The weenie of hallow.

I'm lame.

I've barely given a thought to Halloween this year, and I made a feeble (at best) attempt to give y'all costume ideas. All I can do is beg your forgiveness and tell you that I sincerely hope you can work past this tragedy someday. I know I already have. I moved on weeks ago. I already have a "thing" going with another holiday. We're keeping it casual for now, but you never know...

Luckily, with all of the extra time I've had NOT thinking about the Hallow of Eve, I've had plenty of time to construct a diorama depicting the timeline of the Spanish Inquisition, constructed entirely of pork products.

Then I ate it, and now I don't feel so good.

On to the candy, I guess.


Happy Halloweenie, my costumed, spooky, cheesy little monkeys.
Happy Halloweenie.

XO

The magic of the mail-hole...

Mr. Mailman came a'knockin (no, not my sexypants mailman, just your average postal carrier this time), and handed me an express mail box containing this:

My Juana Skull necklace from Wendy B!

Just the pick-me up I needed. I'm just going to tell the Mr. I found it in a cereal box. I may need y'all to back me up on this one, o.k? Thanks, you're a peach.

Just in time for Halloween!

I'm off work today, baking more pumpkin bread (some to send to a very lucky person, some to freeze), and catching up on my "magazine time":

I'm about 5 Dominoes, three Marie Claires, three or four Vanity Fairs, three Esquires, three or four Harpers, three Interviews, and for or five other miscellaneous magazines behind. This alone should be testament to how busy I've been, as usually I pounce on new magazines the minute they're slid through my mail hole. I plan on spending much of today firmly planted on the couch with kool-aid and Cheetos, flipping through mindless pages of brain crap.

Now my dear, sweet internets- I'm off to enjoy my day.

Happy Wednesday, my silver worker bees with white sapphire eyes. Happy Wednesday.

XO

Why does it taste like burning?

After a conversation about cookware last night with our friend "Sir Pious Prius" on the way to dinner, I realized that it was maybe time once again for me to answer any pressing culinary questions y'all may have.

Anything food/restaurant/cooking related questions- send 'em my way.

I'm a professional- I know what type of underpants to wear while fonduing (thongs or tighty whiteys are best), and I can tell you why your Kraft Mac & Cheez turns out crunchy every time (don't add gravel- I keep telling you this and you keep NOT listening). Don't be shy- I won't ridicule you, well not unless you did something really, really stupid. It's called tough love, folks.

Let me help you. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem, you know.


All I ask is that you begin all questions posed here with "Dear Chef Awesome..."

Ask away, my tasty little morsels of perfectly-cooked goodness. Ask away.

Sincerely yours-
-Chef Awesome

**Answers will be in the comments, my sweets. I know how impatient you are.

Yellow snow and snotcicles can't be far off...

We saw a bunch of these today, blowing around amidst the rain and cold, cold, cold.

I love winter as much as the next "not right in the head" person, but even I think this is a bit...early.

It all melted, but I managed to save you a cup of "snow slushy" that I scraped from the driveway. Pour a little kool-aid on top and you'll never even notice the crunchy bits.

You're welcome.

Happy winter?

The one where my life becomes a deleted scene from a mediocre romantic comedy.

So, I'm walking along, going to work. It's a beautiful, crisp fall day. I'm carrying an umbrella in one hand because it's been sprinkling on and off all morning. I walk by a fenced in yard, where two adorable puppies are playing with two adorable young children in flannel jammies (the boy in blue, the girl in pink- no lie).
The little black and white puppy scampers up to the fence where I am and looks up at me with a look of anticipation (Or constipation, whatever. WORK with me here, folks!). The little boy says, "He thinks your umbrella is a stick- he wants you to throw it. Here- take this stick and throw it so he can fetch"
They're both so cute I can't help myself. I toss the stick, the puppy scampers off to fetch it.

I smile at the little boy and continue on my way, smiling, warm and fuzzy. "Isn't life awesome?", I think to myself. "Isn't today the best day ever?"

Yeah.

No more than 30 seconds later I was crossing the street in front of some dude in a big white pickup. I "miscalculated" the curb (busy thinking about unicorns and rainbows) and took a flailing header directly in front of his truck. When I get up, he's laughing. I can't blame him- I would be laughing too.

Thank you, Universe. You hand me a double-decker ice cream cone and then promptly shove my face in it and kick me in the crotch, just for good measure.

Touche'.

Happy Friday, my scampering, fuzzy little puppies. Happy Friday.

XO

Information, innuendo, inconsequential.

Since I was double-teamed this week by Red and Poobomber, I thought I'd just give in and take it like a woman. I am nothing if not game for a good time.

Fine.

A meme- one word questions and my not-one-word answers.

Trust me- I've got nothing else today, and I'm pretty sure you aren't interested in seeing the video I took of Trouble playing with his favorite "jingly" toy, or another post about paint and all things paint-related.


1. Clothes: For every day, I'm a well-fitting (read: tight enough to hug my booty, not so tight I look like a kielbasa) jeans kind of gal. Boot cut, low riding. You will generally find me pairing them with a white, black or gray top of some sort and sturdy black boots or my Nike Jana XO tenners (I have 4 pairs in different colors). I'm obsessed with gray sweaters, and in the Fall/Winter I love knit hats and scarves. I'd rather layer lots of light pieces than wear one bulky one, usually. When I'm going anywhere but work, I like to add in color, usually in the form of a fabulous, bright vintage jacket or purse. I definitely have my own style, for whatever that's worth, and I am obsessed with proportion when it comes to clothes. You can pull of some fucked up ensembles as long as the proportion is spot-on. Going out, even if it's just a day out shopping, all bets are off- bright dresses, heels, some of my amazing jewelery collection, a vintage piece or two, a great jacket, and at least one thing no one expects, but not all of these at once. The older I get, the more I learn about the power of restrained quirkiness. And, the more I learn about loving my body the way it is and dressing for it.

2. Furniture: Finally, it is all going to be stuff I specifically picked out, for my house, with my vision in mind, rather than (still pretty great) hand-me-downs/thrift/garage sale that I've "made do" with. It's still going to be a while, but I am so excited to finish remodeling/redecorating that I could pee a little. I have no one favorite piece of furniture, usually, but right now I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about my new couch, such is my infatuation. It's casual and slouchy but still "put together". The clunky but awesome metal accent chair that I've had forever is pretty great too. You'll get pictures soon, don't worry.

3. Sweet: Gummi bears (really, gummi whatever, I'm not picky. Gummi penis? Sure. Gummi mice embryos? I'll give it a whirl.), also: anything "custardy", good homemade chocolate layer cake with real whipped cream, Yumyums, and salted caramel chocolates.

4. City: San Francisco, Duluth, Claxton, St. Paul when I'm in a good mood.

5. Drink: Boozy: White wine (Sancerre and Italian whites are my favorite), a nice dry martini, Champagne. Non- boozy: Green tea, non-flavored bubbly water, Fountain Coke, Yak milk.

6. Music: All of it, none of it. Usually, I prefer quiet, but when I'm in the mood, I'm all over the map, from Slim Whitman to Lords of Acid to Bread to Old punk rock to ELO to Duran Duran to KMFDM to whatever. Usually just singing to the cats is enough for me.

7. TV Series: Arrested Development (best EVER), The Office (both versions), Extras, The Wire, Home Movies, Curb your enthusiasm, The Simpsons, Deadwood, Lockdown, Forensic Files, Matlock.

8. Film: Pi, Sixteen Candles, Sophie's Choice, Cheerleader Camp.

9. Workout: Getting out of bed, usually. If I'm actually putting in effort, I prefer doing things outside: long walks, biking, hiking. If I'm feeling fat and I'm stuck indoors: Kickboxing, yoga, competitive nacho eating.

10. Pastries: Well-made almond croissants. Also: macaroons, and a pastry called the "creme brulee danish" from a bakery in S. Minneapolis called "The Baker's Wife." It's exactly what it sounds like, and it will make you tingly in your nether regions, it's so damn good.

11. Coffee: Black, strong, and usually one cup too many. On rare occasions: Skim Latte, sometimes iced. No sugar, EVER.

Also, a few items, in no particular order, that I think should be added to some random list, somewhere:

• Prunes
• boy shorts or thongs
• only that one time in College
• oatmeal
• feet
• roller coasters
• Oral
• medium rare steak
• cashmere
• goat cheese
• steamed pork dumplings

Done. There you go. More than you wanted to know, as usual. Just thank your lucky stars I didn't include pap smear highlights or "my favorite skin conditions".

I tag no one- we all know by now that this is where memes go to die. I bury them in my back yard in a lovely little ceremony and I mark the grave with my own urine. It is very solemn and touching, trust me.

Happy Wednesday, my memey little coffee cakes. Happy Wednesday.

XO

Meals of yore

So, I would have posted earlier, but I learned the hard way today that "day off" in Midwesternese translates roughly to "9.5 hour day working." I really should get a translator when I'm making these deals, because I suck at them.

The last batch of my mail project (round one) went out today. When your mailman starts glaring at you and handling your mail with rubber gloves a few days from now, you'll know who to blame. If you get a greasy envelope with stuff dripping out of it- you win!!

Yet ANOTHER weekend of "Operation Fix this Fucking House" has come and gone, which I'm getting used to as I seem to have no social life whatsoever lately. Seriously- it's like everyone knows I have airborne herpes or something. Like you haven't ever had a contagious genital virus, Judgy McJudgester. Hmph.

Whatever.

Since we went to the Farmer's Market again and our bounty overfloweth (that's what she said!), I made dinner Saturday night for the two of us.

First, I set the (coffee) table with the finest (same crap we use every day) china, silver (old, cheap), and linens (are Bounty paper towels considered "linens"?):



For an appetizer, I made the Mr. bruchetta with garlic-basil mushrooms (yukky, yukky fungi), caramelized onions and some fancy Welsh cheddar cheese. For me, sundried tomato, red pepper, green olives, caramelized onion and fresh mozzarella. This is before they went in the oven:


And...after:


I made some spaghetti squash with sage, parmesan and pepper:


I also made a salad with garbanzo beans, green onion, edamame and balsamic dressing, but my camera didn't actually take a picture of it, which I just discovered now. Instead I'll give you a picture of the glory that is Turducken:


Finally, I made wild sockeye salmon with fresh tomato-caper-lemon salsa:

It was delicious.

I'm going to bed now.

Happy Monday (technically early Tuesday), my crispy, juicy, plump turduckens. Happy Montuesday.

XO

A year...a book...a Yearbook!!

So. I'm digging through drawers looking for something (probably more candy. Or cheese.), and I see my old yearbooks. I can't believe that I haven't shown y'all these already. I must be off my game. Next thing you know I'll be forgetting to take pictures of the kitties or not making videos of myself singing along to STYX songs in a Santa costume.
Whew.
Crisis averted, because here they are, in all their glory. Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, the early years. 1984-1989, to be exact, in yearbook form for your comfort.


1984 was a challenging year for me and my classmates. Duran Duran was taking over the world and fashion was "difficult" at best. Friendship pins still ruled, and blouses with ribbon bows around the collar paired perfectly with a pair of Lee jeans and Kangaroo tennies.

In this particular year, 7th grade to be exact, I had asked my Mom to get me a purple sweater for the photos. She (bless her heart), decided that a hand-knit sweater would be better, when in reality I desperately wanted one of those cool "shaker knit" sweaters from Maurice's that all of the girls were wearing.
No such luck.

I wore the handknit bright purple crewneck with a white oxford and (probably) my Lee carpenter jeans and knockoff Kangaroos from Pamida.
And, I signed my own picture. What a loser.

My hair was feathered, I hated this picture. Proof:

But I still think I fared better than ol' Honkey fro' to the left.


Eighth grade found me a bit more mature, a bit more refined in my fashion choices.
I had discovered how to "frost" my hair, and tempered the "feathering" out a bit. I was fully immersed in Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News, and was starting to dabble into English pop music.
In this particular (blurry due to scanning and the scanner operator's inability to operate even the simplist of technologies) picture, I am wearing a sweater that is 1/2 black and 1/2 gray. I'd bet a big chunk of change that I was wearing it with my black tapered corduroys, a hot pink belt, and my light pink high-top tennies, because that's what I ALWAYS wore with this sweater.
Remember having an "outfit" that you thought was totally the bomb? You saved it for when you needed the "big guns"?

Yeah, this was my "big gun" outfit in 1985.
How sad:

And yet again, I signed my own picture in a misguided attempt at humor.


1986 showed that I had yet to progress beyond the "crewneck with an oxford underneath" look, but my hair certainly was getting bigger. Oh, and you can't see it, but my earrings here are square clear plastic with a big, red, round plastic dot.
God, my hair looks like and 85 year-old grandmas weekly "set".
Nothing is as scary as a 15 year-old with unlimited curling iron access and a can of Aqua Net hairspray:

In 1987 I was knee-deep in my New Wave/Poppy Punk Rock Girl stage. I had ditched the crewneck in favor of oversized button-downs with a vintage pin at the collar. You can rest assured that I was wearing black leggings and my little black Zodiac-brand boots that I saved my allowance for and bought at the local fancypants boutique, called "Cimmarron".

My hair is approximately 2" higher than in the previous year's picture:

In 1988 I wore a LOT of black in androgynous shapes, an unfortunate choice for a not so feminine looking teenager with no skin pigment whatsoever.
I'm wearing a large black t-shirt here, probably paired with black leggings (again), a wide black belt, tall black boots, hoop earrings and a giant black tote bag.
My hair, however, was holding out at its previous height from the prior year, but I had starting pulling down the bangs into a long, asymmetrical point:

Finally, 1989, the year of my graduation as well as my foray into gold-colored hair. I was still obsessed with black clothing and vintage jewelery.
The crappy quality of the printing in our yearbook makes it seem as if I was a head without a body.
My eyebrows look as if they are planning a coup against the rest of my face.
And- I look pissed off, but that may just be me, trying to look too cool for school:

Here you go- a bonus pic to further cement my spot in the nerd hall of fame.

Yes, I was a mathlete. No, I wasn't good at math, I just needed some extracurriculars and the math team needed girls. I mentioned this before- I was only in it for the cookies and McDonald's orangeade. I'd probably rob a bank, naked, if there were good cookies in it for me.
I look like a man here:


There you go- yet another installment in "Wild dorks run free: the Whiskeymarie story."

You're welcome.

Happy Friday, my feathered, pinned and nonplucked stray hairs. Happy Friday.

XO

File under: Things that make me consider switching teams.

I have found my one, true soulmate, and he is spectacular...

Me. Ow.

Because I am even lazier than you thought: my weekend in pictures. Prepare to be dazzled.

I had a wicked craving for this cereal this weekend. Three bowls later, I was underwhelmed.


Stuff I see when I'm out for a walk:


Farmer's Market in St. Paul this Saturday. Everything is local and there is a ton of variety right now. We bought: tomatoes, baby bok choy, swiss chard, brussels sprouts, peppers, onions, rosemary, raspberries, radishes, honeycrisp and Fireside apples and a homeless dude named Marvin. All for $25. You know the economy is bad when a perfectly good hobo goes for under $10.








Oh, and we went to a wedding Saturday night and I looked smokin' hot. Do you think I bothered to take a picture of that? Do you???
Nope.
Use your imagination then. I had makeup on, heels, a lovely little black dress, no paint in my hair and not a frown to be found.

The End.

All the news that's fit to print, and maybe some that isn't.

Yes, I know- it's been pretty dry over here at the official news site of the VonPartypants administration. That whole "Underpantsgate" scandal has really been taking up a lot of our time, what with the depositions, the paper shredding and the lying to the media and all. We will say this much: The official stance of the VonPartypants administration was and will continue to be that we were unaware of the "thong" issue and that we have no knowledge whatsoever of the "mooning" in question. If you are here to ask about Ms. VonPartypants' alleged loss of pantwear at the Dorito Summit last month, I will respectfully direct you to our lawyer, Lionel Hutz, Esq.

Ms. VonPartypants expects to be fully operational later this week, when she will be enjoying a well-deserved 4, possibly 5 day weekend. She will be catching up on your news feeds/blogs/pap smears/family feuds/drunken rants and such and such as well, as she acknowledges her complete and total abandonment of y'all in the past few weeks. She is terribly sorry and promises to make you cookies and give you a totally-not-dirty-unless-you-want-it-to-be-then-I-guess-we'll-go-there massage.

In the official statement she released to the press she stated it as such:

"Can't talk. Work. House. Need sleep. Gah!"





Until then, she thinks you should tell her about your first kiss.

Hers was with a guy named Kurt in the garage next to her dad's beer can collection and auto-parts calendar with the trashy blonde with the huge cans on it. Kurt had a kisser like a large mouthed bass, and he seemed to believe that the wetter, the better. He was all tongue and had a strange vacuum-like suction going on. When she was allowed to come up for air, Ms. Whiskey felt as if she had been violated by a sea lamprey, and her entire face was covered with spit.









Ahhh...young love.

Tell me about yours- make something up if you're still waiting for that magic moment to happen, Prudey VonPruderstein.

Happy Monday, my french-kissing water-bourne parasites. Happy Monday.
XO

Putting the "ass" back in "assistant".

Argh.

Honestly y'all, my days are flying by quicker than the speed of the average Tourette's twitch.

Maybe I need to get up earlier, maybe I need to stop spending hours online looking for monkey-themed purchases, maybe I need to not enjoy plopping my ass on the couch for "Project Runway" so much, maybe I need an assistant to fetch mommy's pills from the pharmacy and make the weekly trip to stock up on cat treats, maybe I need to ditch the Mr. and be a trophy bride for a terminally ill billionaire.

I think I'll start with an assistant.

If there is anyone reading this that, by some sheer coincidence, looks exactly like me, has a semi-thick MN accent, occasionally breaks into meow-themed songs, sniffles a lot and can pretend to know how to cook- well, there's a crisp fiver, a half-eaten bag of Rolos, a new pair of tube socks and a pair of perfectly good toenail clippers for the most qualified applicant that is willing to go to work for me for the next few days. Even if you look nothing like me, I'm willing to provide a wig and makeup/wardrobe services.

I'll even let you make out with the Mr, if that sweetens the pot. I'm sure he'll understand.

Anyone interested should mail their resume, a urine sample, a video of their dancing skills, a crayon drawing of a Chimpanzee, a check for $2.76, a 500-word essay on why they love cheese, and a new toothbrush to:

Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, professional division
555 Partypants Circle
Lower Minnesota, 50001

Attn: Helper monkey Jojo

Jojo and/or Human Resources will contact you via two tin cans and a string within 2-56 weeks with your employment status.
Thank you for your interest.

Good luck!

Miscellaneous miscellany. And product endorsements.

Random bits, kind of like nuggets, but nothing at all like leavins'...

• Work & "Operation Fix this Fucking House" are kicking my ass this week. Luckily, this is my last full week of work (i.e. 5-day work week) until mid January. My job is AWESOME.
• I really should be working right now, but instead here I am.
• A random conversation with the Mr. at Costco this week:

Me: "I can't take those multivitamins. they have Iron in them."

Him: "What's wrong with Iron?"

Me: "It makes me pukey when I take them, seriously- I threw up once. Plus I guess there is some alleged connection between Iron and Alzheimers."

Him: "Well, we already know that you're going to get it for sure."

Me: I wouldn't be so sure, Mister- It runs in YOUR family, not mine.

Him: "Well, I guess it will be a race then to see who gets it first."

Me: "You're on."

So, yeah. We're now betting on who will get Alzheimer's first. We are so very, very idiotic.

• I'm starting to mail stuff for the Mail Project! Yay! I hope you're o.k. with nudity! Just ignore the white powder leaking from the envelope!
• I am currently in deep, semi-sexual love with this cereal.
• And these chips.
• And the unders from this company. Fabulous fit and ever so cute for thy bum.
• And, and...if you've never tried these, I highly recommend it. Melty blobs of smooth, chocolatey love. I just ate three.
• It's rainy and gray today- I wish I could be home to enjoy it.
• Quit scratching- you're just making it worse, you know.
• I ate a banana today that had something crunchy in it. I think I'm off bananas for a while.
• When I went down to the copy center today and asked the copy dude if there was any way humanly possible that I could get a pile of copies done right away, his eyes briefly darted downward and he quickly said "Um...sure!". As I walked out, I realized that the chilly basement had turned on my highbeams. Real high. You're welcome, copy dude.
• Gotta go- I do occasionally work, you know.

Fun! Watching paint dry fun! Clipping toenails fun! Fun!

Weekend recap, in photos to accommodate my illiterate/ADD readers:

Friday was a perfect Fall day here in St. Paul. The leaves are just starting to turn and the air is crisp. It's just cold enough to confuse people. You see parkas walking down the street next to flip-flops and shorts. Luckily, it's chilly enough that jiggly middle-aged dudes are no longer compelled to take off their shirts in public. Thank you, mother nature.

I walked to work so I could get some air in my lungs that wasn't filled with plaster dust and cat dander.
On my way I stopped and bought a snazzy new green scarf. I had to take this picture myself, which explains the double chin and the dude off-camera that was very confused and amused by me taking a picture of myself while walking down Grand Avenue.

"Operation Fix this Fucking House" is still in full swing. Duh. I finally finished painting the living room, replacing the diamonds on the wall with subtle stripes (sorry, Kate- I know you liked the diamonds, we just got tired of them).
Before:
After:

I finally get to put out my new rug for the entry. I love this rug so much that I made out with it. Unfortunately for me, the wool gave me rugburn on my face.

I made tamales this weekend for dinner. I usually don't follow a recipe, but if you get the urge to make some, I have used this recipe and it was very good.

Step one: make the masa dough. You can get masa flour at any latin grocery, or here in MN the "ethnic" aisle at Cub usually has it. Tamale dough usually calls for a LOT of lard, I substitute butter and use way less and it always works out fine. Even I don't keep lard around.


Corn husks to wrap the tamales- soak them in warm water for a while to soften them up. Again, any latin market or "ethnic" grocery should have these.

I cooked two chicken breasts (tee-hee, breasts) off, then shredded them by hand. I added a bunch of spices (good quality chili powder, cumin, Mexican oregano, a touch of coriander, salt & pepper) and because I was feeling lazy, I just dumped in about 1/4c. of hot salsa and a few healthy dashes of hot sauce.
Mix it all up, make sure it tastes good, then you're ready to go:

Lay out the husk, then use your hands to smoosh out the masa dough into a rectangle.

Add some filling, then roll the dough around the filling. this dough is really easy to work with- it should have the texture of play-doh. I used the recipe off of the bag of masa for the dough and added oregano and ground flax seed to it (fiber, baby- keeps you regular!):

Wrap them up like a little package:


Or, if you're a fancypants snob, make them cute by tying them in bundles with strips of the husks:

Then steam them off for about 35-45 minutes:

We ate them with salsa, sour cream, guacomole, and sauteed peppers and onions.
Yum. Yum.
Yum.

Moving on...

I started working on the hall/stairs to get them ready for painting. Let me tell you- 102 year-old plaster walls are NO FUN to paint.
As you can see, the plaster here has some "issues". All I have left to do here is sand, scrub with toxic cleaners, tape off all of the obstacles, prime with toxic primer, wait and hope the primer doesn't start peeling like the last time, paint the first coat, wait and hope THAT doesn't peel either, paint a second coat, then finally- do a happy dance if it all works out, which it likely won't, if my past experience tells me anything:


The new bathroom finally has walls!!
We are one step closer to being able to pee at the same time as a couple, him in one can and me in the other. Who says I'm not romantic?


Finally, to make your life complete and firmly cement my place in the "cat lady" hall of fame, I give you seventeen uneventful seconds of Pooter:


Untitled from Whiskeymarie VonPartypants on Vimeo.

You're welcome.

Happy Monday, my plaster-coated freshly-painted hot tamales. Happy Monday.

XO

Bye-bye blue cheese odor and sweat rings- see you next year.

At long last, you finally get a break from my incessant bitching about summer, sweaty underboobs and humidity so high that the cats started to mildew.

Finally it is sweet, glorious, chilly, wonderful fall. Hello, sweaters. Hello, jackets. Oh how I've missed you- let's play dress-up later, o.k?

Instead of sitting here in the house typing away about underpants, Doritos, and feet, I'm going to shove my hooves in some walkin' shoes, put on a clean pair of unders and go out and enjoy the day. Maybe I'll even pick up a bag of Doritos to crunch, crunch, crunch whilst I crunch, crunch, crunch the leaves beneath my tootsies.

You should do the same.

Yeah- you. I see you there- watching Oprah, eating m&m's and scratching your bum. Stop it- no one's butt itches THAT much. I know it's fun to scratch. Still- stop it, you're grossing me out.

Get up, get out, enjoy the day and say "hi" to strangers along the way (except that hobo by the tracks- don't talk to him. Talking only encourages him to show you "Mr. one-eyed wiggly", and trust me when I say you don't want to see that).


Trouble and Pooter heartily agree. Get out of the damn house, will ya?

Happy Friday, my orange and red maple and chocolate-dipped crunchy leaves. Happy Friday.

XO

Because only getting coupons from the oil change place is starting to make me feel pathetic...

Have I mentioned my super-hot mailman? He seems to be on a rotating shift, so he's only dropping mail in my box (that's what she said!) every once in a while, but holy balls that dude is easy on the eyes.
I have decided that increasing my mail input/output is the only way to insure that he will continue to make special deliveries to my mail-hole, so I am once again opening up the can of worms that is the "Whiskeymarie mail project".

I started this a while back, and it has been really nice sending mail/postcards/etc... via snail mail to some of y'all. Though I have slacked off a bit these last few months, I have the bug again and would like to get back in the habit.

So, here's how it works: You send me your address and I sell it to the CIA. Just kidding- I don't deal with them anymore after the whole incident when I "accidentally" ended up in Guam with no clothes and my passport missing. Good one, guys.
No, silly- if you want to participate, e-mail me your address and you will receive real, actual, paper mail with human writing on it. I can't guarantee what you'll get or how often, but you will get something at random intervals, whenever the mood strikes me. Sometimes stickers and gifts are involved. Sometimes. Don't get your hopes up. And yes- smooshed up, half-eaten gummi bears count as "gifts" in my mind.

And no, you really don't need to explain to me in comments why you "can't give your address out, but gosh I'd love to, but you know you all are criminals anyways, but I'd really totally do it if I could, blah blah blah." If you don't want to do it just tell me a joke or something.

Do it or don't. No big deal. I won't think less of you if you don't, because really- I only think about myself anyways.

And those of you who have already signed up- let me know if I need to update your addresses as some of you have moved/gone to jail/gone into hiding. How will I come knocking at your door at 4:00 in the morning if you don't live there anymore? Hmmm?

Mail away, my little seventeenth-century, ruffled shirt-wearing scribes, mail away.

XO

e-mail: candycanewhiskey (at) yahoo (dot com)

Stick a pitchfork in me- I'm done.

At Casa de VonPartypants it appears that we have traveled back in time.

A simpler time, where men were men and women were plain and tall. A time when we milled our own flour, did our business in a wooden box in the back yard, and plucked our eggs for breakfast from the warm bums of fluffy chickens.

A time when fornication was for procreation and a bra was a new-fangled contraption designed to hoist our previously saggy mammaries into newfound levels of perkiness.

A time when...

A time when computers didn't exist so we had no reason to want to scream and throw the beast out of the nearest window because our internet connection has once again slowed to speeds that can best be compared with a slow-leaking tire, and has been this slow for two freaking days now.

Argh.

Until this improves, I will just write my posts down and hand-address a copy to each and every person in the entire U.S. as I am sure this would be the quickest option, and I know how weird you are about giving out your address.

You can expect to receive yours in 6-45 weeks. Look for the envelope with the monkey stickers and the greasy Cheeto smears.

Oh, and if you could do the same for me so that I can actually read your posts, well that would be totally awesome of you.
Thanks a ton, sweetie- you're the best.

XO