Me and my hole.

Did y'all have a nice weekend?

Mine was busy- working Friday night, a quick trip to Duluth to see if one can poison one's digestive tract through systematic overconsumption of Pizza, cheese and "chippy" things...

And this:






I helped dig a big hole.


Insert joke here________.













Do I know how to live large or what? I doubt he'll let me post it, but I took a little film of my Mr. pulverizing some of the giant rocks we had to dig out with a pickaxe while "Sail Away" by STYX played loudly in the background and my retardedly drunk neighbor worked on the engine of his truck which, I shit you not, burst into flames when he tried to start it later (and drunkier) in the day. Oh, and after he made me & the Mr. walk over to the back of the yard so he could tell us a joke about old people and blow jobs.

Good times.


Maybe next weekend I can do something REALLY exciting, like tiling the basement floor.





Woo. Hoo.

Happy Monday, my little chunks of gravel-coated yard dirt. Happy Monday.

XO

And how did YOU spend your Friday morning?

So, I find myself with a bit of morning free time on my hands (a.k.a. time I should be catching up on work, cleaning, laundry, personal grooming and bettering myself through singing disco songs with my cats), so I says to myself, "Self, it's that time of year again, you know. Fall is upon us, and with Fall comes that blessed of all holidays. You know, the one where a savior was born in a barn in a remote area, and that savior went on to lead us all into a golden age of wisdom, self-fulfillment, compassion and dressing up in costumes on a weekday for fun."

"Oh yeah!" I said to myself (for some reason I was also saying this in Carol Channing's voice, but that's neither here nor there), "It's time for nachos!"

Sigh.

No, dummy.

It's time for me to once again help you plan for the blasphemous and satanic holiday known as Hallo-freaking-ween, folks.

Don't you know it, here we are again with Part one of this year's...

"Give me 20 minutes and I'll show you the world" Halloween costume ideas!!!!

Some of you know the rules- I will give you costume ideas based on two guidelines:
a) Must be completely assembled in 20 minutes or less.
b) Have to be made of things already in my house.

Last year had some doozies, but I think this year is off to a strong start.


First in line:

I have, at certain points in my life, been called a, displayed behavior becoming, and very loudly called others an Asshat.

Today I give you...

Asshat!


All you need is a pair of control-top pantyhose or a pair of those Spanx shorts thingies stuffed with an everyday throw pillow insert. Feel free to embellish with streamers of toilet paper and smears of chocolate, if you're going to that sort of party. It took me the full 20 minutes to engineer this thing on my noggin, so I was unable to gussy it up too much.

Next up-

As you all know (and are bored to tears by), I gave birth to two beautiful children this past year. The doctors seemed surprised when they were covered with black hair and seemed to have whiskers, but dammit- they're my babies, and I will love them and nurture them and teach them to hold their heads high when the other kids call them "pussies" at school.

These new additions to my life have influenced my costume choices this year, as you will see.

Imagine my surprise when, poof! Out of the blue, and in a cloud of smoke...

I was paid a visit by none other than:
Turderella, queen of the clumping cat-litter fairies!

Turderella travels the world scooping litter boxes, pulling out clumps that are sometimes bigger than your average Idaho potato, sometimes as small as a gummi bear. Her scooping abilities are the best in the world, she has no equal.

I killed two birds with one stone with this costume, as today is recycling day and I needed to break down the cardboard boxes anyways. The turd is a brown shirt wrapped around a crumpled paper bag with packing peanuts ("litter") as garnish.

Lastly (for today, anyways), I have recieved numerous requests from my male (and some of my female) readers to post pornographic photographs of myself.

Well, I'm no prude, as you well know by now. But, I do have at least the tiniest smidgen of class (It's buried underneath the blob of undigested marshmallows somewhere in my lower intestine, I think).

Fine.

I'll give it to you, but be warned- this is full-frontal, uncensored and totally going to get me in trouble with Blogger.

Don't say I don't give my all for y'all.

Here we go...
.
.
.
.
.
I give you...
.
.
.
.
.
.
Me, "NUDE"!


Here's the one I'm sending to Hustler with my application:

You're welcome. And um...no, those totally aren't underwear on my head. Nope.


Stay tuned for part 2 and possibly three. Now I have to go and be an upright citizen at work.

Happy Friday, my rhinestone-embellished, tights-wearing, clown-makeupped little whateverthehellyouares. Happy Friday.

XO

If it's "hump day" how come no one's humping me?

Random updates, in bullet form so as not to cause recurring warts:

• The Mr. declared our new fancypants washer and dryer to be "hands-down, the best purchase we've made. Ever." I guess our house, our wedding bands and Larry, the hobo we purchased on the black market for thirty-five cents and a pack of Old Golds mean nothing to him. Ingrate.
• Once again I have proven why the Government chose to deem me (via certified letter) "unfit for being in charge of/overseeing/minding the cage of any living being under the age of 45" by accidentally locking Trouble in our tiny back porch all night last night. In case you're keeping score, this is the third time we have unknowingly imprisoned our furry little turd factories. Don't be surprised if I'm on the new season of "Animal Cops".
• Two new lights installed in the ongoing series "Operation Fix this Fucking House":

The entry light that I am in deep, tingly love with. It's hand-blown, swirly, blood-red glass that looks amazing at night:


And our dining room light. The glass drum in about 1/2" thick and the whole thing weighs about as much as a case of severed human feet, which if you are unaware, weighs about 40 pounds. Please ignore the manky ceiling as we haven't got that far yet:

I'm going to pretend that my semi-sexual love of these lights makes up for the fact that our electrician "accidentally" ripped out our perfectly lovely 40's retro kitchen light (that he and I had JUST discussed and I told him I wanted to keep it rather than try to find a new one right now) and replaced it with a $12 shit light that we had purchased (and clearly labeled as such) for the top of the basement stairs. I'm just telling myself that he was drunk.

• I threw out a bunch of crap we had stored in our old IKEA coffee table that has now moved on to greener pastures at a friend's house in Minneapolis. Included in all of the stuff we HAD to hold on to for several years:

A huge stack of magazines from 2005-6 (on a side note: I have subscribed to Harper's for many years now, yet I have actually made it through .06% of them. I think I felt that I needed it to balance out my Interview, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Marie Claire and Domino consumption. I don't want my mailman to think that I'm shallow.):

Packets that I thought at first might be lube (and was wondering what happens at home when I'm not there as this stuff was in the living room) but turns out is just eyeglass lens cleaner wipes:


I kept these, however, as I have an unhealthy obsession with old magazines and newspapers:


And I kept these because NO ONE gets to touch my electronic Yahtzee game, and I can appreciate a good Stud. Really, who doesn't?:

But this next thing? I have no idea where it came from, but I don't feel like I should toss it. I don't smoke of the weed, but I have to assume that if I ever choose to do so that I will end up legally compromised in an unfamiliar State in some way, shape, or form. You never know when something like this will come in handy:

• I bought new (ugly but so comfortable I want to spoon with them) shoes for work from a company called Ulu. The shoe is called the "huvi", so I have been randomly exclaiming "ULU HUVI!" for the last day or so. Try it, it's fun.
• I found my old prom dresses. We'll see what direction I go with this discovery...
• I have to go to work- you'll have to continue this conversation without me. Just imagine me nodding and going "Wow! That's so interesting! You are truly a man/woman among men/women."

Happy Wednesday, my little, tumbling piles of dust bunnies and lint. Happy Wednesday.

XO

This very old house.

This is a picture of our house, circa 1906, the year it was built.

The little girl on the left was named Helen, and she lived in this house, that her parents built, until she died. Helen's future husband grew up on our block too, across the street and over a few houses.

Ours was the first house on the block. A few changes have been made- the porch was rebuilt into a fabulous enclosed 3-season porch that I love, and a few (very, VERY few) internal updates were made.

I was home one day 5-6 years ago and looked out my back window to see some women standing in my back yard and pointing at my house. Being that I normally don't have groups of middle-aged women hanging out on my lawn, I went out to investigate.

Turns out, they were daughters & relatives of Helen's, and were just in the neighborhood so they decided to stop by, visit my (now deceased) neighbor Doc and take a peek at the house. I took them into the house and showed them what we had done (at the time, it was very cute and I had cleaned, which was surprising most of all to me) and they were very, very grateful. One of them cried. They sent me this picture and a lovely letter about the house, Helen, and the neighborhood.

Yesterday, when I was knee-deep in getting ready to paint the living room, I looked out to see a woman and a teenaged girl peeking in my windows. Not being easily fazed, and remembering that our doorbell is still broken, I went out to see what was up, expecting to get a lengthy speech about how Jesus can save my soul and help me win the lottery.
Lo and behold, this was another of Helen's daughters, just looking to take some outdoor pics of the place. She asked if she could see the inside, and I agreed, knowing full well what she was walking into.

This:

Hello, ghetto.

I walked her through and told her about all of the renovations and improvements we were working on. She was happy that we were maintaining the place and helping it make it another 100+ years, but I could tell that it bothered her a bit that we were changing things.
It was our house now, it was no longer hers.
She also confirmed what I had long figured was true- that people had died in my house. Both Helen and her husband died here, and the large window in our living room was the backdrop for many an open-casket viewing- she said that our house was used for this purpose on many occasions.
I'm o.k. with that. I don't think Helen would approve of my non-catholic status, but I think she'd like what we've done with the place. As much as I bitch, I love my house. I love my warm, maple syrup-colored hardwood floors that are perfectly worn, I love the high ceilings downstairs, I love the simple woodwork, I love that many of the windows still have the original 1906 glass with bubbles and flaws, I love my giant rhubarb patch in the back yard, and I love that this house was loved from day one.

I'm going to have Helen's daughter over when we're done (which, by NASA's latest estimates, should be roughly around Spring 2045) so that she can see the finished product. I felt bad that everything (and I mean every single room) looks like a war-torn third world country, and I'd hate to think that she thinks we live like this all of the time. Most of the time, but not ALL of the time. Sheesh, we are civilized adults, you know.

Oddly enough, I hope she likes it.

I hope this means I can start wearing my "Frankie say relax" t-shirt again!

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Amperstache: My lame-assed Friday-Sunday weekend recap picture post.

The end.

On your mark...

I had a picture post for y'all, but then I realized that I really needed to get to work, so I had to put pants on and leave the house. Then I got to work, and I realized that I can't do the thing that I came here early to do, so I took my pants back off and now I'm sitting here, in my cubicle, pictureless, pantsless and not working. Oh, and eating lentils.

So, instead of productivity and crap I'm going to take care of a few things.

First: Thanks to all of you for helping me stay "meme-free" for a few months. The doctors said it would clear up as long as I used the ointments and salves that they prescribed, and now other than a few hairy bumps I'm totally clear. I thank you for not touching me there.

Second: I was tagged for a meme, and I'm doing it. I know you won't try to stop me because you're such an enabler like that. Like, remember that time when I asked you to not let me eat any more nachos, under any circumstances? And then later on you're all like, "Hey! Let's go get beer and nachos!" And I was all, "Hey! That's a great idea!"
And then remember how I overdosed on flourescent orange nacho cheese and you had to call Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey to help you drag my body to the nearest Taco John's and you left me there for dead? I have forgiven Whiplash for that one, but you're still on thin ice, mister.

Aaaannyywayyys...

Ms. Meg, a.k.a. Madwoman tagged me to give you six unremarkable things about myself.

This should be easy, as I am a virtual potpourri of unremarkability.

1) I tell people that I never, ever drink pop/soda/coke, but I forget that I drink it all the time at work. So I guess that's not so much a lie as it is denial. We have a serve-yourself fountain thingy here at work with yukky Pepsi products. Through trial and error, I have discovered that if you mix a ratio of 2/3 diet lemon-lime Slice with 1/3 diet Pepsi that you get something bordering on tasty. I'm drinking it right now.

2) I only wash my hair every 3-5 days. Quit making that face. Seriously, quit it. You'd understand if you had my hair, but I'm glad you don't cause then I'd be bald. I have really fine, sort of curly, sort of straight hair (I call it "surly") that only begins to look good 1-3 days after I wash it. Day one, it is slippery and yet strangely frizzy, but it feels lovely even though I look like I dried my hair in a wind tunnel. Day two it is starting to get the lovely curl I like so much and the frizz is gone due to the 14 Aveda products I've slathered on it. Day three is usually referred to as "hair nirvana" day. Day four I start thinking it is getting a little tangled and manky. Sometimes this is when I wash. If I get to day five, you will usually see me sporting both a ponytail and a hairband to keep my bangs from touching my forehead and sticking.

3) I'm pretty sure I know every jingle from every television commercial from the mid-to-late 70's and early 80's. Every. One. Yet, I forget birthdays and anniversaries with astounding regularity. I'm conviced that my brain has a limited amount of things it can keep track of, and as long as those damn jingles are in there- I'm screwed. At least when I forget your birthday again this year you'll get to hear the "Enjoli" commercial as a consolation prize.

4) I like lima beans, brussels sprouts, cabbage and prunes. Yum yum yum. I am nothing if not stinky, gaseous and regular.

5) I wear a size 9-1/2 shoe, I am about 1/4" shy of 5'8" tall, my wedding ring size is 6-1/4, and I wear a 36 high-b, low-c. No, I won't tell you my weight, even though my jeans have been very loose lately. I'll just say that it's over 90 and under 900 and that I'm perfectly content with whatever it is.

6) Like a typical girl, whenever I feel sorry for myself I buy myself gifts. Sometimes it's in the form of a Godiva chocolate-covered marshmallow, and sometimes I buy uncomfortable shoes I end up returning. Last week it took the form of a sweater that will hopefully be waiting for me tonight when I get home. Much like the woman in the Enjoli commercial, I bring home the bacon, so I'm entitled to a damn sweater- dammit. Oh, and I bought many gummi treats for myself last week too. Gummi anything makes it all better.

There you go. Remarkably unremarkable, the wonder of me.

Happy Monday, my squishy, unnaturally-colored gummi treats. Happy Monday.

XO

Um...what? Sorry- I dozed off a little there.

*
Things have been as exciting as unflavored ice milk here at Casa de Whiskey lately. When we're not working, we are buying things for the Casa, fixing/painting/cleaning/monitoring construction at the Casa, chasing kitties around the Casa, or laying on the new couch watching "Animal Cops" while eating frozen food products that have been made to be warm thanks to the advancements in microwave technology while in a catatonic state in le Casa.

Jealous? It's like I'm living the rock star lifestyle, minus the sex, drugs, rock and roll, parties, fancy cars, spandex, leisure, strippers, exclusive vacations, personal shoppers, $1000 dinners, punching the paparrazi, unfortunate tattoos and STDs.

This weekend promises more of the same white-hot excitement, with possibly some grilling, interpretive dancing and chain saw juggling thrown into the mix. Maybe I'll get really lucky and we'll go to the grocery store! Yee-haw!

I'll be taking pictures, just to prove my point about the whole "dull as dirt" thing.

Here's to hoping that my next post won't cause you to shake your fist angrily at the sky screaming "That's two minutes of my life stolen! STOLEN BY A STEALER, DAMMIT!!!!"

One can always hope.

*I have about 1,473 new pictures of the furry turd factories right now, if that's any indication of the level of dullness here at the VonPartypants estate.

Happy Friday, my little chunks of deep-fried hamster nuggets. Happy Friday.

XO

Listen up, Buster!!

"I'm a good listener."

You hear this all the time. I've said it on many occasions, you've probably uttered the same words yourself. We all like to think that when our coworkers are rambling on about how their recent visit to the oral surgeon went, and "Oh my I've never felt such pain in my uvula before!" that we are doing more than watching their lips flap in the wind while actually thinking about our cats. Or dogs. Or that we shouldn't have eaten that burrito for lunch.

Yesterday I realized something.

We are liars. We don't listen.

Sure, when it's something juicy, like how Marjorie from accounting was caught having "kinky relations involving jell-o" with Barney the janitor in the boss's office, well then we are all ears, baby. Try and stop me from perking my radar up when Judy in human resources accidentally lets it slip that the donut budget has been cut and that a strike is imminent. I simply can't not listen when I am being lavished with praise and being told how I don't look a day over 24 and "Gosh, how does your tushie stay that firm and shapely?"
Aw, shucks.

But beyond the gossip, the flattery, the inside secrets and the dishy dish, we simply drift off, tune out and let our mind wander to whether or not we should have bought that $100 turtleneck sweater from Anthropologie last night after a couple glasses of wine, and did I remember to call grandma, and should we order a pizza for din...

We don't freaking listen. I know this because I spent my entire day yesterday in a whirling vortex of NOT being heard. Over and over, not once, not twice, not just three times or so- all freaking day I was ignored, misheard and pretty much having what I consider riveting conversations with myself. Now, I love the lively banter that me and me have on a daily basis- really, I do. But, when what I'm saying will actually make the difference between a problem being solved or me being forced to extricate my toenails with pliers due to mind-numbing frustration, well then I'd like you to shut the fuck up and pay attention for once.

Yes, Verizon customer service- I'm talking to you. "The buttons on my brand new phone don't work AT ALL" is not the same as "So, you're telling me that your phone is spontaneously making phone calls?" And, "No, I'm telling you that when I push the cute little buttons that NOTHING happens" is very much different from "So, you're having difficulties setting up your voice mail?"

And computer services at work? Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about, mister. "My computer just shut off by itself" is an entirely different sentence than "Oh, so your monitor is broken?" (And on a side note, computer dude: My confidence in your computer-repair skills is greatly diminished by the fact that you couldn't even figure out how to silence the ringer on your cell phone and genuinely looked surprised each time it rang in that just telling it to be quiet wasn't enough.)

While we're at it- I'm calling you out too, you people that ask questions then either walk away, start talking to someone else, or get that glassy stare that tells me you're thinking about making out with Clive Owen/that cute girl from accounts receivable/the bag boy at the grocery store while I'm answering. All day yesterday I had to deal with you people. My favorite part is when I answered your question directly and clearly, and then you turned around and asked someone else the same freaking question and acted as if I were mentally challenged and doling out bad advice even though you NEVER HEARD WHAT I SAID IN THE FIRST PLACE. Man, that's just rude. Next time I'm just going to kick you in the crotch. Hard. At least then one of us will walk away from that conversation with a tiny bit of satisfaction.

Argh.

We need to tune in, pay attention, and actually hear one another, for once. If you ask the question, do me a solid and hang around for the answer, dude. If your job is to solve problems, then actually proving your competence by correctly absorbing the pertinent information should be a given, not an option. If I took the time out of my day to listen to you tell me that story about how the grocery store refused to take your 25-cent off coupon for lavender-scented maxi pads, and I actually listened and contributed to your dear-god-it's-so-dull-I'd-rather-be-flossing conversation, then the least you can do is return the favor.

C'mon! We can do better, people!

Whew. That felt good.

I'll quit bitching now- thanks for listening.

Now, what was that you were yammering on about before I interrupted you and started ranting? I didn't catch it. Sorry, I was thinking about my cats again. And feet. And if I should make some eggs. And do I need to pluck that hair? And...

Refinement and charm, thy name is Whiskey.

In order to add a level of interest to my monumentally uneventful weekend, I encourage you to imagine me tap dancing with a giraffe to the tune of "Tea for two" while reading this.

See? It's already interesting and I haven't even started yet.

This was an "Operation Fix this Fucking House" weekend that involved three trips to Menards, one trip to Target, one trip to Home Depot, one trip to Lowe's, a pit stop at Trader Joe's, installing my new high-efficiency washing machine (yay!), and ordering of the pizza from Pizza Luce'.

Purchased:
Five light fixtures, a new mattress set, a new bamboo (!) dining room table that I am in deep love with but haven't bought chairs for yet, lumber, cat food and lots of kleenex.

Speaking of kleenex...

The highlight of the weekend was when we were in bed Saturday night.
Bow-bow-chicka-bow...

No- not that, you dirty birds.

We were in bed Saturday night, sleeping, when I woke up stuffed up and sniffling to beat the band. I reached over to my nightstand, grabbed a tissue, and blew.
Unfortunately, I underestimated both the volume and the rumble of my powerful nostril excavation.
In the dark, the second I started this horrific nose symphony, the Mr. jerked awake, started flailing around with a "whaa...?" and promptly fell out of bed, taking the alarm clock with him.

There you go. I blew my nose hard enough to knock my husband out of bed.
He's choosing to blame one of the cats, neither of which were in the vicinity at the time of the incident.

Whatever.

You know? NO nose knows what I know.

I have allergies. BAD allergies.
Yes, here we are again.

Imaginary cockroaches crawling in your sinuses, scratching at your eyeballs like a meth head, worried your brain is leaking out of your nostrils bad allergies.

You know this, I've mentioned it before, it is not the least bit interesting. Feel free to stop reading now and go do something fun like clipping your dog's toenails, renewing your driver's license, or waxing your uncle Bruce's back.

But, since my life for the last week or so has revolved around predicting exactly when wet snot may fly out of my nose and land on your face whilst laughing or, you know...breathing, I thought I'd fill you in on a few things.

#1) All tissues are not created equal. Puffs brand sucks as they have more "dust" than Rue McClanahan's cooch. Kind of like Charmin tissue, they leave behind "particles"- only in your nostrils rather than your pubes. I find that Kleenex brand with lotion are the strongest, able to withstand seven or eight blows and being wadded up in my purse or pocket for eight hours in a single bound. The BEST EVER tissues, however, are those little designer packs that you buy at gift stores for $2 for ten. Seriously. You can blow 27 times in one and you will have not so much as a single breach of integrity in the tissue structure.

#2) Your non-allergic friends will find it gross that you keep wadded up, used, snotty tissues in your purse and/or pocket. These people have no understanding of how precious tissues are outside of your home. You have a limited quantity, and by golly you're going to make them last. Once you've been forced to blow your nose in newspaper or a t-shirt you've come to terms with the fact that you will now never, ever wear again, you get this.

#3) When your eyes are red and watery all of the time despite the prescription drops, people/coworkers/subordinates will inevitably think you are stoned. You will consider getting stoned since it won't matter anyways, but worry about the affect of the smoke on your already fucked up sinuses. Decide to start huffing paint instead.

#4) Only missionary while allergy ridden. ONLY missionary. Trust me and my knowledge of dripping snot. TRUST ME. No one on the planet loves you enough to pretend to be o.k. with your nose mucus on their face.

#5) Bats in the cave are inevitable. Keep a vigilant watch and a mirror handy always. Rule of thumb: Wiggly or whistly = visible boogs. Learn it, live it, obsess over it.

#6) Come to terms with the fact that you will never, ever have a chance to be cool. Any moment where you can look sleek, sexy and/or normal will be interrupted by sniffling, sneezing and the haunting honking that is unique to the Whiskeymarie blow. Even if you can control the oozing- the red, flaky, and oddly shiny nose will always trump your cute new heels. The random allergy zit on your nose will only add to the "wonder" that is you.

#7) Wadding tissues and/or tampons and stuffing them up your nostrils is never really an option. Even home alone while drowning her allergy sorrows in cheese and doritos, a girl needs her dignity, right? That girl has never, EVER done this, right? Right?

So...

Once again I offer this: a one-pound bag of peanut M&M's, a nice bundt cake, a fine sticker collection, two pairs of never worn (well, not technically worn) thong underwear and a song written expressly for you and sung by me for anyone willing to donate their sinuses. I'll even pay for the back-alley transplant.

Think about it, will you? Haiti is nice this time of year, or so I hear at my visits to the prison. They're willing to do medical procedures there CHEAP, no questions asked. I'm pretty sure morphine is like Advil there, and twice as cheap. I'll buy you cocktails and hookers, I promise. I'll make the STD worth your time.

It's time to prove your love, people.
And, we all know that the only true declaration of love is by donating valuable body tissue, so here's your big chance. The winning donor will enjoy a brief mention in one of my lesser posts, providing it's a slow news day.
You'll be a freaking hero.

XO

Maybe I'm confused, but does this mean I'm the smart one?

Conversation in the car this weekend with the Mr. on our way to Duluth:

Mr: "Oh yeah, happy anniversary."

Me: "It's tomorrow, isn't it? I almost forgot."

Mr: "No, it's today."

Me: "Really? I thought for sure it was the 31st, not the 30th."

Mr: "No, it's today."

Me: "No it's NOT. (thinks a second) Are you sure? Really? I could swear it was tomorrow."

Mr: "Nope. Today."

Me: "Are you positive? I remember it being the 31st."

Mr: "Yes, I'm positive."

Me: "Well, o.k. I need to check the marriage certificate when I get home, just to make sure- cause I'm pretty positive that it's tomorrow. (Pauses in disbelief that she may be wrong despite displaying this sort of behavior before.) Um...happy anniversary? I guess I didn't get you anything. Oops?"

Mr: (rolls eyes) "It's the 30th. Trust me. And I didn't get you anything either."

Me: "God, we're romantic, aren't we?"

Mr: "Uh...sure."

And...scene.

So...
Guess what?

I'm sitting here right now with the certificate from Clark County, Nevada that clearly lists August 31st, 1996 as the date of the blessed VonPartypants nuptials.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Smartypants VonPartypants.

Oh, and- Happy Anniversary, I guess.

God, how I do so love being right.


If you want mushy sentiment you can read last year's entry. Due to a defective gene in my DNA, I can really only muster that shit up once every ten years or so.
Such a romantic, I am.

We shall never speak of this again after today.

I love my little city by the river. It's just big enough, it's relatively quiet, it's pretty darn clean, and normally very user-friendly. It's kind of small, but full of surprises. St Paul is a "grower", rather than a "shower", if you catch my drift.

Now? This week?

Not so much. Our awesome factor has dropped to -35, last time I checked the meter.

To the untrained eye, one would think that our normally diverse city was comprised solely of white folks that wear nothing that isn't red, white or blue-blooded.
Argh.
A few notes, for those of you fortunate enough to not live in or near our redheaded stepchild town:

• The city/state took it upon themselves to spray paint GIANT american flags along the major freeways. Think 75' x 100' giant. When we drove by one this weekend, all I could say was "gross", to which the Mr. replied, "Why do you hate America so much?"
  
• Areas of town are blocked off- and not just with your everyday "we're busy teaching juvenile delinquents to pick up trash so you can't drive here right now" variety of barricade. These fancy barriers are cement, topped with chain-link fence, which is then topped with razor wire. Nothing says "Hey! Welcome to our city!" like prison yard decor.
  
• There are black, tinted window Lincoln Town cars and Navigators EVERYWHERE. No subtlety there whatsoever. Our favorites so far were the ones parked ever-so-inconspicuously outside of the McDonald's by our house for several hours. Helicopters circle above like seagulls waiting for a chubby 6 year-old to drop a few crumbs of mini-donuts. The freeway overpasses have Highway Patrol Officers stationed there, perched and ready for any errant water-balloners (not to be confused with waterboarders, which is something else entirely.)
  
• Having a convention in your city sucks, in case you were wondering. Times two if you live within 1.5 miles of the festivities, like we do. Oddly enough, however, the whole city smells like hot dogs and american cheese right now, which I find strangely comforting.

I normally keep politics out of my little home on the internet here, but being that politics (and all things politics-related) are being shoved down my throat this week, I thought I'd at least tell y'all a little about having the festivities roll into my place of residence.

Yuk. Or as they said in the local paper's "guide to all things Minnesota" this weekend- I think this is "ishy". I guess "ishy" is a MN thing- who knew?


In case you didn't figure it out already, I'm what I like to call "The liberal's liberal".
I like government staying out of my personal life. I would like to have more of a say in what happens in my world. I would like politicians to be held accountable occasionally when they lie, cheat and steal. I'm tired of religion and abortion issues being part of the political process. I'm tired of this fraud of a war. I want people to care more about humans as a whole, rather than employing the "I got mine" approach. I'm tired of people profiting off of the misery of others. I wish that racism, sexism, ageism, etc...weren't the rule rather than the exception. I'm tired of politicians and people in general not taking responsibility for themselves. I'm sick of corporate greed and corruption. I wish taking care of the environment was mandatory, not optional. I'm tired of having "Christian values" and "family values" shoved in my face by people who haven't the slightest meaning of either of those concepts.

I guess I just wish things were better, somehow. And yes- I blame a lot of these problems on the current administration.
Even if these problems were problems already when they got into office 8 years ago, I blame them for making them worse and turning a blind eye to the monumental mess that this country has become. The average citizen has been used, abused and tossed aside, and I think it's high time something productive and honest was done about it.

This is how I feel, you are entitled to feel differently. I can respect an informed opposing opinion. We can agree to disagree, I do believe that is possible. I'm not asking for a debate or trying to sway anyone. I'm just ranting on my blog, for whatever that's worth.
I'm not the boss of you.

I am, however, very pessimistic and very fearful about the future.
And- I consider myself neither Democrat nor Republican, in case you wanted to know.

But I do know who I'm voting for, and I'm pretty sure it's not anyone visiting my lovely city as part of the political circus taking place this week.

Nope. Not a chance in hell.

I'm totally voting for this dude:



It's time to kick ass and take names, people.

Chubby karate office dude '08!!