Friday, May 30, 2008

Salve, ointment and various virility tonics.

So in a further effort to bring you all one step closer to coming to the doctor with me for my yearly, I thought I 'd go ahead and let you do what you know you'd do anyways if I invited you over for vodka, cake and competitive Yahtzee:

Go ahead, take a peek into my medicine cabinet.

You know you want to. I'd totally look in yours, given the opportunity.

C'mon- just take a quick peek- I didn't add anything, take anything out or even hide the drugs.

The cabinet itself is old, old, old. It is rusty, small and obviously not big enough. There is room for about 1/8 of my products, which makes me 7/8 more frustrated every damn day. If you look closely, there is a slot in the back that is labeled as a place to dispose of your old razor blades. But when we looked closer, we realized that basically the blades would get deposited into the wall itself. How odd. We are gutting the bathroom this summer, so I am fully prepared to find hundreds of rusty razor blades tucked into the wall. Again- how odd.

Top to bottom, a rundown of what's in there:

Top shelf, (l to r): old refillable perfume atomizer, behind that- a bottle of "Elvis" cologne I bought the Mr. as a joke a bajillion years ago. It smells like sweaty Elvis after a whole mess of peanut butter & banana sammies. Next, Allergy eye drops, Monkey band-aids, anti-gas pills (you laugh, but let me tell you- there is nothing you are more grateful to have after Mexican food and a few beers. Nothing.), Aveda lip gloss, Muscle relaxers (bet you thought I was always joking about those, huh?), Aveda makeup remover, Ativan (kind of like Valium lite) for when I fly, blister relief pads (these work wonders), two boxes of band-aids and a mini first aid kit for travel.

Middle row: Tinted moisturizer (Cover Girl) and a really old bottle of CoCo. Behind that, a bottle of perfume from Agnes B. that looks like those Russian nesting dolls and smells delicious and girly, Stick makeup for concealing flaws (as if I have any!), some Revlon makeup I hate and should toss, Victoria's Secret lip balm (not great, not bad), some crappy Revlon lip stain that I hate but haven't tossed, prescription eye drops, Agnes B. apricot complexion enhancer (Agnes B. no longer sells cosmetics in the U.S. so I am clinging to every last bit of this miracle cream), Too Faced lip gloss that looks amazing and tastes like cinnamon, miscellaneous eye shadows (Bibo, Clinique), Aveda toner, Cover Girl loose powder, Neosporin, and Nude colored Revlon Cream blush that I adore.

Bottom: three kinds of floss, Prescription nose spray, Crest toothpaste, anti-baby medication and some lemon-flavored toothpaste that I like but only use once in a while because it seems weird to not have your toothpaste be minty, but it's great to use if you're going to be eating right away as it doesn't interfere with the taste of food as much.

Close-up of my monkey band-aids:

I save them for "special occasion" cuts and burns.

I tiny peek at the horror that is my bathroom. I'll show you "before", "during" and "after" shots when the demolition starts, but here you can see the lovely color scheme: rust and vomity "flesh" color.
Tomorrow I'll let you peek into my sock drawer, and if you're good I'll show you my pantry, baby. Uh-huh. Oh yeah.

Happy Friday, my primped, preened and coiffed little monkeys. Happy Friday.


Wednesday, May 28, 2008

I'm #1, sucka!

Go ahead and Google "sexually active retirees" and see what pops up.

Oh yeah...

(I should also confess that if you Google "scat lovers unite" that you'll get the same result. Awesome.)

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Maybe next I'll see if Matlock is on...

This is pretty much what I've been doing all. day. long.

If any of you remember, we had a slight problem with our chimney a while back. Mostly, it was crumbling from the inside, spewing what I can only assume was asbestos-laden debris into our basement loudly every once in a while in what can best be described as "chimney farts". Basically, our chimney was dying a slow death that, based upon initial estimates, was going to cost us roughly around $5-6000.

Well, lucky for us we're procrastinators. We waited to fix it. And waited, and waited...
We waited so long that we decided to get a new estimate from someone else.
Today the chimney boys are fixing it in a much less invasive manner than previously discussed, and it is only costing us $1100.
(clinks glasses) Here's to procrastination!

But, if you've ever had a major repair done to your house, you know that the process can suck up an entire day, week, month or year. Today is that day for me. I can't really start any projects as I have to keep an eye out for the repair guys (they have been coming and going all day to allow certain substances drying time), I have to wrangle the cats into the front porch when they do come (pauses, gets up to open door for returning fix-it dudes), I have to be around to answer questions, and I have to monitor to make sure none of them accidentally come in through the front door and let the cats out.
So I've been sitting here at the computer (also watching TV) since 9:30-ish this morning.

A few things I've learned sitting here:
  • Charmed, the TV show SUCKS. Holy crap it sucks. The only saving grace to this suctacular piece of crapola is that I get occasional glimpses of the tasty Julian McMahon. Why I am not changing the channel is beyond me.
  • Chimney repair dudes can really harmonize. There are 3-4 of them down in the basement, and at one point they were singing a song to the tune of "under the boardwalk" but they sang the words "cutting the reeeeebar, down in the baaasement". It was awesome.
  • According to the chimney dudes, having a cat door to the basement is not that common. They asked many, many questions about it.
  • I have a seemingly unlimited capability for watching Law & Order reruns on TNT. Even the ones I've already seen 2 or 3 times.
  • It's perfectly o.k. to eat leftover pizza at 11:00 in the morning.
  • Planning home remodeling projects is not fun. At all. The word "tedious" comes to mind. This does not make me look forward to phase two of "Casa de Whiskey: Extremely extreme makeover". Stay tuned.

Man, I really need better cable- super duper ultra basic just doesn't cut it when you're sitting here for HOURS. Not that I don't appreciate a good Hallmark Channel movie, but...

If I'm still sitting here 6 hours from now poke me with a stick to make sure I'm not in a coma.

If I'm still here tomorrow send help. And magazines. And pudding. I like pudding.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Hangin' moderately tough, except on weekends and holidays.

Another glorious day off, another chance to get nothing of any substance done.
Could I be cleaning the garage? Sure.
Could I be editing my screenplay, "Murder, She Drunkenly Mumbled"? Yup. (I'm thinking it will be the perfect vehicle for either Sally Fields or Jessica Simpson- I can't decide.)
Could I be perfecting my clogging routine? Well, it could use some tweaking, that's for sure.
Could I be washing my pussy? (get your mind out of the gutter, perv.) Always.

Or, could I be cleaning this ever-present eyesore?

How about this one?


Instead I decided to revisit my former odd fascination with New Kids on the Block.

Yes, you heard right. New Kids on the Block (which, from here on will be referred to as NKotB. Word.)

What's that? You're saying, "But Whiskeymarie, surely you were far, far too old for NKotB to have been age-appropriate! Weren't you like, 35 when they were popular? Aren't you old enough to have sprouted one or more of them from your baby incubator?"

All valid questions.
All questions I am choosing to ignore right now, thank you very much.

Oddly enough, my disconcerting obsession with NKotB came YEARS after the 13 year-olds stopped squealing with glee and started right about when those same girls were awkwardly losing their precious virginity with some dude named Trevor in their dorm room Freshman year of College after a few Seagram's wine coolers.

Have you already forgotten how monumentally uncool I am? Why, oh why must I keep reminding you? Why?

It all started innocently enough. This NKotB obsession of mine.

  • I bought a t-shirt in the bargain, bargain, bargain bin somewhere for $4 as an ironic joke.
  • Then I got a VHS video. (Again, a joke.)
  • Then an orange plastic lunchbox with matching thermos. (Not "ha-ha" funny anymore. More "funny" funny.)
  • Then a sleeping bag. (Yeah- this is getting kind of creepy. Are you off your meds again Whiskey?)
  • Then some puzzles. (This is getting "intervention" wrong on 8 different levels.)

But my favorite thing(s) I got were thing(s) I actually used.


For some reason I can't find Donnie in my sock drawer right now. I think he ran off to reunite the Funky Bunch and take his bro's place as the front man.
We can hope anyways...

Here I'm having a make out 3-way with two of my boys:

Here I'm using the current popular vernacular, "Word." As in, "Word to your mother.":

Here I think I was doing some sort of interpretive dance to an Enya song?:

Let's pretend that last one isn't there for now, o.k? Good. Thanks.

I sold most of the crap/cherished memorabilia at various garage sales over the years, but I still have the socks. And, other than one I gave to this sassy broad, I still have two of the puzzles.

Here they are with Mr. T (a.k.a. "Mudbutt"):

What's that you say? You would like one of these 500-piece beauties for your own? You want to mount it on a board and hang it in your living room?
Just tell me why you should have one, and I'll randomly pick two of y'all lucky, lucky people to receive them.* (Well, I'll randomly pick two of you assuming that there is more than two of you that would actually want them.)
I will gladly mail them to you. Third runner up (again, if there is one) gets a mystery consolation prize. I promise it won't be anything gross or smelly.

Good luck?

*Disclaimer: 500 pieces not guaranteed. Winner must be willing to provide some sort of address to mail the fun to. "Fun" is a trademark of Whiskeymarie, Inc, and in no way implies that said recipient will experience "fun." Puzzle at your own risk, lifeguard not on duty.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Lady of leisure.

Beautiful day, no big plans. Just the way I like it.
What I've accomplished so far today (prepare to be dazzled):

Started off with a bowl of these-

Did the dishes (My kitchen is so old-school, we don't even have a dishwasher. The horror!)

Made a few calls. "Hello, Fernando? Are you there? I wish you'd stop ignoring me. I miss you and how you always smell so smoky. Call me!"

Tried to figure out how to entertain two bored cats. Decided to let them figure it out- I'm too busy trying to entertain myself.

I'm trying to work up the energy to finish a gardening project. What does my "Lady of the dirt" think? Yes? No? Whatever. She's too busy having a staring contest with the hosta.

The rhubarb is HUGE. Maybe today I'll make deep-dish rhubarb cake. Best. Cake. Ever. With a mountain of real whipped cream it's perfect. How does today's modern woman get ready for summer, a.k.a. "bikini season?" Answer: Cake. Lots and lots of cake.

I think rhubarb is so pretty.

And delicious! Don't eat too much raw rhubarb, Whiskey! You don't want to get a case of the "rhubarb quick-step!"
Seriously, though. Fresh-picked rhubarb dipped in sugar, for me, is one of the top tastes of summer here in MN. Nothing else tastes anything like it.

I mowed my lawn (the grass, dirty birds. Not that "mowing of the lawn". Get your head out of the gutter) for the first time ever yesterday. Yes, I know I should probably be embarrassed that we've lived here almost 9 years and I've never done this, but honestly I consider it a personal victory that I've somehow managed to convince the Mr. to do it all these years. Hey- I cook. We like our traditional gender roles here in the WM household. We're like a 1950's couple that way, including the martinis.
But, I fear I may never perform this macho act ever again, as my hard work was rewarded with this:


Now I'm off to do whatever: gardening, cooking, reading magazines, getting a pedicure...
With all of this time off I really am quite the good little housewife.

I could get used to this.

Happy Friday, my little strawberry-rhubarb pies with ice cream and love. Happy Friday.


Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Dating, mating and Whiskey: What's your name again?

In this, the ongoing series attempting to piece together the blurry fragments that were my dating years, I feel that perhaps it is time to tell you the story of how Mr. Whiskeymarie came to be.

First, his mommy met his daddy and fell in love. Then one day they decided to express that love in the way that only two married, consenting adults can...

Oops. I don't think we need to go back quite that far.

Let's start again, shall we?

Once upon a time there was a lovely girl named Whiskeymarie. Whiskey lived in the beautiful city of Duluth, Minnesota- home of Lake Superior, mid-priced chain hotels and R.T. Quinlan's bar. Whiskey was sharing an apartment on 3rd Street with Gustav, her on-again, off-again boyfriend that had moved from Minneapolis to Duluth in an attempt to reconstruct the shattered mess of their relationship that he had singlehandedly destroyed by cheating on the lovely Whiskey with a slutty girl named Allison.
Things with Whiskey and Gustav weren't going so well.
While Whiskey worked two jobs to try and pay the rent, bills and occasionally have a life, Gustav was unemployed (well, unless we can count the job he worked a few weeks at that he never actually got paid for) and spent the bulk of his day sitting on the couch playing Nintendo...

Whiskey was starting to feel as if her relationship with Gustav had run its course, a fact that she- for whatever reason- neglected to pass on to Gustav, who remained blissfully naked and oblivious.
Whiskey decided to dip her toes in the water and see what other viable pieces of man-meat there were in the city on the Lake before she kicked Gustav to the curb. A girl needs to keep her options open, you know?
Over the course of a few months, several potential suitors presented themselves. Whiskey gave each and every one a thorough audition, but none seemed to get her motor running the way that Levi did.
Levi was a tiny bit younger than Whiskey, with pretty ice-blue eyes and a reputation for being a bit of a ladies man. Whiskey was undaunted by this, and really took it as more of a "challenge" than a "red flashing light".

It was now Christmastime, and Whiskey and her friends were busy planning the yearly formal party that had been held for years at various locations. This year it was at a house on the hillside, hosted by a sort of stoner chick and her maybe-a-date-rapist roommate that we were all friendly with.
Whiskey had a sleek little black dress selected for the occasion (Donna Karan bought for a mere pittance) and was excited to finally get Gustav out of the house and into a social situation where he would be required to wear pants. Whiskey knew Levi would also be there, and she hoped that maybe the appearance of Gustav would drive him into a blind love-tizzy and he would be compelled to make her his.
The night of the party, Whiskey was almost ready, and looking quite me-ow in her dress and heels, but something didn't seem quite right. Why was Gustav still sitting on the couch watching TV? Why was he not getting ready, why was he not putting on that dashing vintage sharkskin suit that his amazing girlfriend had purchased for him?
So she asked, "what up, dog?" (o.k, maybe she said "what's the deal? Why aren't you getting ready?" but my version is so much more street, don't you think?)

The answer was NOT at ALL what Whiskey wanted to hear.

"I feel fat. I'm not going. You go and have fun without me. I don't want to go feeling fat" (pouty face)

Enter: Rage, confusion and wondering if maybe Gustav is actually gay.

After a brief "discussion", Whiskey stormed out and walked the few blocks to her girl Waffle's place for some pre-gaming.
A few vodka & kool-aids were consumed, then Blondie showed up with her boyfriend and her boyfriend's best friend, who for now we'll call "Bruce".

Bruce was VERY cute- kind of shaggy, olive skin and very engaging green eyes.

Whiskey was pouting to her friends, "Another year where I don't have a date, dammit! What kind of loser am I living with? What is wrong with me? Boo-hoo."

Blondie had an idea. "Hey, why doesn't Bruce be your date? There you go."

So it was decided that Bruce would be Whiskey's date for the evening.
Poor Bruce.

Whiskey had a grand old time at the party. When she wasn't busy sucking down sympathy drinks, she was trying to get Levi to make out with her and calling Bruce "Benny".

"Hey there Benny (stumble, slurring). Wass yer name again? Yeeerr cute."

Alas, that night Whiskey neither swapped spit with Levi (he made out with someone else) nor charmed the pants off of Bruce. She went home the next morning after crashing at Waffle's shamed, pissed off and once again sexually frustrated.

Flash forward to the past a few months. Easter is approaching, and Whiskey has convinced Gustav to move back to Minneapolis- though they haven't "technically" broken up yet, and maybe Gustav thinks that Whiskey is planning on moving too (Hey! before you judge, let it be known that this was the ONLY way to get him out. Seriously. He'd probably still be sitting there now, naked & playing Nintendo if I hadn't used this little "deception" tactic.)

Whiskey, feeling good about technically living alone- finally- goes out one Saturday for a friend's 21st birthday. After several drinky stops and the birthday boy's bar brawl (a stool was hurled through the air, we were kicked out) at the Anchor, they end up at a cheesy white-trash dance "club" in Superior, WI.
Whiskey is feeling bold and sassy in her short, pleated Esprit skirt, baby tee shirt, white anklets and black clunky mary janes. She's needing a little "attention" from the male of our species, if you catch my drift. She spies a familiar looking boy across the room- tall, olive skin, longish "grunge" hair...

Boldly she walks up and starts conversation.
Whiskey holds nothing back. She shamelessly flirts, bums cigarettes (even though she doesn't smoke) and decides that she will NOT be going home alone tonight- Bruce is just going to have to suck it up and do his duty as a man.
Bruce is basically ordered by Whiskey to ditch his group and join hers as they are going to an after-bar party near her place back in Duluth. Like a good, smart boy, Bruce agrees.
They stayed at the party a bit, but lust and curiosity soon got the best of them. And hey, Whiskey points out, my place is just a few blocks! Why don't we ditch this party and go somewhere more "comfortable?"

(cue music) "Bow-bow-chicka-bow..."

(Really, it wasn't like you think. And no, I'm not giving details. And yes, I made him coffee in the morning)

*Our 1st New Year's when we were dating, Jan 1, 1995

Sunday a.m, Whiskey starts to panic a little that Gustav may make a surprise appearance as he still has a ton of his stuff there and has mentioned "picking it up one of these weekends". Bruce calls his brother for a ride. Pleasantries are exchanged, and Bruce leaves. No future plans are made.

Summer comes, Bruce is back in town from school (Minneapolis), Gustav has finally been 86'd, and then- finally- the dating begins, and the rest is history.
The end.

So yes- I picked my now-husband up in a nasty bar and took him home with me.

How romantic.

But, it did make for a very interesting entry in the wedding album.

Monday, May 19, 2008

In my opinion...

Things that-I believe- are overrated:
  • Energy drinks
  • Roses
  • "fun size" candy bars
  • SNL
  • ice cream
  • sensible shoes
  • American Idol
  • doing shots
  • dinner
  • Franzl Lang
  • nose-picking
  • well-manicured lawns
  • tits
  • diamonds
  • low-carb/no-carb
  • flawless skin, tans
  • puppies
  • dignified banter
  • over-scheduling
  • driving
  • telephones
  • order

Things that are underrated:
  • plain, black coffee
  • lilies
  • "King Size" candy bars
  • MadTV
  • cake
  • goldfish shoes
  • The "LOCKUP" series on MSNBC
  • cold, cheap beer on a warm day
  • breakfast/brunch
  • Slim Whitman
  • sinus-clearing, tremor-inducing nose-blowing
  • dandelions
  • the word "tits"
  • glitter (the sparkles, not the movie)
  • warm french bread with cold, real butter
  • scars, freckles
  • monkeys
  • loud, fist-shaking arguments
  • under-scheduling
  • walking
  • letters
  • chaos

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Let's talk about the weather, 'cause lord knows THAT'S always interesting.

Though it isn't nearly as warm today (low 60's vs. high 70's), I still have one more afternoon in which my ass needs to be firmly planted in a chair on a patio somewhere sipping some sort of libation.

Maybe later?

Hey, cut me some slack- we get maybe 4 weekends a spring/summer that aren't either cold and damp enough to make you feel like you are living in the basement of a water treatment facility in Northernmost Canada, or so ungodly hot and humid that mold starts spontaneously growing from one's armpits.

I know you'd understand. We can kiss and make up later...


Friday, May 16, 2008

Sunshine: 1, Blog: 0

It's 78 degrees here right now.

No freaking way I'm staying in sitting at the com-pu-tor.

I love, love, love y'all, but I'm trying to make the most of this perfect MN day. When else am I going to get the chance to scare the neighbors by wearing shorts?

Already today I have: kickboxed, forced the cats outside (and very reluctantly at that based on the guttural noises they were making), had lunch on the patio of this place for the second time in as many days, gotten sunburnt and eaten cookies.

Still to do: Gardening, attending a school function, hopefully some sort of fruity cocktail(s), eating more cookies, hopefully a bike ride and maybe grilling.

Happy Friday, my furry little sun-warmed kitty toushies. Happy Friday.


Thursday, May 15, 2008

Fluff piece, not to be confused with "fluffer", which is something else entirely.

Beautiful day.

I took my tried and true 1960-something 1 speeder, Ethel, out for a nice long spin today.
Here she is, parked in the garage.

I wanted to take her younger (70's) brother, Gary, out instead as he has three speeds (!), a bell and a nifty basket on his booty, but if you look closely you can see that he is having some chain "issues".
So, Ethel and I tooled around the neighborhood, went downtown, and scared the shit out of a hobo sleeping on the pike path. Sorry, Mr. hobo dude.

Ethel and I discussed things, and we agreed that making these for the BBQ at J2's house tonight was a good idea:

Would you like one?
I have been told that my choco chip cookies are quite possibly the world's best.
Braggart? Indeed. But I spent a looooong time perfecting them, so I feel entitled to brag, brag, brag away.

I don't keep the recipe locked in a special compartment in my chastity belt, so here you go:

Whiskeymarie's Fucking Awesome Chocolate Chip Cookies:

1c. softened butter (read that? It says BUTTER. Not margarine, not Shedd's spread country crock. BUTTER. Make sure it's room temp or you'll be sorry.)
1c. dark brown sugar, packed (you can use light brown, but try the dark. You won't regret it.)
3/4 c. regular old white granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 Tablespoon vanilla (yes, you read that right. I tablespoon. I know it seems like a lot, but humor me. Also, try using the real stuff if you can, not the imitation. You can get it cheap at Costco. It makes a big difference.)
2 large eggs
3 c. all-purpose flour (measure this accurately. Don't "eyeball" it.)
12-oz bag MILK chocolate chips (I prefer Guylian as the chips are bigger, but Ghirardelli or any other "good" kind will do. Don't go and cheap out on the chocolate.)

If you have a mixer, use it (using the paddle), otherwise you can do this by hand too.
Cream together the butter, sugars, salt, soda and vanilla (if you are using a mixer, usually 2-3 minutes is fine, by hand it'll be 4-5 minutes. Yes, your arm will get tired.)
Add the eggs one at a time and incorporate thoroughly.

Add the flour and mix until everything is just incorporated (if you are using a mixer, pulse it on and off at first or you'll have a big-assed mess. Also, when using the mixer, I mix on low until the flour is sort of "halfway" combined, and then I add the chips so they don't get all smooshed up. If mixing by hand add the chips with the flour.)

Drop by heaping tablespoons onto an ungreased baking sheet, then flatten slightly with the palm of your hand.

Bake at 350 degrees until just lightly browned (they will look puffy). Let rest only about 10-15 seconds, then remove from the sheet to cool.

Eat em' up. You can also add 3/4 c. chopped nuts (when you add the chips) to this if you're into bastardizing recipes like that. Any other alterations/substitutions and I cannot guarantee the fucking awesomeness of the cookies. Just follow the damn recipe, will you?'re welcome.

Happy Thursday, my ooey, gooey chippy morsels of love. Happy Thursday.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Authorities raid home, monkey missing.

Dateline, Saint Paul 8:13a.m:

Authorities were called early Tuesday morning to the palatial estate of local recluse Whiskeymarie VonPartypants after being alerted of an odor that was described by Ms. VonPartypants' neighbor, Ms. Ida Shrivelface as "closely resembling what I imagine Satan's bunghole would smell like." Upon entry into the mansion, Police described the scene as "Deplorable. Just really, really gross." Officer Kenneth Horseknocker states: "I wouldn't let my dog take a crap on the kitchen table- it's that bad."

What officers found was the stuff of nightmares: Mountains of dirty dishes, what appears to be three years' worth of laundry, magazines and papers stacked waist-high, tumbleweeds made entirely of cat and human hair, unpacked luggage, food remnants on every conceivable surface, cat toys strewn about, a refrigerator full of nothing but outdated condiments, clothing draped over every available chair, a room vaguely resembling a dungeon in the basement, an average of sixteen inches of dust covering most everything, and a garage packed so full of junk that the front door was bulging and threatening to explode. Ms. VonPartypants' cats, however, seemed healthy and happy.

Officers located Ms. Partypants in the dank corner of one of the guestrooms, huddled with her laptop computer and wearing a burlap sack as a dress, ripped pantyhose, winter boots and a pillbox hat. She appeared to be disoriented and she was described by Sgt. Rod Hammer as "really liquored up. She kept mumbling 'happy monkey, happy monkey' over and over. We're still not sure what the heck she meant by that, but we're currently searching for her pet Orangutan 'Sir Rosybottom' as he seems to be missing." Police have alerted the neighbors to the monkey's presence and encourage anyone with information to call police immediately and please don't feed Sir Rosybottom after dark.

Ms. VonPartypants was placed in a private rehabilitation clinic where she is currently being treated. Reporters caught a glimpse of Ms. VonPartypants as she was leaving her transcendental meditation for obsessive-compulsives therapy and was going for a Starbucks. When asked to comment on the deplorable conditions of her home, she replied, "S**t! They didn't throw away my collection of wadded up kleenexes, did they? Dammit! Wait! I mean, comment." She then ran into the coffee shop and proceeded to shave her head with a vegetable peeler.

Authorities from the beautiful city of St. Paul's housing authority have seized the home and assets of Ms. VonPartypants and plan on razing the estate to make room for a mid-priced condominium development and shooting range.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Taste so good, make a grown man cry...

I'm not sure what's more disturbing:

a) The fact that "we" are now the "proud" owners of our own Guitar Hero game...

b) The mini-panic attack that set in when I thought for a split second that this game was my UPS-delayed mystery belated birthday gift...


c) Watching Mr. Whiskeymarie play Warrant's "Cherry Pie" and hearing him say "I played this one just for you".

Ms. Winehouse, meet Ms. VonPartypants. It seems you two have more in common than just the occasional bad hair day.

So I'm sure some of you out there are asking yourselves, "Where did Whiskeymarie go? Does she hate us? Does she hate fun? Is she in detox again?"

Quick answers: Nowhere (except a quick jaunt to Duluth, MN), No- I love you so much sometimes I lick the screen, Only when fun hurts, and not this time- though my punch card is finally full and I've got a free visit coming!

Oddly enough, where my life usually finds me debating which activity will fill my day- Competitive nose-picking vs. Competitive ass-sitting- I have actually been a busy, busy girl this past week.

A brief rundown lest you don't believe my normally wildly exaggerated claims of "having a life":

Get up, eat, work out, shower, get dressed and decide to go shopping for birthday gifts for Saturday's belated b-day festivities in Duluth. Also decide to forgo my usual outfit of jeans, a t-shirt, flip-flops and a ponytail and wear something cute. I toss on a skirt, a t-shirt, flip-flops and a ponytail. Oh, and adorable red wedgie heels that I have only worn twice before.
Go to Rosedale mall feeling marginally attractive, put together and ready for the day. Start shopping.
10 minutes in, I feel something "pop" on my right shoe. I look down and notice that the strap is busted.
Damn you, cute but really, really cheap shoes.

Realize they can't be salvaged, start looking for a new pair. Quickly. Find $20 pair of red wedgies that will do for now:
Go back to shopping.
10 minutes later- yes TEN minutes- my feet are killing me. I look down and notice that I have matching bloody blisters the size of a dime on both feet. Bloody. TEN minutes.
Start looking for ANOTHER pair (and no, it does not occur to me to return the blister-makers. Can one return slightly-worn, now bloodied shoes anyways?)
Find #2 at DSW Shoes for $40. They are the kind of shoes that a 20 year-old heavily tattooed slightly goth girl named "Violet" would wear, but I don't care as they are cute and seemingly comfortable, however age-inappropriate:

10 minutes later, they are falling off of my feet. The straps seem to be allergic to my heels and are rebelling.
I have, at this point, also purchased one of the gifts, which happened to be a cast-iron roasting pan that weighed approximately 68 pounds.
So here I am hobbling through the mall, lopsided from the bag of cast iron, sweating, with bloody band-aids that I scammed from the coffee girl hanging off my feet, clutching my iced latte and wondering why I even bother to leave the house. Ever.

Go to work, eat my salad for lunch, get through the day.

After work, my gal Waffle calls. She is in town for work all week and do I want to get a drinkie tonight?
I agree, thinking that we will have a civilized glass of wine, some lively discussion and a reasonable bedtime.
One glass of wine leads to five, The hotel bar leads to:
1) a 50-something guy who looks like Dr. Phil and talks like Paula Deen and seems to have endless stories about his anal polyps joining us.
2) a bar where the impossibly hot women bartenders work in what appears to be fairly skimpy boy short unders and tight t-shirts. That's it.
3) A gay bar that I only have a cloudy recollection of actually going to.
4) Crashing at Waffle's hotel, but only after drunkenly wandering in the hotel hallway after sending waffle to get chips out of the vending machine.
5) Wake up after 2.5 hours of sleep, fully clothed, fully makeupped, fully hung over.

Which brings us to...
Wake up hungover in Waffle's hotel room. Get car, get coffee, go home.
Crash on couch for a while until the Mr. comes home early and laughs at me. Realize I need to finish my birthday shopping as this is my last chance to do so. Go upstairs and crash in bed with the cats for a bit to think about it.
Shower, get dressed: Jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, ponytail and big, dark sunglasses.

Drive to Woodbury to get these for my girl Waffle:

Get Chipotle burrito and giant Dr. Pepper, go to work.

Hardest day at work- EVER. My hangover, which seemed manageable at first, has morphed through the day into something that makes me want to extricate my own eyeballs with rusty forks. No amount of beverages consumed or cheese eaten is helping. I sigh heavily and repeatedly. The 47 Excedrin taken throughout the day make a small dent, but being at home in bed would be better. Also, my allergies picked this day to go totally freaking haywire on me and my nose/sinuses feel as if bugs were jell-o wrestling in them. I sneeze every 3.5 seconds, in-between sips of more Dr. Pepper.
8:45- finish work finally, go home. Order Pizza Luce', take a benadryl and settle into the couch.
Fall into a coma.

Had gone to sleep Friday night thinking that I'd wake up Saturday feeling great, but instead some sort of flu-like thing has taken over my body. I hurt down to my bone marrow. I know I can't cancel on the Duluth trip, so I rally myself, get up, get dressed and go to breakfast.

Finish some last-minute shopping, wrap gifts, pack & hit the road for the 2+ hour drive North.

Briefly visit with the in-laws, head to Waffle's house to get ready for dinner & whatever else.

Dinner is here. Good, not great. I ordered the lamb, got excited to eat the lamb, thought about the lamb for a while after the waitress left, hoped the lamb would be delicious...
then she comes back and tells me the bad news: No lamb.
I order a steak au poivre for double the price of my original choice, and it's just o.k.
Not terrible, but it wasn't the lamb I wanted so badly at that point that I was making little "baaaaa..." noises.
Drinks afterwards at Quinlan's where I see this lovely girl and her charming gentleman friend, but only after sitting, confused, listening to one of my ex-boyfriends who is what I would delicately call "not real smart" drunkenly try and carry on a conversation with us that consisted of random sentences seemingly put together by monkeys:
"I got new shoes. Have you seen that one movie with that tall guy? That boat was cool. I haven't seen you in years- why aren't you wearing makeup? Pants! I ran into Bob yesterday. Fuckers stole my beer. Woo-hoo!"

We fairly soberly returned to Waffle's abode after that, opened the awesomely awesome gifts (my girls give very wonderful and slightly extravagant gifts for b-days. It's actually gotten a bit out of hand. Next year I expect to get my own gold-plated helper monkey), then retired to the basement- also known as "Waffle's husbands bar".
I have expressed my issues with "WH's bar". Mainly that it NEVER CLOSES. Plus, their basement is nicer than most people's houses: totally finished, pimped out, fully stocked bar, giant-screen Wii, hot tub, clean and gorgeous bathroom, great sound system for shaking of the booty, and snacks. Why would we go anywhere else?
We stayed up until 3:30 A.M- Mr. WM becoming our own little "Guitar hero", and me taking turns between the massage chair and playing DJ Jazzy Whitegirl.

Enter hangover #2.

Get up, down copious amounts of water and advil. Get dressed, go to in-laws.

I was under the impression that we would probably possibly be going out for brunch. Unfortunately for me It was decided that we (read: I) would be cooking breakfast for everyone. I knew this was a remote possibility as it had been briefly discussed at one point earlier in the week, but I wrote it off as wildly misguided speculation, much like global warming.

Cooking eggs with a hangover. Ugh. Not my best work, but I got through it without throwing up. Happy Mother's day, Mom to Mr. WM!

Drive the 2+ hour drive home, super excited to see the cats as sad and pathetic as that is. We, in fact, discuss on the drive home what good caretakers we are to our feline friends and how we spoil them so.
We are idiots.

Open the door expecting to see TWO cats meowing for "squishy food".
Just one.
Where's Pooter? I can't find Pooter!

I hear a faint meowing coming from the front of the house.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

I accidentally locked her in the front porch with no food, no water, and most importantly- no litter box- for about 34 hours. This after we (read: Mr. WM) accidentally locked her in our VERY small and kind of chilly pantry overnight once.
I/we suck and should not be allowed to care for pets, it seems.

Then a few hours later I accidentally jabbed her in the face hard with my hand whilst trying to smother her with love to make up for me locking her up like a kidnapping victim and forcing her to poop on the floor.

Once I finished reporting myself to PETA, I made dinner (what I like to call fancy taco night) and we finished the day watching the Trailer Park Boys movie.

I'm back, kidlins. And after today I have buckets upon buckets of free time.
Watch out.


Sunday, May 11, 2008

When bloggers collide, part deux.

Look who I ran into in a bar in Duluth, MN! And this guy too!

I catch you up on the rest of the details of my weekend, etc... as soon as I find my pants.


Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Posting about posting, the lamest of the lame.

When I win the lottery (and you know I will), I will have nothing but free time to post about how my butler had the nerve to polish the gold-plated walls with bargain gold polish, or I will tell you about how myself and the Countess DePoontaner shared a larf over poor people actually filling their own gas tanks when the rest of us have Oompa Loompas to do such things.
But until then, I will be toiling away at work like a jackass, and having a busy busy busy week that leaves me with little to no time to spend with y'all.
You will have to wait a few days for more exciting posts.
Some of the possible topics I will be covering then:
"Does this smell funny to you?
"Whiskeymarie's all pork diet. Eat your way to a swarthier complexion!"
"Did I ever tell you about that time at the butt doctor?"
"How to make dinner using only an onion, gummy bears, Cap'n Crunch and vienna sausages."
"Easy & fun surgical procedures to try at home!"
"Losin' it: the WM virginity chronicles"
"Watch me stick inanimate objects in my nose!"
"The Whiskeymarie summer olympics! Saint Paul '08!"
The anticipation is killing me too...
Happy Wednesday, my little honey-coated chubby and adorable bumblebees. Happy Wednesday.
Oh, and p.s- Thank you ALL for the lovely b-day messages & e-mails. Man, I love you guys.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Girls, cake, and butts.

Busy busy day ahead of me, no time for much of a post, quick update on the weekend's activities:

Birthday dinner Saturday night was at Masa in downtown Minneapolis. Good, but for the $$ it could have been better. Still- nice atmosphere, good people watching and I left stuffed to the gills.

What was left of my mole chicken:

Happy happy tres leches!

Afterward, I met up with two of my favorite bloggers at a quaint tavern in the warehouse district. Hey, Flenker! Hey, h! (h is a little camera-shy).

Our friends D and J (who requested that his blog name be changed to "pious Prius"- the committee is mulling this over and will have an answer in 4-6 weeks) had joined us this lovely evening, and someone felt it necessary to take a crotch shot:

Flenker with his patented "thumbs up!" H is showing her support of the gesture as well.

47 cocktails later I was drunkety, drunk drunk and it was time to get the old birthday girl back to her rocking chair. Sorry I bailed a bit early guys, but it was great to finally meet! Next time, though- we go somewhere a little quieter so we can chat a bit more. Yelling "WHAT?" and "EXCUSE ME?" doesn't give me a chance to fully unleash the wonder that is WM. But still, I'm really glad we finally met.

Sunday, I unexpectedly found myself with a clear calendar, so I went to the MOA by myself to get my shop on.
On the escalator, I stealthily took a picture of a dude with a girl butt. In person it was much more defined and scary. I also feel that I should get extra stealth points for successfully taking a picture of a stranger's (who was less than 5 feet away from me) ass without them noticing.

Tee hee.
Girl butt.

Gotta go, my dears. I promise a better post tomorrow. Now I have to work.


Saturday, May 3, 2008

Just call me Beatrice. Or Estelle. Or Betty...

As I plan on possibly being mildly to moderately hung over tomorrow morning (I'm meeting/meeting up with fellow bloggers Flenker and h tonight- let's see what happens when bloggers collide!) and I'll probably be too drunk the rest of the day to type...

Make me feel better about turning 37 tomorrow than I do right now.

Damn, when did I get so old and who let all these hoodlums and whippersnappers in?
I'm going to the icebox for a libation and possibly a nice supper.

*click the pic to see my awesome pedicure.

Anyone for a game of shuffleboard later? How about a rousing round of Canasta? Could someone stop by Walgreens and get me a pair of those support hose I like so much? Does this look like a goiter to you? Don't you have something mushy to eat? Why are my boobs touching my bellybutton? Do you have any bunion pads? No? How about hemorrhoid cream? Is my Hoveround out of the shop yet? Where's that mailman? Is Matlock on? Do you have any of those hard candies I like so much? Forty three dollars? For a pair of shoes? Have you seen my teeth? Does this cat sweatshirt match these stretchy pants? How about the metallic tennies? Do those work with my outfit? Why does my colon hurt? Want to go out and catch the early bird $4.95 salisbury steak special down at the Sizzler? Is my toupee' on straight? I seem to have misplaced my vagina- have you seen it?

Next thing you know, I'll be 38. Then, of course- 39 is right around the corner. And then...

Then I'll be 29 again.

I love how that works. My birthdays, my rules.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Dear Whiskey...

Over here at the Von Partypants house we seem to be literally drowning in fan mail these days. Letters, e-mails, postcards and something that seems to be a blow-up love doll (?) have all been shoved through my mail slot (that's what she said!). It seems you all have so very many questions that demand answers when it comes to all things Whiskey-related.

Today, as my brain is fried from an unusually busy week where I actually find myself working eight hours at a stretch each day (feel free to weep for me), I thought I'd give some of them a shot.

#1 comes from a fan living in Minnesota's farmy neighbor, Iowa. I've been to Iowa. Yup.

Well Wendi, first off- I refer to them as my "big-assed mitts", thank you very much. Second, when I was born my doctors discovered that I carried the gene known as BAH-34. BAH-34 is a rare gene mutation found in one out of every 2,567,348,298 females born in the world. BAH-34 causes females, normally known for their dainty and delicate hands with nails painted in lively colors, to develop what are called "man hands". These women are able to crush more delicate hands in seconds with their vice-like grip and thumbs that resemble big toes.

In many lesser-developed countries, women born with this mutation are revered as goddesses and are allowed to enjoy a stable of their villages' finest young men for potential procreation. We here in the U.S. that have this mutation are currently lobbying in Washington to have the same rights that our third-world sisters enjoy extended to us.

Letter #2 comes from what appears to be a long-lost relative of mine on the East coast:

Well, Percy- you may have noticed that I'm already married. That being said, I guess I would entertain the idea of marrying a relative if the money were right. From the sound of it though, you are looking to hitch your wagon to a sugar mama, and unless you count a really big jar of nickels and a relatively impressive collection of fine velvet paintings as a "trust fund" you, my man, are S.O.L. Godspeed in your quest to find a questionable mate, Percy. Godspeed.


Um, I guess this one isn't so much "fan mail" as "angry notes left on my windshield". Oops.

Moving on...

#4 comes from what I believe to be my first fetish stalker:

Shorty, I know I let you do it once, but letting you do it twice would be unseemly, at best. While I revel in the ugly appendages that reside at the ends of my legs and regularly post photos of them (much to the delight of my readers, I'm sure), letting you lick them again is out of the question. Go find yourself someone who likes to squish doggy poo-poo between their toes and marry them. Seriously. One more letter and you sir have a restraining order in your future. Don't be this guy.

Letter #5 comes from one of my incarcerated fans. Turns out I'm big in maximum-security prisons- who knew?

Earl, I'm a bit confused here. Do you wish you had a monkey, or do you wish you had a monkey's butt? Both are desirable, but perhaps you could clarify. I looked Earl up on the com-pu-tor, and it turns out he's serving 14 consecutive life sentences in Alabama for taking an ax to a busload of members of the Mannheim Steamroller fan club. When asked why he did it, Earl said "I owed it to the rest of the world to take these monsters out".
Fair enough, Earl.

Finally- some of you have asked me for cooking advice over the years. I give out recipes, helpful hints, and useful suggestions in order to help you be better cooks. I like to think that I know what I'm doing, this being my "profession" and me being a "professional" and all.

Sometimes, though...

Sorry Sally.
I'd send you a bundt cake as an apology, but since you don't seem to have a house anymore...

Happy Friday, my little quill-wielding, letter-writing balls of white-hot rage. Happy Friday.