butter.

Thanks for the t-shirt love, TN!


And, a pic from my debaucherous Tuesday with M.
And no, you can't see our boobies. We save that sort of stuff for the Skyway Lounge.

Now, I'm going shopping.
Have a lovely Thursday, my little lap-dancing pygmy Eskimos.
XO

Putting the "win!" back in wino.

Quick quiz:

Which of the following answers best completes this statement?

Last night I, Whiskeymarie, _______________________________________.


a) Stayed home, watched "Dancing with the Stars", made a big bowl of popcorn and worked on a "sad clown" needlepoint project.

b) Completed my paper for HLTH102 titled "Syphylis and Herpes: that little itch could be telling you something".

c) Converted to Judaism and threw myself a belated bat mitzvah.

d) Went out with Stacy and M, drank my weight in wine, had a very pungent vial of perfume break in my purse, and somehow managed to get us all kicked out of one of the skankiest strip clubs in Minneapolis.


Please use a #2 pencil and fill in the answer circle completely.

Your score will be mailed to you in 6-8 weeks. Good luck.

And a one, and a two...

I have mentioned perhaps once or twice here that I used to be a dancer. Twelve years, to be exact. And lordy, do I have me some stories. Like the one time, when I was 12, and my Barry Manilow-obsessed dance instructor made us rehearse a little number to the "Copacabana" over and over and over. Her name was Lola...indeed.
Or in college, where I had a "dance class" that consisted of 12 of us laying in the dark in the dance studio with our eyes closed, and we were told to just "move when we felt like it". I still can't believe I got a grade in a class where all I did was doze off, roll around randomly and sneak peeks at everyone else looking as idiotic as I did.

But today...today I was feeling nostalgic for the old days where I lived in leotards and tights and my feet began their steady downward spiral into the gnarly trotters that currently live at the ends of my legs.
Ahhh, good times.

For y'all, my own little "dance of the whiskey plum fairy":
(feel free to play the video to help set the mood)




I don't seem to have any of my "dance attire" left besides my old toe shoes, so I created a tutu using everyday household garbage bags and the leg of a pair of tights. Feel free to steal this idea the next time you are experiencing a tutu emergency.

Intro...



I'm smiling here, but I'm crying on the inside. After fourteen tries to get "en pointe" and stay there for more than 1.2 seconds, I fear I may have to lose a toe or two as several of them seem to have died from lack of circulation. On the up side, the Chinese foot binding I had planned for later today will probably go a little smoother minus a few little piggies.

Lacking a real partner, I enlist the help of the only other being in the house that will willingly participate in my elaborate production, the great ballerina Pooterina Von Poontana.

I had a big finish planned where I was gloriously lifted into the air and spun around, a la "The Little Mermaid on Ice"- but again, that whole issue of no one being home but me put a damper on that idea. I tried to get Pooter to lift me, but I could tell by her muffled mews when I landed on top of her most ungracefully coming out of that leap that she was uninterested in playing the part of Baryshnikov.
So I enlisted an inanimate object instead. Use your imagination.


Ta-Da!!!!!!!


Oh, and...
Happy St. Patrick's day to all my drunken Irish friends out there, whoever you are.


XO

So THAT'S what non-recirculated air smells like.

It's too damn nice out to be sitting in front of the computer.

Go out and get some fresh air, will you? Maybe you can play with Billy, the neighbor boy who likes to re-create great scenes from pornos with barbies. Or, maybe Sally from down the block has finally been released from quarantine.

Just go out and play, o.k?

Here's five dollars. Knock yourself out.

I'll see y'all tomorrow.

People just ain't no good: third time's the charm.

I believe in owning up to your shit. Do something wrong, screw someone over, get busted participating in general douchebaggery...
own it.

So, lacking any other inspiration, I will give you my third installment of apologies from yours truly in my never-ending quest to right my self karmically with the world. Part one. Part two.

(Picture me being really, really sincere here, if your imagination allows.)


* To the student in my building walking in front of me the other day:
I was laughing to myself at you, and yes- you totally busted me. To my credit, though, when you wear high-heeled sandals, socks, a time-worn and too-small "Juicy"-esque sweatsuit and a leather bomber-style jacket with Betty boop appliqués all over it...well, I have to say me laughing was more than a little involuntary. But still, I was rude. Sorry.



* To the slightly "hefty" dude in elementary school who couldn't sit down EVER without about 2 inches of butt crack showing:
I'm sorry I marginally participated in throwing food (peas) into your butt crack at lunch that one time. I was young and foolish and figured if the mean kids were focusing on you that they might ignore my freakish height and premature boobage for one day. Sorry you had squishy peas in your pants the rest of the day.
Really sorry.




*To central High School, Duluth MN:
Sorry we stole all of those room signs that one time. We were at a "Math Team" event, and as we sucked at math, we were bored out of our skulls and needed entertainment of some sort. As sort of a double/triple apology: Sorry to our high school "Math Team" coach. I know you only asked us to join because you needed girls on the team and we were the smartest girls in the class, but we really didn't care how we did and were really in it just for the cookies and McDonald's orange punch. And, sorry to my gal Waffle for that time I waited until you walked to the front of the cafeteria during that one "Math Meet" to get a cookie to yell, "Hey there fat girl- put down that cookie!" You weren't fat, we never thought you were and certainly didn't think you thought you were, we just thought it was funny to torture you. Sorry. Thank you for still being my friend, Waffle. And, I'm kind of sorry I still love to torture you.


*To you all:
Sorry you now know I was on "Math Team".


*To anyone who saw me in that one dance performance in college:
Sorry you had to see me in a full-on, shiny, royal blue unitard. You see, I was supposed to be "water". Get it? At the time I thought the performance was "cool", yet now I see it was simply "lame". Sorry we both had to see that.


*To recently-married J:
Sorry I threw up white russians in your car that one time years ago. Lucky for you, most of it got on my coat, but I know a fair chunk of the mess ended up in your back seat. And, sorry to whoever got that car after J, because that car was a garbage barge and I'm pretty sure J never cleaned the puke out before he sold it.


*To Scandia, my boyfriend in 1989-91:
Sorry I cheated on you. Repeatedly. To my credit, you did move away for a bit. I'm really sorry for that one time where you paid me a "surprise visit" on a Sunday morning (you still had a key) and as you were walking up the front stairs, I was hustling that other dude down the back.
And the one time when I went to Canada with my girlfriends? Well, let's just say I saw my first uncircumcised ding-dong that weekend. And that guy friend of mine that I was really friendly with all the time? I think the term "Fuck buddy" sums that one up. And, right before I broke up with you? Yeah. That would have been Gustav. If it makes you feel better, Gustav totally cheated on me. Karma kind of bit me on the ass for that one. Sorry I was such a whore. Kind of.


*And finally for today, To the Fingerhut Catalog:
I'm sorry that my most recent catalog has to be my last due to my never having ordered anything. I just find that I don't need things like an elephant wall shelf or a "family of deer" lawn ornament set. I understand why you're upset. Maybe someday, when I no longer am in total control of my bowels and embroidered sweatshirts and stretch pants are my outfit of choice, maybe them we can start some sort of relationship. Until then, however, I'm sorry we must part ways.


Thank you for indulging me.
XO

Briefly brief.

Tagged by Fran, to write my memoir in six words. SIX WORDS. I can't even describe my toes in six words.
Let's see...pedicurally-challenged, angry, chipped polish, yuk.

O.k, I guess if I can sum up my toes, I can sum up the wonder that is me.



rules (stinking rules, always getting in the way)

1. Write your own six word memoir. 2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like. 3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post. 4. Tag five more blogs with links. 5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!


Whiskeymarie:

Grandma was right about that girl


Remember, this is where tags go to die, so I am tagging no one. Sorry. Also, I love a good meme to fill a bout of writer's block, but I am going meme-free for a month (or more). the pressure is too much and it drives me to drink delicious cocktails. O.k, that's not so bad after all, but let's just say no tagging me for a bit. Love you.
XO

Why hast thou forsaken me, Hedgehog?

At this moment, a shorter, chubbier Ron Jeremy is in my basement replacing my boiler.

I'm paying him $6800 for this.

Do you think I'll get an autograph?

Do you think it's inappropriate to ask to see...you know- that one thing?

You know, silly.

His master's degree.

What did you think I was referring to, you dirty little birds?

Bubble, bubble, boiler trouble.

The weekend that wasn't:

• Friday night home alone with a bucket of wine, a straw and a pile of magazines
• No obligations, laziness and blogging galore
• Maybe some shopping
• Enjoying the comforts of a heated home

The weekend that was:

• Get home Friday night after very tiring day at work to the carbon monoxide detector beeping- husband not home (9:15 p.m.)
• Call the Mr, leave a message
• Ignore beeping for a while, have a glass of wine, then finally decide to call Exel Energy to see if this annoying beeping is a "problem"(10:00)
• Call the Mr, leave another message
• Exel Energy decides to send a guy out to see what's what (10:30)
  
• Exel dude says that not only would we likely have died during the night if we had not owned a detector, but our boiler is so unsafe that he has to "red tag" it and turn it off. It was below freaking zero out, folks. He apologizes, cuts off my comfort, and then leaves. (10:45)
• Call the Mr. He answers this time. How unfortunate for him. Proceed to be total crazy freaking out bitch.
  
• Leave immediately. Go to only store open at the late hour to try and buy electric space heaters. Fucking Wal-Mart. Only this W-M has decided that it is in "spring mode" (their words, not mine), so they have no space heaters, only fans. Woman in electronic department offers to call another 24-hour W-M to see if they have any after I tell her I may start crying (even though I'm kind of already there), such is the shittiness of my day. I consider hugging the woman for finding heaters, but decide against it as I am now completely aware of my "crazy freaking weirdo" status at this particular moment in time. My fur-trimmed parka/sweatpants/crazy hair combo really doesn't help me look any less coo-koo in the head. (11:15)
  
• Go to Apple Valley Wal-mart which is a bizallion miles from my house. On the drive there, have 14 different discussions in my head of how mad I am at the Mr. and how this is all his fault because of that one time he touched the boiler. Find space heaters at W-M #2, on clearance. I buy four. (11:35)
• Haven't eaten at this point, decide to stop at 24-hour grocery store for food. Macaroni and cheese and Lindt truffles are purchased. (11:55)
• Get home, set up heaters, heat up macaroni & chz. Fill wine glass to the tippy top and proceed to chug. (12:00)
• Husband gets home. Yell at husband, blame him for boiler dying. Yell that you feel like you may as well live in a tent and shit in the yard, such is the lack of conveniences in our home at the moment. Eat chocolate. Drink more wine. Go to sleep wearing 47 layers with the whir of the space heater in my dreams. (12:45)
• Wake up feeling like an asshole. Apologize. Put on 4-5 layers of clothing and a hat, proceed to maniacally and obsessively clean the house. Freeze ass off. Husband decides to fix leak in the toilet, so for a while we not only don't have heat, but my predictions of shitting in the yard may actually be coming true. Set up appointment for "consultation" on Monday for new $5000-5500 boiler. Plan where to put 2nd bathroom when we are remodeling & fixing up the abode this summer (losing a closet. Will be smallest bathroom in the history of small bathrooms).
  
• Go out to a lovely WARM restaurant, have lovely red wine with the lovely Mr, who is used to the wife's freak outs and has recovered completely (the lithium helps).
  
• Go home to relatively warmish house (if you consider 55 degrees "relatively warmish"), put on many layers of jammies and watch the Grindhouse movies (love, love, loved them), eat haagen dazs vanilla swiss almond (I don't get it either. Why we chose ice cream is far, far beyond me) and drink a really nice Italian red.

*Two pairs of socks, flannel jammies, long underwear, a turtleneck sweater and a hat. Sex-ay.

• Today, freezing ass off typing on blog in unheated room. Cleaned scary basement, may have contracted some sort of asbestos-related lung ailment from sweeping up all the dust in the 100+ year-old dungeon. Found the following items in basement: functional lite brite, ripped olive green Naugahyde ottoman from approximately 1967, a box of wire hangers, a shadow box that still had residue from when we found a dead bird in it, a christmas-themed deviled egg platter, about four year's worth of old Bon Appetit magazines, and a bucket of dirt. Don't ask.
  

• Contemplating building a fire in the living room. We don't have a fireplace, if you're wondering.
  
• Trying to decide what to make for dinner. Have some lovely sockeye salmon to work with. Should probably bake something so I have a reason to turn the oven on. Fuck it, I'm turning it on anyways.
  
• Realizing that we may not have heat for a while, depending on how fast Centerpoint Energy can get the new beast installed. If it gets really cold out again I'll be blogging from a hotel room, preferably one with room service. Too. damn. Cold.
  

Happy Sunday, my chilly little whiskey sour-flavored Popsicles. I sure hope your weekend was warmer than mine.
XO

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

On a side note- I am updating my links, as a number of blogs have either closed up shop or have gone into hibernation. I'll save y'all in my bookmarks, so be sure to e-mail me and let me know if and when you are ever back. If I took anyone off that wants to stay on for whatever reason, just let me know.

Fear and loathing in Northern Minnesota. Or, alternatively: Hash browns are not the same as hash brownies.

I have never been very good at doing drugs.

Let me clarify: I have only tried most illicit substances once, and rarely has the outcome been less than, well...really, really wrong.

I grew up in the heyday of ABC "After school" specials and Nancy Reagan's "Just say no" campaign. Remember the after school specials? The mini-movies starring b-list actors & musicians that discussed divorce, sex, alcoholism, drug use, racism and such and such in a way that kids like us could understand and totally didn't make fun of? And the anti-drug commercials? Priceless.
Here's a reminder, if you need one. Here's another. And another. O.k, one more.

After seeing the After School Special where the guy takes Angel Dust and thinks he can fly (with predictably less-than-glamorous results), I was scared shitless of any and all drugs. Seriously. I was. Even though I had never once heard of "Angel Dust" at my small-town high school, I was sure it was everywhere and would kill you instantly upon encountering the magical fairy sparkles. Simply being in a room with it would cause severe brain damage, or so I thought. Helmets were never a good look for me, so I decided it was best to just stay the hell away from the stuff.

Consequently, my entire drug experience throughout high school consisted of: a self-diagnosed overdose of Vivarin, Copious amounts of Jolt Cola, and one miserably failed attempt at smoking a dried-out doobie with my friend Waffle in an alley when we were at a party with the cool kids.

Scandalous, I know.

After high school, I still retained a healthy fear of any and all contraband, though at this point I had also decided that if the drugs didn't kill me upon simply thinking about taking them, the S.W.A.T. team hiding in the bushes outside our apartment would raid the place and we would end up in a Women's prison the rest of our lives, forced into a lifetime of orange jumpsuits and not-so-hot lesbian sex with gals named "Big Bessie".

But, I still managed to push the fear aside a few times to join the ranks of the "enlightened" and "cool".

The "acid" story is one I will save for another day, but I'll give you a teaser: Underwear puddle-jumping.
I promise I'll tell you the whole story someday. Try and stop me.

Today, the hash brownie story.

The year was 1994 (or 1995?). I had been dating the future Mr. Whiskeymarie for not very long, at this point. He was so naive and cute. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, the poor bastard.

I lived in the infamous 1108A East 3rd St. apartment still, and one day when Waffle and I were hanging out at home we got a visit from a "drug-friendly" dude we knew that we'll call "Professor Drugsalot".
We stood around chit-chatting about such and such for a bit, then he pulled out a jar of thick, green goo to show us. We learned from Professor Drugsalot that the thick green goo was hash, a substance Waffle and I had encountered one other time on an ill-fated trip to Canada (another story, another time). Professor Drugsalot asked us if we would be so kind as to bake up a pan of brownies with the goo, and then asked if we wanted to go to a bonfire/picnic at an old friend of ours parent's home in the lovely village of Esko, MN, where we could partake of the goo brownies.

We shrugged. "Sure, why not?" We didn't have anything else going on.

He left the jar with us and went off to make further preparations for the evening.

We didn't know we weren't supposed to use the WHOLE jar for ONE pan.
Oops.

Our first indication that we had done something wrong was when we noticed that the finished product smelled like gasoline-infused chocolate. Then, when we sprinkled powdered sugar on the brownies and the sugar instantly turned green, well we figured out our mistake.

Oops, indeed.

When Professor Drugsalot came back and realized what we had done, he was a bit peeved. But, unfortunately for Professor Drugsalot he had been such a douche to us in the past that he had no choice but to forgive and forget. That's how karma works, dude.

We just needed to remember to cut them real small. And only eat one.

Later on, we journeyed out to Esko, ready for anything. The fire was lovely, beer in mason jars was consumed, and overall things were just peachy.


A bit later, we all decided to have a brownie.

Then...
nothing.

We waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing. Happened.

I thought that maybe it was me and my limited drug experience that was causing the problem, but even the seasoned imbibers were completely lucid. "Just wait", Professor Drugsalot kept saying.
Just wait.

Waffle and I decided to go into the house to get a bite to eat. The brownies were just sitting there, looking lonely. We decided that there wouldn't be any harm in splitting one more between the two of us. What the hell? Nothing was happening anyways. Stupid hash. Stupid gasoline-tasting brownies.

Back outside, the party was starting to get weird. We thought maybe everyone had just had too much cheap beer.
We all (me, Waffle, Future Mr. Whiskeymarie and our friend Army) decided to head back to town and maybe try and catch a late drink in Superior. I had driven, and as I hadn't had much to drink I thought I was fine to drive. I pulled out of the driveway and headed down the quiet country road.

All of a sudden I realized that things were indeed NOT right. No, not right at all.

The road started to wave and roll, as if it were a ribbon in a rhythmic gymnast's routine at the Olympics. I calmly pulled the car over and stopped.

"I can't drive."

Unfortunately, the brownies were starting to kick in for Waffle and the Future Mr. too. The only one in the car who hadn't eaten the goo brownies was Army, who was marginally somewhat shitfaced.
Crapety, crap, crap.

Despite this, Army was selected as the most qualified to steer us towards home (the idea of just turning around and driving the 1/2 mile back never occurred to us, such was our drug-retardation at this point).

Once home, I was in full-fledged freak-out mode. I wasn't going anywhere. Future Mr. had embarked on a vision quest of his own (he had eaten an extra brownie as well), and our fates for the evening had been decided. Waffle was the only one feeling somewhat normal still at this point, and she decided to go to Superior and catch a few cocktails at the "Joker's Wild".

I retired to bed, as it was the only place I felt safe. Future Mr. curled up with me, and we tried to go to sleep, knowing full well that we were about to have an evening we would soon rather forget.

Me? All night I kept getting the strange feeling that I had wet the bed, prompting me to get up, turn on the lights and feel around the sheets for the pee I could swear was there, but wasn't. Future Mr. was nowhere to be found, so I druggily assumed that my incontinence had scared him off. Plus the little hashy voices in my head kept telling me that he didn't like girls that peed their bed. I assumed he was out having a grand ol' time with some foxy broad who could hold her hash. I repeated the pee scenario approximately 274 times that night. And no, I never actually peed in the bed- not that it would have made the situation any less odd if I had.

Future Mr? He spent the majority of the evening with his head in the commode, praying for a quick death that didn't involve hash poisoning, or brownies of any sort.

Waffle? She went out to the bar, then started hallucinating. At one point she thought that large birds of prey were dive-bombing her head, so she did what any sane person being attacked by birds in a bar would do- she dove to the floor and covered her head. I wish I had been there. And taken pictures.


So, what was the moral of the story? What would Nancy Reagan want to you learn from this?

Um...
Hash brownies will give you imaginary incontinence and a healthy fear of birds. Don't eat them.

The end.

Yup. Story of my life.

Taurus:
Things should go more or less your way, at least on a small scale. That means you may be able to skip ahead of traffic, but your lottery tickets have no greater shot at the big jackpot. *

*My actual horoscope. Is it bad karma to tell the cosmos to go fuck itself?

Time, time, time is not on my side.

The last few weeks have been busy busy busy for me with work and extracurriculars. I'm still kind of sick (two freaking weeks later), and work may or may not kick my ass again this week.

No, I'm not looking for a pity party (unless of course some sort of delicious cocktail and possibly cake are involved). I'm just letting you know that I'll be a bit m.i.a. here until the weekend and once again will only have time to sporadically read the loveliness put out there on the internets by all of you, my lovely little anonymous scribes. Sigh. I hate when my stupid real life gets in the way of my fabulous fake life.

I do have time for a few random pictures, however.

#1) I took a picture of the pad thai I ate the other day so you could see the hugeness of it and understand why my belly hurt for hours after I pretty much ate the whole thing:


#2) Here's a snippet of a video I took with my camera at a drag show at a new bar in Superior, WI this weekend. The song she's singing is "My scary old whore", based on the Stevie Wonder song "My Cherie Amour". I wish the sound was better...





#3) A few more pics from the show:



#4) Yes, I know this next one is blurry, but it is the best I could do. Let me tell you what this fabulous piece of "art" is: As I was strolling through the hallowed halls of the Mall of America (total purchased: 3 bras, 3 unders, 1 dress, 3 gifts, 1 Swatch, and two glasses of sauvignon blanc) on Friday, I passed one of those stores that sells framed prints. Fine. This print however? A "painting" of some of our finest Republican leaders, dead & alive, playing poker. Yup. Seriously. Reagan, Nixon, Dubya...and the rest. I would have tried for a better shot, but the guy running the shop did not seem pleased at my taking the picture and I had to scurry off. Plus, I was a little unsettled and had to find a cocktail, stat.




#5) Yours truly, at R.T. Quinlan's bar in Duluth this Saturday after the drag show.

I stink like smoke (they still have smoking in bars in WI- gross) and I'm tired here, but somehow we still ended up staying up until after 4:00 in the morning. I'm too old for that sort of shit anymore. But it was fun?


Hope y'all had a nice weekend. And let me know if you found my pants.

Thanks so much.