Breakin' 2: electric booger-boo.

Spring.

When little fluffy bunnies frolic amongst the tulips, and you can almost smell the love in the air.

And...

When you feel as if a colony of breakdancing ants has taken up residence in your nasal cavity and they are choosing today to "throw it down old-skool style while getting their pop-n'-lock on".

Damn allergies.

I've had them as long as I can remember- from when I was a sniffly, red-nosed eight year-old using her mitten as a kleenex- to now, when I am a sniffly 36 year-old using only the finest tissues (or occasionally a sleeve, or toilet paper, or paper towels, or mittens, or dish towels) to blot the snot.

April and May are the worst for me- this morning my regimen consisted of prescription eye drops to help me NOT look like I suffer from the blinking portion of Tourette's and/or a 19 year-old stoner, prescription nose spray that reduces my sense of smell to such a level that the only things that even blip on the radar are the interiors of sewage treatment facilities and rotting corpses, and the now over-the-counter drug Zyrtec, which has caused me to develop a minor- yet annoying- case of narcolepsy.

I also supplement with the occasional dose of Visene to get the red out, and Benadryl, which occasionally induces what I like to call "minor comas".
Oh, and I'm on a strict regimen of the tried and true prescription called "vodka"- just for fun.

I've got red eyes, a red & flaky nose, and I occasionally launch into sneezing bouts that cause all animals within a mile radius to start howling.

Damn if I don't feel sexy.


On a related note:

My weekend was good. Busy, lots of eating out, lovely houseguests that clean up after themselves, quality cat time and, oh yeah, the Kids in the Hall- LIVE!!!

To prove I was there:

No, I totally agree. My picture-taking-at-a-live-show skills suck. I had a martini and a vodka tonic in me at this point, cut me some slack.

But the show was awesome, I ran into a ton of people I know, and I wish the KITH would just get back together and have another TV show already. Dammit.

Seeing them reminded me of one of their skits, which I constantly quote because I'm totally not a geek. And, it seems strangely appropriate given my condition today and how my eyes feel.

Take three minutes and enjoy:




Happy Tuesday, my crusty yet squishy little nuggets of eye boogers. Happy Tuesday.
XO

Not to be confused with cottage cheese thighs.

Unlike most days, I actually have mucho stuff-o to do today (bet you didn't know I was multilingual, did you? I also speak bastardized food French and phlegmy Germanglish).

I have house guests tonight, Kids in the Hall LIVE tomorrow (!!!), and my butt isn't going to just go and scratch itself, you know.

Go and eat some cheese for me, then tell me about it. Don't leave anything out. Make me want it- bad.



Mmmm...cheese porn.

Happy Friday, my little pools of limburger fondue with possum nuggets (for dippin'), happy Friday indeed.

XO

More than you wanted to know about a day in the life of a mediocre blogger...

If you were ever wondering why I can't seem to read anyone's blog or- you know- be "productive" on a daily basis...

This may help to explain...

My life...every damn day, give or take a few details:

5:13 a.m: New cat (a.k.a. "Trouble") jumps on Mr. WM's junk while purring. Mr. WM is slightly amused, yet slightly "injured". Trouble finds jingly toy thingy and proceeds to play with himself (that's what she said).

6:03 a.m: Old cat (a.k.a. "Pooter") becomes jealous that New Cat is sleeping on our bed. Chase and tussle ensues.

6:14 a.m: New Cat finds other jingly toy, proceeds to jingle said toy until definitely sleepy and possibly still-drunk WM takes said toy away. (Repeat at 6:22 a.m. when Trouble finds other "jingly" toy)

6:30 a.m: Mr. WM is rudely awakened by MPR's soft drone. Mr. WM grunts and sighs, but is unmoved.

6:36 a.m: Mr. WM grunts and lumbers out of bed, annoyed, when bluegrass music comes on. He is followed closely by relentlessly meowing paparazzi. Mr. WM goes in the can and shuts the door tightly, to the dismay of his fans.

6:55 a.m: Mr. WM kisses his ferociously sexy and internationally acclaimed wife goodbye, only after discussing the pooping habits of the cats first.

7:08 a.m: Mrs. WM considers getting up.

7:09 a.m: Decides not to.

8:04 a.m: Thinks about getting up, as she rolls over. Decides not to get up, again.

8:47 a.m: Relentless meowing and NASCAR-esque racing from the feline members of the household make it impossible to just lay around anymore. WM is forced to get up.

8:48 a.m: WM is cranky as she puts on her slippers and opens the upstairs blinds. She thinks that if she had human children, at least she could give them to a church...or something.

9:04 a.m: WM eats her Quaker Oatmeal Squares, but only after feeding the demon spawn. Trouble finishes his Friskies, then breathes heavily in WM's face while she is trying to endure her fiber and such. WM decides to eat sheep dung for breakfast tomorrow, in the hopes of having a chance in the "breath" competition.

9:34 a.m: WM decides that, though she found "Ellen" interesting years ago...now she just finds her to be "Oprah lite".

10:02 a.m: WM decides to work out. Today WM opts for kickboxing paired with the wild flailing commonly referred to as "aerobics". WM makes it through kickboxing like a pro, but aerobics finds her wishing she were anywhere where DVD players did not exist. Like third world Africa.

10:58 A.M: finds WM eating "early lunch", consisting of an egg white and tofu scramble and a piece of toast.

10:59 a.m: WM feels guilty about eating toast with peanut butter and awesome cherry jam. WM then flogs herself with olive branches out of guilt.

11:08 a.m: WM tries to catch up on the hobby known as "blogging". Phone rings. Cats rub butts in her face. E-mail beckons.

11:27 a.m: WM realizes that she needs a whole day off to blog. Schedules "personal day" immediately.

12:02 p.m: WM realizes that, if she wants to make it to work with a tiny bit of time to get "acclimated", then she needs to get moving...NOW.

12:42 p.m: WM emerges from marathon, scalding-hot shower, wrinkly and goofy from the heat. Decides to walk to work.

12:43 p.m: Fails to realize what a hotard she is.

12:50 p.m: WM rushes to get ready so she can race-walk to work and "enjoy" the scenery whilst "enjoying" a good cardiovascular workout.

1:08 p.m: Sees, for the second time in as many months, adult twins dressed identically with matching haircuts and walking in stride. Thanks the gods of blogging that she has her camera:


1:37 p.m: Arrives at work, regrets saying hello to...you know. THAT GUY. That guy that brings you down just by mentioning the weather. That guy that talks WAAAAY too close with death breath, that guy that has the questionable stain on his pants...
You know.
THAT guy.

2:28 p.m: Realizes that class is in 2 minutes. Hasn't finished making copies or cruising tabloid websites. Opts for copies, swooshes into class with a...flourish?

4:38 p.m: Takes a break from class. Checks e-mail, responds to cries of, "Where the fuck are you??? Have you fallen off of the planet or have you been abducted by a serial killer, either way can we have your shoes????" with..."Um, I don't know. Sorry."

4:56 p.m: Can't respond to e-mails in a timely manner, decides to buy cat collars online instead. Gets "New Cat" one with devil kitties and one with skulls and crossbones- gets "old" kitty one with flying pigs.

7:04 p.m: Class dismisses, WM retires to office.

7:45 p.m: WM decides that it will be "too dark" if she "has" to walk home, calls Mr. WM for a ride.

7:46 p.m: Mr. WM sighs and agrees.

7:59 p.m: Mr. WM arrives in the pimped out 2009 Lexus ( a.k.a. rusty 1997 VW) to pick up WM.

8:04 p.m: WM plays with the kitties, but not enough to their liking. Fighting ensues.

8:08 p.m: WM pours herself a glass of wine. WM sighs.

8:12 p.m: WM fixes "dinner" which consists of a salad paired with Morningstar farms Buffalo Wings.

8:45 p.m: Lick "buffalo" leavings off of fingers, clean up "dinner" mess and settle in for quality TV viewing.

9:01 p.m: Pour self another glass of wine/fix another cocktail. Throw fluffy thingy at cat that insists on jumping whilst meowing as their form of "performance art".

9:38 p.m: Pour self another glass of wine/fix another cocktail and settle in for "My name is Earl" "30 Rock" or "Curb your Enthusiasm" reruns. Laugh like an idiot.

10:29 p.m: Wonder how to carefully extricate your spouse from the couch while not waking them up. Realize this is impossible, so commence annoying shaking maneuver.
Spouse eventually whines "Whhaaaaaatttt????" and rolls over and promptly falls asleep. Decide the urge to leave said spouse on couch with possible neck injury is outweighed by possible MASSIVE amount of whining that would ensue of said spouse was inflicted with lifelong neck ailment. Shake the shit out of said spouse and say things like, "Fine, I'll just leave your sorry ass here and I'll get the bed to myself, sucka."

10:30 p.m: Spouse is so annoyed by WM's use of the word "sucka" that he grunts, gets up, and goes to bed.

10:35 p.m: WM polishes off last glass of wine, thinks about staying up and "totally not drunk" blogging, but opts to go to bed as to avoid any further embarrassment this month.

10:37 p.m: Launches into nightly cleansing/moisturizing ritual that keeps WM from looking, at age "nearly 37" like an exquisite alligator handbag.

3:34 a.m: Finishes cleansing/moisturizing ritual. Goes to bed.

6:04 a.m: It all begins again...

Damn.

Minnesota nice, Miami Vice.

Some bars/restaurants are opened with the unspoken understanding that their longevity is based solely on how long their gimmick can last before it starts stinking like Aunt Penny's tuna salad sitting in 100-degree heat at the yearly potluck.

Saturday night we went to one such place, called Restaurant Miami, located in the Uptown neighborhood in Minneapolis.

I should note here that this particular place opened about a year ago- a fact that only serves to prove how monumentally uncool I am. I can't even be bothered to go to the "of the minute" place within a YEAR. Christ, I'm boring.


So...
This place has a "retro 80's" "Miami Vice" theme to it. Everything is white and neon, and we were treated to the likes of Paula Abdul (pre-Idol, pre-schizophrenic) and theme songs from the popular movies of the decade BLARING from the sound system.
Overall, the theme worked, but I could have done without the lit up plastic palm trees and cheesy "VIP" section. Seriously- the place was almost empty. Perhaps it is eternally reserved for Crockett and Tubbs, who knows?

We were there with our friends J and D, who live in the area and go out a lot. When they suggested this place I said "Um, why?", knowing full-well that it would be "interesting", but not great.
If we're keeping score:
Me: 1
J & D: 0.

I'll give them credit, though, the drink names are pretty awesome. They're all named after lines from the movie "Scarface" and have names like "Her womb is so polluted" and "Another quaalude and she'll love me in the morning". I had something the name of which I can't remember except that it had an unfortunate word in the title that my delicate constitution prevents me from repeating, and it was delicious. Kind of a super-lemony martini. Unfortunately, however, our drink order was the first of many, many moments during this meal where we questioned our server's ability to both read and understand basic human hand signals.

We all ordered different drinks, yet when she dropped them off not only did she not remember who had what, but the first two drinks that she set down she referred to by the same name, even though one was neon pink and one was vivid green. Mr. WM got something he was sure wasn't right, but wasn't entirely sure was wrong either.
A few minutes later, after we properly distributed the drinks ourselves by going back and referencing the menu like some sort of adult pop quiz, our server came back with another drink, saying that the bartender made the wrong drink entirely and here is the right one.
D'oh!

So, whatever. The Mr. got a free fruity-girly drink for free, all was right in the world.

Whatever, indeed. Unfortunately we were too subdued by the delicious cocktails to notice the universal signs for "hope you don't have any expectations because if you did you'd be fucked".

We ordered our food: I had (and I should note here that the menu is kind of small, as they are more of a "bar" than a "restaurant") a caprese salad and pesto pasta with chicken (yes, boring- I know. I wasn't feeling 100% and wanted something simple), the Mr. ordered a melon & berry salad and a seafood pasta thingy. J and D ordered calamari as an appetizer, then J ordered Jamaican jerk chicken (seriously, the menu is all over the place) and D ordered crab cakes.

My salad was fine, the calamari (according to my dining companions) was "gross" and the melon & berry salad was seriously an unripe half-cantaloupe with berries in the middle and some sort of strawberry-orange puree/dressing.
I didn't realize "hospital cuisine" was so big in the 80's. Silly me.

When our entrees came, the server brought out three of them and then...nothing. She just walked away and didn't come back. J just sort of sat there and we all started giggling. Then I noticed that there was no chicken in my pasta.
Still no server.
When she finally came back, I asked her (very nicely) about the chicken I had ordered. "Um...you know that's extra, right?" she says.
I replied, "Yes, I knew that when I ordered it, but that's o.k. I don't need it. Really. I just wanted to make sure I don't get charged for the chicken when it isn't here."
"Um...I didn't have that written down. That you wanted chicken." (blank stare)
(So, lesson here: Just don't write anything down and it doesn't exist.)
Me: "Um, fine. Whatever."
She ignores me, tells J his food will just be "a minute" and sort of meanders off. Meanwhile, we are all about halfway done eating (We didn't wait. That's not our style.) and J still has a big fat plate of nothing sitting in front of him.

The server returns.
"Um...o.k. I guess the cook forgot your food. Sorry. It will be a bit, but I'm totally not charging you for it. No one in there speaks any English, you know."
J is being very, very polite and gracious.
"That's fine. No big deal. Can we just order more drinks?"

"Sure." (she pulls out her magic pad of paper. They order cocktails, I order a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which- for the record- is white.)
"What?", she says.
"Sauvignon Blanc"
"Oh, Sauvignon Blanc. O.k."

Minutes later, we get our drinks. She plops a glass of red wine in front of me. J and I look at each other and giggle. She walks away without a word.

"I'm just keeping it. It's not worth the effort."
J: "Do you want to bet and see if it says Sauvignon Blanc or Cabernet Sauvignon on the bill?"
Me: "Good lord."

J's food comes about the same time the rest of us are done, I drink my red wine, and we all share a decent chocolate cake thingy for dessert.
When the bill comes we realize we have nothing to bitch about as she forgot to charge me AT ALL for my entree, J's entree is comped, one drink was comped and, according to the bill, I had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which I DID get charged for.
D'oh!

You know, I don't care what sort of tax break you get for hiring out of work wannabe actress/models, they just don't make good servers if they can't read, count or process basic cognitive information.
We really should start some sort of charitable trust for these poor people.
What's that? One already exists?

Well, bless their hearts.

Send your checks to:
The Benovelence for Indigent Models and Behaviorists Out of work foundation, or BIMBO
1234 Glassyeyedstare Lane
New York, NY 12345

We thank you.


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


On another note:


In my ongoing quest to never again wear anything not covered with pet hair, and in an effort to keep my borderline mentally "touched" cat, Pooter, from getting lonely...


I got another damn cat.


That looks just like my first damn cat.







Meet Troubleman, a.k.a. Mr.T:


Next up?

This?
and...
This?
And maybe...
This?

Meow.

Does this count as a hand job?

Last night we drove over an hour north to go here to see Martin Short's one-man show.

Holy balls, he is even funnier live than I thought possible. He sang, there were many costume changes, he danced, he got a little political and every time he said the word "Hinckley" I giggled a little.

My favorite song he sang was "Springtime makes me want to cheat on my wife."

After the show, we were super hungry, so we went to dinner at a "steakhouse" in the casino. We are nothing if not kultured and klassy. Everyone that worked there appeared to be under the age of 15. It was odd.

As we were waiting for our table, I noticed the piano player from the show, who had just walked in with a very petite man. They were told their table would be a minute or two, so they both turned to sit in the bar.

Martin Freaking short- hello!

He was very friendly to everyone and stopped at a few tables in the bar to chat with people who had been at the show. We were sitting at the bar, so I missed out on this. I decided I needed a real "brush with fame" story, so I decided to just walk up to him and be the gross fan and gush a bit. Unfortunately, I neglected to notice that he was on his cell phone as I approached the table. His friend just looked at me like I was a circus freak and Mr. Short was probably thinking "Why can't these podunk hee-haws just LEAVE ME ALONE?"
I didn't want to bug him, so I just mimed/asked if I could shake his hand, and he reluctantly obliged.
So, to sum up:
I SHOOK MARTIN SHORT'S HAND LAST NIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!

(he has very tiny hands and I could have crushed his with my brawny man-paws if I wished to do so. He made me feel like a giant.)


I am so very, very lame. Nerd alert!

Someone get me a life, stat.

I love you, Mr. Short.
XO

Donkey v. Racehorse

Have you ever behaved so badly with your co-workers that you've considered changing your name and moving to another state and becoming a "street performer"?
Have you ever behaved so badly that one of them asks, "Is something wrong with you?"

No?

Um...never mind then.

Happy Friday my dysfunctional little balls of rage, happy Friday.

And no- don't even ask.

Like the Gambler says, "Know when to run."

I often find myself in situations with other human beings where my ability to discern "Is this person just quirky and odd and possibly a genius", or is this person "straight-up old school batshit crazy with a side of sociopath" comes into question. Falling into both categories often myself (depending on the phase of the moon and amount of wine I've consumed), I can agree that these are tricky waters to navigate.

No one wants to "accidentally" call the police on a world-famous performance artist, just as no one wants to "accidentally" end up dating an incontinent 85 year-old foot fetishist with mommy issues.

Let's take a few possible scenarios, where I will help you identify the little
"red flags", if you will, that separate the slightly wonky from the full-blown cookoo for Cocoa Puffs.



* When standing in line at the dollar store, if the woman behind you is wearing a parka on an 85-degree day and starts mumbling about what she's going to make for dinner, well then, what you've got yourself there is "quirky and odd".
If, that same woman standing behind you is mumbling about "the righteousness of the fucking and all the sex is the white trashiness of all evil" and you notice that they have, unfortunately, shat in their drawers while waiting in line to buy laxatives...well folks- you just stepped in a big ol' pile of crazy.


*If, while sitting on the bus, you notice someone picking/blowing their nose and then pausing to inspect the fruits of their labor after the fact, well that's just this side of quirky.
If, that same person picks their nose, then pulls out of their bag a canvas that has been smeared with many, many months of nose pickins and then leans over to ask if you enjoy fine art...
Crazy.
*If you see an elegant woman walking down the street in an evening gown, full jewelery and makeup and a mink stole while walking a cat on a leash, well- that's both amusing and photo-worthy- but really only falls into the "somewhat touched" category of things.
If, you see an unelegant man walking down the street in an evening gown, full jewelery and makeup with a mink stole while walking a squirrel on a leash and reciting the Declaration of Independence...
Yup. You guessed it.


*And, if you happen to see a marginally-attractive 30-something woman in a grocery store singing/meowing "Loving you" by Minnie Riperton quietly (including the high notes) while reading the labels on every single can of tuna, then walking to the deli and staring at the salads, then walking back to stand for 10 minutes in front of the tuna again just...deciding, and she happens to be wearing a coffee-stained sweatshirt, what appear to be pajama bottoms, and flip flops, and she occasionally breaks into a sad sort of "wiggle" dance, and she giggles a lot to herself, and her hair is neither curly nor straight but is instead "sturly" and in an awkward ponytail, and she smells strongly of Aveda products...well that's just textbook "interesting".
Really.
Not crazy, just "interesting."
Really.
Trust me.

If, that same woman then drops her shopping basket, screams "WHY ARE THE BIRDS MOCKING ME???", runs out of the store, drops her jammies to her ankles and pees on the sidewalk...
Well, to be honest I think she's just drunk. Someone get that poor woman a cup of coffee.



I hope this clears the air a bit for y'all. Now go forth armed with the knowledge I have given you and boldly and confidently be able to say, "You ma'am, are a quirky individual who is both creative and slightly odd. I can respect that"
versus
"You sir are an obvious psychopath and I fear for my safety being within 50 feet of you. Good day!"

Good day!

Because I haven't mentioned him in, like, 37 seconds.

Once upon a movie screen,
I saw a man, dark and lean.
Born an Englishman some years ago,
Your name Is Clive, which I love so.

Too bad you're married,
I missed my chance,
But hey, I'm married too,
let's take off our pants.

Our affair can be brief,
I'm o.k. with that.
Now get on the bed,
And no- I don't do scat*.



(*what did you think I meant, you dirty little birds?)

A love letter to a girl, in a totally not gay way.

Though most of you know this season we're in by the less exciting and non gift-related other name of "Spring", February-May marks the blessed season for me that I like to call "birthday season".

One of my sisters, my brother-in-law, my mother-in-law, two of my husband's friends and the most important ones of all: myself and my three closest girlfriends all have birthdays in this brief time span.
I love birthday season, because it means that me and my three girls- Waffle, Blondie and Hotpants- will get anywhere from 2-4 evenings with mostly just us , dinner, cocktails and fabulous gifts. Well, and maybe drunk hot tubbing- who can really predict these sorts of things?

Today, in particular, marks the glorious day when my girl Waffle was thrust into this world (cough) 37 years ago. I'm pretty sure the first words out of her mouth were "What are we doing tonight?"

When I first started hanging out with Waffle, around 6th grade, we shared a friend in common who happened to have the same name as me, however spelled a bit different. Let me tell you, having an odd number of friends in 6th grade was never a good idea. The other "Wiskeymarie" and myself fought constantly for the friendship of Waffle, yet we occasionally set aside our rivalry to band together to make fun of her too. I remember one time in particular, where she wrote a note to me that looked something like this:

Waffle was not fat, but for whatever reason we liked to depict her as such. We were assholes.

Eventually "Wiskeymarie" moved away, and Waffle and I became "BFF"s - mostly because we were misfits and didn't fit in with the "popular" kids anymore. We bought vintage dresses from Goodwill and fancy punk rock shoes from London. We listened to bands like Big Black, "old" and "New" Ministry, Fear, Christian Death, and the Dead Kennedys, but we still had a soft spot for the Violent Femmes, the Smiths, the B-52's and Dead or Alive.

We lusted after boys that had mohawks or otherwise "interesting" hair, we painted our fingernails all sorts of unnatural colors, and we stayed up late at each other's houses talking about this and that- but mostly itching to grow up and "be something" other than who we were and "go somewhere" other than our small-town hometown.

We suffered through unfortunate hairdos (at one point in early jr. high, her nickname was "pube", such was her love of the perm), broken hearts from unrequited loves, our first cigarettes, and many, many questionable 80's fashion choices.

We made it through prom:


And graduation:


And lived to tell about it. We were there for each other when our respective hymens were thrown to the wolves, and we dealt with all sorts of odd and interesting boyfriends through the years, including (but not limited to): tortured "artists", tortured "musicians", guys that should have sent our gaydar into overdrive, cheaters, drug-addicts, nice guys, assholes and the lucky gentlemen who we finally just told to suck it up and marry us.

She's a patient girl, that Waffle. She has put up with my moods, my whims, my bad judgment, my lofty ups and subterranean lows. She never judges, and is always game for a good time. Where I am whim and flights of fancy, she is smart, grounded and inquisitive. Where I am "let's just do this", she is "Let's just think about this a minute."
I show her that sometimes it's o.k. to just do things, and she shows me that sometimes it's a good idea to mull things over a bit and weigh the options.

I love all of my girls with the ferocity of a grizzly bear mother and would drive cross-country in a hurricane, blizzard and tornado to get them a cupcake, if they asked.

Waffle, though. Sometimes I think I owe her my life.


You don't read my blog- you think it's gross, which I find both pretty darn funny and more than slightly true.

But I still wanted to say happy birthday, my dear. I don't think I'd have made it this far without you.
XO

Yes, you're in the right place.

New look, for now.
Well, at least until I get bored and threaten to fall off of the face of the blogosphere again.

I'm full of idle threats that I subconsciously know I couldn't possibly follow through on- you should know that by now, my sweets. Have you learned nothing from our relationship?

XO

(And...as far as I can tell, I am now officially www.whiskeymarie.com. Change your link if you want, don't if you don't. Either way you'll end up here as blogger will graciously redirect you.)

Dry, two olives please. Fish on the side.

My book report of the 1965 Esquire Party Book (Illustrated by Seymour Chwast) for 35th grade English class, by Whiskeymarie VonPartypants:

Everyone in 1965 was drunk and they ate a lot of mayonnaise.

The end.


If, for some reason, you're interested in learning more than my comprehensive report provided about "throwin' a par-tay old-skool style", read on...







The party experts from 1965 land suggest packing beer for a breakfast picnic, as "it will separate the men from the boys all right."
Pictured as thus:


And they recommend taking your martinis to go, it seems. Mind the bumps, Speed Racer!



And even the 1965 family pets knew how to fix a mean cocktail, though they seem none too pleased about it.



Funny. I figured bulldogs as Scotch drinkers.


Esquire also wants you to be well prepared (pg. 92): "PLENTY OF CIGARETTES: Figure 3 per guest per hour, scattered about in small, sturdy containers in many places."

And, if you find you have time after your 4 pre-dinner soirée martinis, they recommend getting the dead fish for dinner drunk as well.






Happy Friday, my little codfishes marinated in tequila and served in an ashtray.
Happy Friday.

XO

And she never wore houndstooth again.

When I was 5 or 6 it was finally decreed that I would be allowed to dress myself.

One day, in late July I decided to take a bike ride to the convenience store a mile from our house. Serial killers and child molesters did not exist in the year 1976, so my parents did what any protective parent would: They gave me a dollar and let me hop on my bike and toodle down the country roads by myself.

It was approximately 125 degrees out on this particular day.

I chose a navy blue wool turtleneck, navy and white wool houndstooth bell-bottoms, thick socks and my black mary janes that closely resembled the orthopedic shoes that the kid with two different length legs had to wear (see left).


I hopped on my sparkly green hand-me-down banana seat bike, shoved that precious dollar in my pocket and was off.

By the end of our 1/4 mile-long driveway, I was sweating profusely . By the end of our road I was soaked through and probably smelling of ingested play-doh and grape kool-aid.
About halfway to the store...
it all went black.

I awoke in a stranger's house, a cloth on my head. Some strange lady was on the phone, talking to what I assumed to be my Mom. How she figured out who I was I will never know. I can only assume that she was a witch.

"She was in front of our house and just sort of tipped over. There was a stream of sweat running down the pavement from her head. She was dressed kind of warm for a day like today, don't you think? We'll keep her here until you can pick her up."

And I can remember that all I was thinking wasn't: "Where am I? Am I hurt? or, How come the people that live here are so clean?"

It was: "Damn. Now I won't get any candy."

The one where I reach out to the internets for love, sunshine, and...laughter.

So, y'all.

I'm a technotard.

Yup.

But I want a total blog overhaul, something that is not so "Blogger standard".

And I totally know that some of you are geeks of this nature (don't even try to hide it, geekwads).


If any of you lovely "blog-friendly" tech-y readers would like to give me an awesome new template, I would like to discuss options and compensation with you. E-mail me.

I gave myself an ultimatum: Either clean up and make this blog a bit less hee-haw hobaggy, or stop blogging altogether by my birthday, which (for those of you who haven't started shopping yet) is less than a month away.

Yes. I said it.

Either I "Set it" or I "Forget it".

Discuss.

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

Update: Starting any minute/day now, y'all will be automatically redirected to my new (!) address:
www.whiskeymarie.com
which I will keep for now (feel free to change the link if you want, but if not- no biggie as the redirection is automatic anyways). I am also looking into another fancypants blog hosting service, but I won't decide on that one for a week or two.
Here's the deal: If I can't find someone to do it for me for $$, I will attempt this myself one time. If they can teach cats to pee in a toilet, maybe I can teach myself to redesign my blog while hopefully not totally screwing it up.
Wish me luck, and I apologize in advance for any bumps in the road.
XO

Not to be confused with that broad from Nantucket

There once was a girl named Whiskey
She was smart, sassy and frisky
She had nothing to post
So she cooked up some toast
And then she went shopping.

Now you can say you learned something today, smartypants.

On this day in 1820 the Venus de Milo was found on the Aegean island of Melos.






















I like to think that if she had arms she would be carrying a smart looking Michael Kors handbag.

Space, and several things space-related.

Several relatively minor things:
1) When did I become "in control" of the "space-time continuum" I am associated with?
2) When did Saturn get so interesting?
3) Who trimmed my nether regions in such a haphazard and obviously drunken manner?
4) Is 4 glasses of wine too much?
5) Should I be as impressed with my shoes as I am right now?
6) Why do cat farts smell like cat food, but most people farts smell like garlic and onions?
7) Why does Ryan Seacrest have a viable career???

Help me, Obi-wan, you're my only hope.

Happy whatever the hell day this is..., my sweets.
XO

Cup of pudding, butt of pudding.

I have been owing my girl over at Wide Lawns this one for a while now. I volunteered to try out a recipe she found in the NY Times that appeared to be potentially delicious, and as you know- I'm always on board when the potential for deliciousness is present. Actually, I did have my students attempt this a while back, but something went horribly, horribly wrong and we shall never speak of "the custard incident of 2008" again.

I offered to do this like 6 years ago. Maybe 7, who can keep track? Speedy? Me? Not so much. Queen procrastinator? Present and accounted for, ma'am.

Today I finally got around to making it. To tell the truth, I was a little scared to make this and have it sitting around my house, knowing full well that within hours it would be contributing to the seemingly unstoppable widening of my badonkadonk. It combines two of my favorite things in the universe (if we take wine, cheese, sloth and magazines out of the equation): Caramel anything and butterscotch pudding. Oh, and it contains a ton of heavy cream, lots of sugar, a little booze and butter.

I give you...Butterscotch Budino with Caramel Sauce!

My mise en place:


Cooking the brown sugar caramel for the custard:

Pausing to take a look at my duckie whisk, which is surprisingly ergonomic.
And adorable.

After the cream and eggs are added, I cooked it to a pudding-like consistency, then strained it so there wouldn't be any lumps.

I made regular whipped cream to dallop, and I made an easier caramel sauce than the recipe called for, but overall it looks pretty damn delicious.
And adorable.

Smile pretty for the camera, Mister Puddingpants!

Holy balls.
I think this is what angels would taste like if we ground them up and made pudding out of them.


If you decide to make this recipe, it is a bit more involved than your average custard. E-mail me and I'll give you some pointers if you feel the burning desire to make this "so good that I'm all warm and tingly in my nether regions" dessert.

Diet, schmiet.
Maybe tomorrow...

Suck it, Rembrandt.

This morning, while out and about, I saw the most amazing thing. The kind of thing that never, ever just WALKS on by casually. The kind of thing that you see as stock footage on "Dateline". The kind of thing that makes you look twice and realize how happy you are to be alive and on a planet where these sorts of life-changing events take place.

The kind of events, that, if one were smart enough to put one's camera in one's damn purse then one could take a photo of the event for y'all.

But, OH FREAKING NO, I could not have the foresight to put my camera in my purse, so here is my best artistic re-creation of:

Two 60-70-something identical lady-twins with matching haircuts and outfits, matching bags, matching shoes and same exact body shape crossing the street today, walking in stride with one another:


I know, I'm wasting my time with this cooking thing- surely talent like this should be put on display!

I figured, why stop there? A talent like mine needs to be freed! Fly free my colored pencils! Go forth and create beauty for all!

Now (drumroll please), I give you-

The 2-liter of Mt. Dew wedged in the shrub in front of my neighbor's house:


And, what I consider one of my finest works-

Airborne Pooter playing with feathered thingy on a string attached to a stick that Whiskeymarie is wiggling back and forth over her head:


I've been moving in a bit of a different direction with my art these days. A little more minimalist, if you will. Years after I am dead and gone, art historians will refer to this as my "spirograph period".

Behold...

A study of wiggly circle-y thingies in blue and black:

Signed copies are available in the museum gift shop.

And, just think- you'll be able to say, "I knew her when".


Happy Friday, my little stick figures drawn on candy wrappers & splattered with squirrel feces in a protest of "conventional" art.

Happy Friday.

XO

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy...

Finally, a nice, sunny, springlike day.

We can all stop kicking puppies and throwing telephones at unsuspecting sales clerks and blaming it on our seasonal affective disorder. We can put away our woolies and snowsuits and boots and drag out the SPF 100 and flip flops. We can forage for the grill in the garage and have that discount hot dog and 'possum sausage BBQ we've been dying to host.

Sweet, sweet spring.

Now we can absorb all of the beauty and wonderment that the world has to offer, like this pretty red birdie.
"Hey hey red birdie! Tweet, tweet!"

And then...we can snap back to reality, look down and see the disgusting river of garbage that has been freed from its snow prison all these months.
"Bah! I'm done with this toothpaste! Where should I put the box? Hmmm...I know! I'll set it adrift on this river of runoff so that it may be reunited with its cardboard brethren someday in cardboard heaven. Bye-bye, sweet Colgate. Take Mr. coffee cup with you and Send pictures!"

I was totally looking for my rubber gloves and here they are! Sanitary, schmanitary. I've got some probing to do.


Happy spring?

Gertrude, take a memo, will you?

Dear dentist's office:

Calling me three times to confirm one measly appt. is not going to make me answer my phone. Seriously. You're starting to creep me out. Stop. Don't make me get my tazer out.

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

Dear Pooter, my beloved cat:

Quit shoving your butt in my face. I am not nearly as fascinated by it as you are. Damn cat-butt. And, on a related note- your breath stinks.

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

Dear Wednesday:

Show some initiative and be Friday already, you pathetic little underachiever.

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

Dear Whiskeymarie:

Picking at it only makes it worse, you know.


Sincerely,
Whiskeymarie

The one true sign of the Apocolypse.

Crap.
Crappety, crap, crap.
Crappety, crappety, crappety, crap, crap.

I'm pregnant.*














*happy April Fool's, suckas.

There's no fool like an April Fool.

Today would be my belated Grandma Martha's birthday.

People say I'm just like her, which I think is awesome.

My two favorite Martha-isms:

(talking about her new dog) "I named her 'PITA', because she's a Pain In The Ass."

and...

"I should have been a hooker. At least then I would have been paid for it."


Damn, I miss that old broad.

Happy b-day my dear.