Tuesday, December 29, 2009

What did you get for christmas? Me? Well, I got disowned.

I'm trying to figure out what it was exactly that I did that led to my Dad dumping me via voice mail yesterday (last time it was via e-mail, he seems to be regressing, technologically speaking. I expect our next communication to be through the careful exchange of cassette tapes or by pony express).
I even tried really, really, extra really hard to be nice to the frozen block of holy water that is my stepmother, I offered them each a beverage at least three times, I didn't swear (not even the G-rated ones like "fiddlesticks" and "drat!"), and I only drank wine when neither of them was looking, so as not to offend their delicate sensibilities.

I don't get it. I'm a catch, as far as daughters go- really! I am!
I got good grades through high school & they rarely caught me doing anything bad, which (in my world) pretty much cancels out the bad stuff they didn't catch me doing. I never got caught doing anything unsavory (or savory, for that matter) with boys, I technically "went" to college (so I didn't finish- picky, picky), and I married someone devoid of piercings and (at the time anyways) tattoos. I have an amazing work ethic and I haven't pushed old people over in the street for months.

My Dad, it turns out, is a bit of a conspiracy theorist. Something he said about "setting him up" to "embarrass" him tipped me off. Here I thought I was inviting him to come to a little christmas gathering with my in-laws, but it turns out I was crowning him prom king while dumping a bucket of pig's blood on his head, simply because my younger sister was present and chose there and then to tell him she's pregnant. I guess I forgot to give him an printed program and a guest list. I didn't realize that I even had time to intentionally sabotage family relationships and plan humiliating deceptions, what with me being nice and having a life and all. What a silly twat I am.

Honestly, I didn't even realize that I was smart enough to pull off something so elaborate and sinister. Maybe I should try to embezzle money or join the CIA if my skills at evil schemes are so finely-tuned. Does this mean that I get my own evil lair hidden deep in a mountain on a remote island? Because, that would be wicked sweet.

Here I thought it was just about eating ham and cookies with family, and maybe (just maybe) putting aside bullshit, if only for one day.

Silly, silly me.

So, I guess I'm up for adoption again. Here's my file from the Orphanage/shelter, if you're interested:

Name: Whiskeymarie VonPartypants
Age: 38

Spayed/Neutered?: No, but you may want to consider getting this done. Soon.
Breed: Domestic Caucasian, Mixed Breed

Temperament: Highly excitable, loves to snuggle, sleeps a lot, likes to play with sparkly things, fiercely loyal and likes to scratch herself. A lot.

Diet: Includes (but is not limited to): Chippy things, cheese and all cheese products, cheap wine, pork (especially in cured and/or sausage forms), salads, eggs, cookies, noodles, and the occasional chocolate-dipped marshmallow or salty nut as a treat. She sure loves her treats!

Special Considerations: Whiskey is coming along in her training, but still needs some work. She responds well to gentle commands, but gets angry and may punch you in the crotch if you get angry or try to punish her. She does, however, respond rather well to the occasional slap on the rump, whether it's as a punishment or as a reward. She's almost completely housetrained, just a few accidents here and there, usually in a corner or in a basket of laundry.
Whiskey is a healthy, active girl full of love and just looking for the right parent!

Adoption Fee: $25,000 or best offer. Trades will be considered.


Ugh. I'm glad the joyous season is nearly over. Much more "joy" and I may never be able to wipe the smile from my face. Oh, wait- that's just chocolate. Nevermind.

Happy Tuesday, my marginally potty-trained little castoffs. Happy Tuesday.

Yours in self pity,


Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Like most good trips, this one begins (and ends) with barf.

I seem to be approaching this blog lately the same way I do the "mystery stain" on a rug in the basement that I'm pretty sure is cat puke: Ignore it long enough and maybe it will take care of itself.

Well...since it appears that none of you are going to step up to the plate and do either job for me (even though you totally still owe me for that time I bailed you out of that jail in Mexico for trying to sell tourists homemade Vicodin), here I am- on break from work until January 11 and ready to fill you in on everything ranging from recent purchases I've made (irregular socks and discounted underpants) to the condition of various body parts (boobs: fine, toes: kind of manky).

Here you go- everything I can think of from the last 18-19 days, categorized so you don't get confused and end up on that circus porn site again:

"Operation Fix this Fucking House" had come to a complete standstill for a few months there. Either we lost interest, or the thought of having to spend another entire day painting, laying tile, moving heavy shit or inhaling fumes from yet another misc. chemical needed for who knows what made us just sort of...freeze. I'm happy to say that the dining room is nearing completion (pictures soon) and the demolition of the world's ugliest bathroom should be happening within a few weeks. Just you wait- you have not seen an uglier bathroom- trust me.

Some of you already know this, but for the rest of you- we got another damn cat. Why oh why do those little fuckers have to be so cute, and why am I helpless against their purry, meowy, aloof and basically-disinterested-in-me-and-all-humans personalities????
Meet Millie, 4 pounds of bossy, sassy, scratchy, cuteness:

I really, really, really, really wanted another pussy to add to the flock, and I love her to death, but Casa de VonPartypants is officially full. No more mammals, furry or otherwise. Nope, baby Jeebus- find another hotel and take that stinky donkey with you- we're closed.
I've all but given up on fighting the pet hair tumbleweeds, and instead I'm making them into scarves and mittens to sell on Ebay- get your orders in early for next christmas!

Nothing new to report here- as far as I know I'm still gainfully employed, and I made it through another semester without having to kill any of my students and hide the body parts in various hot dishes (otherwise known as "casseroles" to some of you). I did realize on the last day that I think one of them had a wee crush on me, and really- who can blame him? I wonder if it was the ever-present ponytail or the shapeless white chef coat that finally sealed the deal? Hmmm...

Beyond the usual- Home, family stuff (my younger sister is preggers- finally an heir to carry on the VonPartypants name!), shopping and martinis with the girls (my friends, not my boobs, though technically they were present)- not too much big stuff going on.

Oh, did I forget to mention that I took a little trip to Chicago this past weekend to visit my bestest twatmonkey Gwen and some of her friends from college? Um, yeah- I did. It was fun. Maybe too much fun. I seriously don't have any pictures, though. I um...forgot my camera under a couch (don't ask), and any other pics were taken by other people and really are best left unshared with the unprepared masses.

Highlights from Chicago #1-10:

#1) flying both there and back without the aid of pharmeceuticals or cocktails (those would come into play later, with a vengeance).

#2) Picking up Gwennie at the train station and having her greet me with, "Hey cunt!"

#3) Staying at her friend's lovely condo in DT Chicago- he was a gracious host, to say the least. I really should send him a nice bottle of wine or a high-class hooker as thanks.

#4) Exchanging gifties- Gwen got me this book (which I can't wait to read), and flying monkeys, I got her (and myself) matching Paul Frank christmas monkey t-shirts and a bottle of my favorite Aveda perfume.

#5) Having cocktails & wine starting at 2 in the afternoon after having little to eat that day, also while more than a little nervous to meet so many new people.

#6) Making what I can only describe as an epic and unforgettable impression on her friends- let's leave it at that.

#7) Wearing an elf costume at one point (Gwen was Ms. Claus).

#8) Waking up in a strange city feeling like I had been in a street fight with uncoordinated but freakishly strong ninjas and as if I had chugged a tall, frosty glass of battery acid before bed.

#9) Laying around in jammies with Gwen & Co. for much of the day (after dry-humping her on the couch first), watching christmas movies and trying not to vomit anywhere inappropriate.

#10) Going home was a lowlight, but just getting to see my girl for a wee bit was worth the monumental embarrassment and what eventually turned out to be the worst hangover of my life that lasted three days.

So...that's what I've been up to. Anything new with you?

I have to go now and do some stuff. I guess there's some sort of holiday coming up or something. Crispmas? Stripsmas? Lispmuth?


Happy Gristlemas Eve-eve, my drunken little balls of vomity, hammy goodness. Happy Gristlemas.


Thursday, December 3, 2009

Did I ever tell you about that one time...?

I realized today, when I was telling a few of my students "Shorty's tale" that I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, I am a textbook over-sharer.

The minute I finished the story of the epic adventure and they were laughing, I had a moment where I was kind of "oh..." on the inside.

It's not that I'm worried what they'll think about me, because I really, truly don't- I mean, really don't. If I cared what they thought I'd actually put effort into my appearance at work once in a while and bother with things like brushing my hair, wiping the crumbs off of my face, or bathing more often. Maybe I'd even pick the stuff out of my teeth occasionally.

No, what struck me was, "Hey! Maybe they don't want to know about your pet's pooping habits! Maybe no one cares about that time you saw a squirrel eating a chicken wing on the way to work (I did- for realsies!) Maybe, just maybe, no one wants to know how good you are at pretend tap dancing, dammit! Maybe they just listen because they have to!

Then I thought, "Duh- of course they want to hear every drop of goodness and wisdom that comes forth from your pie-hole, because you're awesome, Whiskey."

So...then I launched into telling them the fantastical tale of the time I found a dollar in a bus station bathroom, tucked neatly under the gelatinous bottom of a sleeping lady-hobo.

And they were mesmerized...



Hi, my name is Whiskey and I'm an over-sharer.

"Hi, Whiskey!"

Happy nearly Friday, my little shoe-lickers. Happy nearly Friday.


Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Much like a Hallmark Thanksgiving Special, but with more drinking and poo.

My friends Blondie and Hotpants did the whole Black Friday shopping thing last week.
This means that they woke up Friday morning before I had even gone to bed (considering I didn't go to bed until 3:00ish, that wasn't too difficult). They usually shop until 10:30 or so, then my girl Waffle and I drag our just-woke-up asses to meet them for "lunch". I say "lunch" because, in my world, anything eaten before noon is "breakfast", or at best "brunch".

So...since we met them at 10:45 for lunch at the mall, it makes perfect sense that we'd have three cocktails apiece before noon, right?

I should mention that both Blondie and Hotpants are real pistols to begin with. They regularly break into random songs, say inappropriate things to strangers, request sexual favors from strangers, talk too loudly and very often they spank people. So yeah, they're just like me.
On Black Fridays, however, they usually achieve a level of punchiness that would scare the bejeezus out of the uninitiated. They generally get coffee first, then while they're waiting in line at whatever store, they will begin prank-calling me and Waffle, generally starting about 4:00 in the morning. Usually some sort of hair-band song is involved, and this year the "blowing my nose" call was the featured act. It drives waffle nuts, but I LOVE these calls.

So...we're dealing with: 2 punch-drunk girls surving on no sleep and working on getting real-drunk; 1 sister of Blondie who puts up with all of us but still has that elusive quality called shame that the rest of us don't; Me, who had very little sleep, too much wine the previous night, and took half a muscle relaxer just for fun; and poor Waffle, our straight man/caretaker, who is a firecracker in her own way when we let her get a word in edgewise.

Once lunch was done and before our poor server had to kick us out for saying things like "finger-banging" and "butthole" and "twatmonkey" WAY too loudly and making pretty much everyone else there sorry that they didn't go to the Olive Garden, we decided to venture into the mall and get our shop on.

While we were wondering through Younkers (a Macy'sesque department store, FYI), Hotpants was looking at children's boots and laughed as she said that she didn't even know what size boots her two boys wear. This is totally acceptable as she has had a big plate of shit on her table lately, and the stress from what she's dealing with would make anyone a bit goofy.
But...being that we are the way we are, and that we know each other well enough to do such things, I LOUDLY piped up in the crowded store, "Well, you would probably know what size shoes your kids wore if you DIDN'T DRINK SO MUCH, YOU KNOW!"

Most people just tried to not make eye contact. A few shook their heads in that way Minnesotans do when they are secretly happy that we're not related to them.

A few minutes later as she was looking at blankets or something, I piped up, "Yeah, you would know if you needed a blanket if YOU WEREN'T SO DRUNK ALL THE TIME!"

When she commented on how much something cost, I bellowed, "If you DIDN'T SPEND ALL YOUR MONEY ON BOOZE, YOU COULD AFFORD TO BUY THAT FOR YOUR FAMILY."

I did this about 15 times, it never got old.

The best part was all the people not in on the joke, staring at their fellow shoppers, confused that they accidentally wandered into Wal-Mart somehow.

I love shopping.


Yesterday I had to take Bub's to the vet for his yearly shots. Since the reminder postcard I got said something about "fecal" or "stool", if I remember correctly (which I didn't), I assumed that they would need a fresh sample.
So, I saved Bub's stinky bag of joy from his morning constitutional. Double-bagged, such is the stink. When it was time to go, I put the bag in my purse. That's normal, right?

We walked to the vet (about 8 blocks away), and checked in. I thought it was odd that they didn't ask for the "sample", but I figured maybe the vet would. A few minutes later, Bubs got his shots, we chit-chatted a little, and then he said "see you in six months!" and walked out. Hmm.
I went out front to pay, and no mention was made of them needing the now-stinking through both bags and stinking up the waiting room bag of poo in my purse.
As I'm about to walk out, I decided to just ask. "Don't you need a stool sample?"
They looked at me blankly. "No we don't." was the answer.

I mumbled, "Oh, because I brought one, just in case."
(blank stares)
"Um, ok. Bye!"

And I walked out the door with the festering bag of feces still in my purse. I wondered what people would think if I was hit by a car or something on the way home and they found this gem among my belongings. I would forever be the girl who carried dog shit around in her purse.

Yay, me.


Gotta go now & get ready to go back to work today, my little stinky piles of drunky goodness. Happy Tuesday.


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Gnaw on a leg for me, will you? Oh, and you should have some turkey as well.

Lest you think that I'm an ungrateful brat who only gives her thanks when tips and/or pardons from the State are involved, here are a few things a gal like myself can be thankful for this year:
  • Still being gainfully employed, despite my deep, deep desire to be a stay-at-home mom to my furry turdlets.
  • Discovering I actually have some willpower by surviving a rather extreme digestive "cleanse"
  • From what I can tell, I have no more wrinkles this year vs. last.
  • My underpants all still fit.
  • The Mr. hasn't sold me on Ebay yet.
  • I managed to singlehandedly keep that struggling small business, IKEA, afloat.
  • I haven't had to go to the ER for foreign objects stuck in places they shouldn't be in a very long time.
  • I finally figured out what that funny smell was.
  • My ability to adapt to living amid construction, something I obviously am veeerrryyy comfortable with, given the complete standstill of "Operation Fix this Fucking House" (crosses fingers for 2010)
  • I've read at least one whole book this year. Woo!
  • I haven't had any teeth or toenails fall off in a while.
It's good to be thankful for the little things, right?

Have a good "eat until you fall asleep in the mashed potatoes or get explosive acid reflux, whichever comes first" day, my little nuggets of roasted birdy goodness. Happy whatever the hell day this is.


Friday, November 20, 2009

Zen and the art of bad poetry

Those who can, do.

Those who can't...haiku!!

Almost got hit by a car

On my way to work

Pay attention, you dumbass!


Bubs snuggles with me in bed

Butt shoved in my face

Please don't fart, Bubs. Please don't fart.


Oh, Mall of America

Your song calls my name

I assault you tomorrow.


Neighbor uses leafblower

Early in the morn

May he get penis herpes.


The deli dude flirts with me

Sorry guy, no go

I like men with ALL their teeth.


Happy Friday, my little seven-five-seven pieces of farty goodness. Happy Friday.


Thursday, November 19, 2009

Is it December yet? Is it December yet? Is it December yet? Is it...

It's official: In December I will be jetting (or Southwest Airlines-ing, but that really doesn't sound as glamorous now, does it?) to Chicago for a one-night stand with my bestest twatmonkey, GWEN!!!!!

Remember last time we met up?


I'm so freaking excited I could pee...

...oops. Nevermind.

(And Gwen, just because I called this a "one-night stand" doesn't mean you can roofie me and leave me in the dumpster with the feral cats like you did last time, OK?)

Hmmm...I wonder how many costumes I can fit in my carry on?


Sunday, November 15, 2009

I bet Emily Post never used a receipt at the bottom of her purse for kleenex, either.

I thought today would be a good day to brush up on my etiquette skills, given that my demeanor this weekend was starting to resemble one of the better episodes of the "Anna Nicole Smith Show".

I've been curled up on the couch all day reading Peg Bracken's 1960 gem, "I Try to Behave Myself", which pretty much has been my own personal mantra for the last 20+ years.

I try to behave myself, I do.
"Try" being the operative word here.

I love, love love Peg Bracken's books. Think of her as Martha Stewart meets Emily Post meets Lucille Bluth meets Kathy Griffin. She was sort of the "anti-housewife" housewife of the 60's & 70's, and she wrote a bunch of books, all still funny 30-40+ years later. Her "I Hate to Cook Book" is priceless, but we'll cover that another day. She's also Matt Groening's (creator of "The Simpsons") mom, which is all sorts of awesome.

Her brand of etiquette is one I can hitch my discount, one-eyed pony to. Try to be good. Try to do the right thing. Try to not make an ass of yourself every day.

A few of Peg's gems:

"...it is unwise of Victoria Goodhost to try a new recipe on guests, or to try any faintly out-of-the-way operation she's not wholly sure of. If she serves the Old English Pudding with Flaming Currants, but the currants won't flame, or Cherries Jubilee, and the cherries won't jube, the guests will be very embarrassed, as though they were watching their child flunk a piano recital, and they will wish they were elsewhere."
  • I once (and only once) had a sit-down dinner for 22 people at my house. Not having Ms. Bracken's advice firmly implanted in my head, I decided to "improvise" the menu. Not my best effort. Nope. But the eleventy-hundred bottles of wine strewn down the table made it all a bit more palatable, I hope. And, even though none of the invitees had gone to "finishing school", if it all sucked balls, they were very, very polite about it to my face.
"Actually, whether or not a woman should sit at a bar depends on the cut of her jib. If it is a wide one, it won't look so good on a bar stool, and she'd better take a table"
  • This makes me wonder- how does the "cut of my jib" look on a bar stool? Know your ass, ladies. Know. Your. Ass.
(on people who forget they've already met you):
"Once, on being introduced for the fourth time in five weeks to the same woman, I did this: "Look at me," I said. "Find some identifying trademarks. I wear my hair like this, you see. My ears are pierced, and I usually wear gold button earrings. My name is_______" and I pronounced it with great clarity. "I'm pointing this all out," I said, "in the hope that we'll never have to be introduced again." And we never were."
  • I've been introduced to one of the higher-ups at work probably 4-5 times, and they see me in the halls at work 2-3 times a week. Each time I encounter them they look at me with a blank face and no recognition whatsoever. I've even said "hi!" and they just walked faster and ignored me. I'm debating wearing clown shoes and a cowboy hat, or deeply picking my nose the NEXT time we're introduced in the hope of being more "memorable".
(on childless couples):
"They (couples with children) are, unfortunately prone to ask, 'Why don't you have any?' Now, there are, of course, many possible reasons- physiological, financial, professional, and just plain personal. (some childless couples regard the lives of childful couples as being dull beyond belief, bounded on three sides by Pablum, plastic pants, and Whinnie-the-Pooh, and on the south by Disneyland.) But childless people are more polite and don't say these things, nor do they ask questions like, 'Why in the word did you bother to produce a little creature like that?' which would be just as courteous."
  • Lord, how many times have I wanted to counter the "Why don't you have kids?" question with "because seeing how horribly yours behave and what they have turned you into made my ovaries shrivel up into raisins- thanks for asking!" Seriously- it's like asking someone how much they make or how often they have loose stools- you just don't do it, people.
(on throwing cocktail parties):
"What to Do if Someone Gets Slugged (schnockered) Anyway: Actually, the Goodhosts should have seen this. After all, they've known Chuck for a long time. Unfortunately, though, the traits that get you into a situation usually prevent your solving it. The Goodhosts' warm hearts were responsible for including Chuck in the first place, and now these same warm hearts keep them from calling the cops."
  • I'm pretty sure there have been a few times where it would have been easier to just call the cops to get someone to leave, especially at some of my friend's and my more notorious parties in the early 90's. Hell, just a few years ago at my friend Waffle's yearly Christmas debacle, a guy we've known forever not only got so wasted he was talking about blowing up her house, but he passed out and got teabagged (and not in the Earl Grey sense of the word), peed his pants on her couch, then ignored his pee-pants in the morning and hung out for a few hours before he finally decided to go home. Good times.

Peg gives me hope. Hope that I too can be more thoughtful when it comes to the ways of manners and such. I don't forsee a Cotillion in my future, but maybe, just maybe I can learn to resist the urge to laugh at inopportune moments, not address people I barely know as "twatmonkeys", send thank-you cards where I don't use the word "douche" in an affectionate manner, and maybe, just maybe, I'll remember which gloves to wear to the ladies luncheon at the country club.

Um, yeah. My money is on the twatmonkey, if we're betting here.

Happy Sunday, my polite little cherries jubilee ponies. Happy Sunday.


Friday, November 13, 2009

Light on content, heavy on the Bubs.

Random tidbits- much like the orange dust at the bottom of the bag of Cheetos, now clumped and sticky from the drunken sloshings from your glass of Franzia Mountain Chablis.

Now! New and improved! In that bullet form the kids are all so keen on these days!
  • When I was walking Bubs yesterday, he stopped to sniff obsessively and (of course) pee on a fire hydrant. And older dude in a tan trenchcoat walked by us as Bubs was mid-stream. Old dude looks at me, then at Bubs. He then says (still looking at Bubs tinkling), "Yeah, that's how I do it too" and continues walking. Huh. I hope that I don't get what he meant, but nonetheless I still feel bad for his neighbors.
  • One of my neighbors is getting a new roof. When I was walking Bubs a few days ago (seriously- this is all I do anymore), one of the roofers seemed to take a shining to me. I can't say I blame him- really, who can't resist a sexy broad wearing faded yoga pants, tennies so old they are considered "antique", a sweater with used kleenex hanging out of the pockets, no makeup and a mismatched knit hat? He appeared to be of Latin descent, and from what little Spanish I know, he seemed to be expressing his appreciation for my lovely bottom as well as requesting that I help him perform some sort of "job" with him. When I turned and gave him a look of disgust and said "Really?!? Seriously- REALLY??", he then called me an ugly dog. Or he was admiring Bubs. Or something. Really, my Spanish is limited to ordering fancy margaritas and navigating the deli counter at the Mexican grocery, so what the hell do I know- I'm no roofer.
  • Lesson learned: never turn one of your favorite pans on high with olive oil in it and then think you turned it off while you ran upstairs to pee. Also: never stop (after peeing) to snuggle with your kitty cats, put away a little laundry, stare at your pores and then pee again while said pan is still on the stove. We'll just say that my house smelled like a tire fire for three days, and my favorite pan now looks like this (and is currently on day 5 of soaking in the kichen sink):

  • I seem to have developed a bit of a birdseed addiction. I am currently going through about 20 pounds of it a week, and yesterday I tried to give the cashier at Petco a handie in exchange for some "really good seed". Had the cashier actually been male, this may have worked. My devotion to my kitties and wanting only the finest birds for them to bonk their heads against the glass porch door in a sad effort to eat the tweeters knows no bounds.
  • I get my groceries delivered. There, I said it. I'm not one to splurge on extravagant things- up until recently I always cut my own hair, I refuse to spend more than $40 on a pair of jeans, and I use my nail clippings and shed hair in craft projects that I sell on street corners. But this? This, I deserve. I go online Thursday night, tap-tap-tap in my order, and Friday morning a fresh-faced delivery dude greets me (usually still in my jammies, no bra, with serious pillow face) with a stack of green tote boxes filled with everything from kleenex, to eggs, to booze. This is the best thing I have ever done for myself, aside from that one time I gave myself the Nobel prize for snack-food themed literature. Anyways...they ("they" being the grocery wizards) seem to think it's funny to send me the latest issue of "Parent" magazine every few orders. And the answer is no- no they do not mean "animal parent". They actually mean "human parent", which is just plain stupid. I mean, the volume of boxed wine that I order should tell them that I am unfit to be responsible for something that will eventually hate me for not letting them get facial tattoos and move to Europe to join a tulip-farming commune. Wait- maybe the booze is exactly why they think I have kids. Again, I'm confused.
  • Not much else, just work, cooking, wining and dining with friends, thinking about finally unpacking from the San Fran trip, scratching itchy spots, and internet shopping.
Happy Friday, my little feathered nuggets of itchy goodness. Happy Friday.


Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Does this city make my ass look big?

So, yeah.
We were in San Francisco/Sonoma from Friday until yesterday, and it was eleventy hundred kinds of fun. Laid back, no real itinerary, eat like a queen with a tapeworm, drink wine like your life depended on it sort of fun. Sell all your possessions, buy a van, move there and get a job selling homemade vodka at a roadside stand sort of fun.

We rolled into Sebastopol to meet up with my sister & her husband, as they both work in town and she took half the day off to entertain us. After lunch at a local place that had the best hummus I've ever had the pleasure to shovel into my mouth, we headed off to Lynmar Winery since it was on the way to their house and even though all I heard was "Blah, blah, blah, WINERY", I guess that they also boast a great patio with lovely views:

(Yeah, I know we look alike- trust me, people tell us that ALL THE TIME.)

We drank wine, we discussed the commune we're starting when we win the lottery, we took in the views, and I bought a lovely bottle of Chardonnay. It was 70-something degrees, we were surrounded by some of the best scenery on the planet, and we were with people we actually like to be around- not a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon at all.

When we got back to her place, she bestowed upon me an article of clothing she had found and "had my name written all over it":
A kelly green terrycloth jumpsuit.
Yeah, I guess she "gets" me after 38 years of having to put up with me. I kept mentioning all evening how much I loved the ease of one-piece dressing, and threatened to work more jumpsuits into the regular rotation.

As the night progressed and the costume box was raided, this is what I desintegrated into:
Mavis the 74 year-old gambling addict.

Dinner was made: Scallop pasta with lots o'garlic & red pepper flakes, chickpea salad with bitter greens, balsamic & sundried tomatoes, good bread and lots and lots of good wine to wash it all down with. After dinner, we played Uno until our 5:00 AM wakeup that day finally caught up with us.

Did I mention how in love I am with Sis & Mr. Sis's pets?

Deep, deep, get-arrested-for-stealing-them love.

This is Jasper the border collie, who I dubbed "crazy face." He's not real smart, but he sure is cute & cuddly.

This is Bubs' new girlfriend, assuming that I can smuggle him to CA in my carry-on next time. Siouxie likes sweaters, wiggling her butt, rubbing her hiney on the carpet, and long walks on the beach. Turn ons: kibble and running after stuff. Turn offs: Cranky old lady cats and cold feet.

Speaking of cranky old lady cats, here's her butt that I drunkenly insisted on taking a picture of. I'm pretty sure that I justified it by saying I was going to e-mail it to Gwen. Sort of "kitty grandma porn" for her furry boys.

She's much cuter from this angle, dont'cha think? Well, at least this angle smells better...

When we were driving around Sebastopol the next day, we were near a street that my sister said we would probably like. I guess this dude makes all sorts of crazy sculptures out of junk, and a ton of people in the town have them in their front yards. This particular street had one in nearly every single yard, so we parked the car and meandered (as opposed to sauntered) about:

I love this one- the harried waitress. I'm guessing her name is Vera:


Which is real, and which is made of junk?
(Nope, I can't tell the difference either.)

That night, we went to dinner at a local place, Barley n'Hops. I had the sausage plate (insert any of 1,000 jokes here), and about 43 glasses of wine.

Here I am on the patio, basking in my blurry, drunky drunkyness:

The next day, we said goodbye and drove into San Francisco. We stayed in North Beach (sort of "little Italy") at the Hotel Boheme. This is Gwennie's hotel of choice when in SF as well, and I can see why, though Allen Ginsberg didn't haunt me while we were there like he did her, so I feel a wee bit cheated. Small (15 rooms), but right on Columbus Avenue in the heart of things with a fabulous little bakery next door, tons of great food within blocks, and cozy & chock full o'charm rooms:

This area of town was big with the Beat writers/poets in the 50's, and there are photographs all over the hotel documenting the history. This one was in our bathroom:

Holy balls, did we eat some food. Fabulous food. Piles of food. Mostly Italian, all delicious.
I didn't take pictures of our best meals, unfortunately, as I am shy about whipping out the camera and photographing my plate when strangers are sitting about 12 inches from me.
One of the stunners was lunch at a little cafe called Cafe Divine- the food was simple, but we both ordered pizzas that were fan-fucking tastic. Mine was piled high with caramelized onions, about 100 cloves of roasted garlic (yes, I still managed to get laid this trip, despite the odor), shaved grana padano and fried sage on a ultra-thin crust.

The best meal by far, however, was dinner that night at a place called Ristorante Ideale on a little side street near our hotel. It was warm, inviting, run by actual Italian people, and bustling on a Sunday night- which speaks volumes to me. We shared a half bottle of prosecco and two apps: Fresh mozzarella with tomatoes and arugula, and prosciutto-wrapped pears with fresh mascarpone. Sweet Jebus, I'm still thinking about that mozzarella app, though. Semi-firm on the outside, but creamy in a way that I've never experienced before on the inside. I think we both had our own little "come into the light" moments when we took the first bite. The pears w/prosciutto weren't exactly crap either: perfectly ripe bosc pears smeared with fresh, homemade mascarpone, and wrapped with some of the best prosciutto I've ever had in my life.

For entrees, the Mr. had seafood risotto, and I had the pappardelle with lamb ragu. A glass of verdicchio for him, a wine called cometa (a lot like a full-bodied chardonnay) for me. Dining really doesn't get any better than this: simple but amazingly high quality ingredients, great service, great dining room, and lingering over the meal with no one rushing you out the door.
I think our waiter took a shining to me, as when I said I was too full for dessert, he brought us out some fantastic hazelnut/chocolate gelato anyways, on the house. And when I ordered some Sambuca as an apertif, he gave me what he called a "double shot" (which was actually more like a triple), again- on the house.

I do that to men sometimes.

Here is one of the less-exciting but still delicious meals, eaten at sidewalk cafe on Columbus Avenue while we just watched this amazing city move all around us. I had a margherita pizza (again with a terrific crust- why are so many places in MN unable to do crusts this good? Why??) with some vino, the Mr. had a linguisa (spicy) sausage sandwich and a bowl of roasted eggplant soup with berry lemonade:

For dinner that night, we decided to stray from Italian, and since it was a two-hour wait for the fancypants Asian-fusion place, we decided on the quiet Thai restaurant a half-block away.
I look cranky here, but I think I was just thinking how grumpy I was that I've never had Thai this good at home. I've had good, but not like this. Tofu spring rolls, curried fish cakes, Rad Na noodles that were as fluffy as I've ever had with the perfect sweet/spicy balance. The Mr's pumpkin curry was spectacular. It's hard to describe how it was just...better, but try this: Compare how you feel when you get to go pee after riding an hour in a bumpy car, holding it. THEN think of how you feel when you finally get to pee after a four-hour plane trip, three bloody marys, one bottle of water, and turbulence, holding it because both air pottys were clogged.

Yup, kind of like that.

The mutilated remains of our meal, after I stopped mushing my face into my plate of noodles mumbling something about "making sweet sweet face love" to it:

Our after-dinner bar of choice both nights was Vesuvio, just a block or two away.
I loved this bar- I felt right at home among the clutter, weird arty types, eclectic art on the walls, no-nonsence service and no-bullshit attitude.
Here I am in a blurry pic, trying to kiss the bum on the neon sign in the window, such was my adoration for this place:

My last pic, which pretty much sums up all that I love about San Francisco: a light installation comprised of book-shaped lights that flickered randomly like birds fluttering about, against a building-sized mural depicting some of the history of North Beach:

I love you, San Francisco. I miss you already.


Thursday, October 22, 2009

Ahh...Go-go's- you were so very accurate in your little homage to a brief break from the work day.

(A somewhat short, but still...) VACATION!!!!!

I'm off to San Francisco until Tuesday for a much-needed break from the futility of pushing rocks uphill, AKA "work".

I get to see my sister for two days in the place that people like myself (read: lushes) view as our own little Bethlehem: Wine country, CA. Oh, lordy- I feel my liver pickling as I type, and it feels oh so good. Mmmm...pickles.

I bought a new camera today, so you've got that to look forward to. I have this habit of accidentally taking a picture of my crotch whenever I get a new camera, such is my technological awkwardness. So, yeah.

Also, I have next week off, so once we get back I'll actually be able to settle into the couch in my one-piece footed jammies with the rabbit ears and FINALLY get caught up on the 2,756 posts from y'all in my reader. I've really, really, really been trying to keep up lately, but between buying modest underpants for the kitties (they're shy), trying to figure out if I really, truly need to concern myself with Bubs' anal glands, and making at least a half-assed effort to stay employed- there just aren't enough hours in the day, it seems. My toes aren't just going to wax themselves, you know! I've been a bad friend, and I need to make it up to you. If you want, we can get a little tipsy on peach schnapps and accidentally make out (topless- offer applies to both the ladies and the gents) after a playful pillow fight. I owe you that much, I think.

Gotta go- I'm still trying to decide what to pack. I can't remember- is it still OK to wear a tutu with moon boots after labor day? How about Monkey fur hot pants with a parka?

So many decisions still to make...

I'll send you a postcard, my little foggy nuggets of West Coast goodness. Happy Friday!


Friday, October 16, 2009

Jesus saves...money at yard sales!

This past weekend, my girl Blondie and I had another of what is now seeming to be a yearly event: The Big Fucking Yard Sale.

Last year, we swore we'd never do it again. Ever.

Two months later we already had enough crap accumulated to outfit the entire cast and set of The Real World: Des Moines and we decided that maybe we needed to give it another go. I figured that if things got really bad, she and I could start mixing whiskey into our coffee cups while we sat in her yard. If things got really bad we could do what we did at our first sale: start trying on all of our early 90's now-way-too-tight clubwear over our clothes while standing in her yard, entertaining both ourselves and our customers. The sparkly hotpants/furry suede jacket over jeans and a sweater with hooker heels combo was a real hit, if I remember correctly.

Yard/tag/rummage/garage sales are strange, strange things- something you totally understand if you've had one, something you couldn't possibly comprehend if you haven't. Blondie & I tend to take a lighthearted approach to it all. We write honest things on the price tags like, "Bring out your inner hoochie!" and "Worn once but then I got too fat for it" and "Great evening bag, hardly used- just the right size to put your coke in!" We throw old cutoff jean shorts and things missing crucial parts in the "free box", just to see if we get any takers.

We also spend a fair amount of the day reminiscing about where and when we wore certain articles of clothing, Blondie very often correcting my fuzzy memories with her own razor-sharp ones. That girl will remember not only what she was wearing when she went to the Love and Rockets concert in '92, but she'll remember if you had a zit on your chin that night and exactly how many times you tried to drunkenly hug the bartender. Me? I remember what I wore, but I very often forget my husband's middle name & birthday so I'm pretty much useless here. I'm lucky to have her- she'll come in handy when we're 80, widowed, and all living in a Florida rambler like the Golden Girls.
The best line of the weekend, as related to this "clothing trip down memory lane": (Blondie thinking about a vintage dress that she sold and delivered to me with a totally deadpan face) "Yeah, I'm positive that stain on that dress was spooge. I'm positive."

We've learned over the years to expect the "weirdo" to "normal" people ratio to be in the 6:4 range- for some reason the prospect of buying my mismatched glassware and exercised-bad-judgment-but-forgot-to-return-them-in-time clothing purchases is too hard to resist.
And, whoo baby- they were out in full force this weekend. Yard sales have a strange gravitational pull on certain groups- The mentally ill, cranky old people, middle-aged singles hoping to find something that will get them air time on the "Antiques Roadshow" and thereby gaining a leg up on the other eharmony folks, hoarders, criminals, fetishists and semi-toothless people are especially sensitive to this phenomenon.

Lord knows, I love me some weirdos. A few of my favorites from this weekend, or as I like to call them- "Whiskeymarie's parade of new best friends"
  • When I pulled into Blondie's driveway at 8:30am to get set up for our 9:00am "opening", there was some dude standing in the driveway. Fucking early-birds. He wanted to know if we had any antiques or "anything he'd be interested in". Dude- I don't even KNOW YOU, how the hell would I know what you'd be interested in, other than Loverboy Albums and air guitar, judging from your haircut. Man, this dude was persistent. He kept getting in our way as we tried to unload the garage, all the while saying over and over, "Yeah, it's a lot of work setting up a yard sale, isn't it?" It took every ounce of my willpower to not punch him in the moose knuckle screaming, "YEAH, AND IT'S REALLY FUCKING HARD TO DO IT WITH SOME DOUCHEBAG IN THE WAY!!" Big surprise to him- it turns out we decided to not sell our Faberge' egg collection and George Washington's original wooden dentures at this particular yard sale. Turns out we were selling crap that, while nice crap, was crap to us nonetheless. And, oh yeah- I didn't just fall of the turnip truck, dude. If I had anything of "big" value, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't slap a piece of masking tape on it with a price tag of $1.00 that you'll try to talk me down to 75 cents on anyways, idiot.
  • Earlybird #2- the obnoxious turd-lady who kept trying to pull crap out of boxes as we pulled them out of the garage and actually pulled clothing off the full clothing racks that Blondie was trying to wrestle out the door of her house, AS SHE WAS TRYING TO CARRY THEM. Seriously- this woman needed a punch in the face and a few more social skills.
  • Earlybird #3, who we have dubbed "Crazy Elvis/Jesus lady." In the mere 15-20 minutes that I spent with her, I found out all about her "crippled" sister at home (her words, not mine) repeatedly, her "crippled" sister's love of Elvis, her own recovery from a stroke, and I learned all about her lord and savior Jesus Christ. All. About. It. She got the Jesus ball rolling with an Elvis story, coincidentally. She "heard" that Elvis once corrected someone who called him the "King" by saying that there was only one "King", and that was Jesus. She really, really, REALLY wanted Blondie and I to feel the same way about this as she did. She mentioned her own "saving" with a deliriously spaced-out look on her face, and continued to go on about how being "saved" saved her life, failing to notice the looks on mine, Blondie's and Earlybird #2's faces. I helped her haul her bags to her car. When I was putting them in the trunk, she mentioned how the blankets she had in there were for homeless people she saw on the street, and then she offered me her copy of the book "A Purpose-Driven Life" that she had in there as well, and asked me if I had been "saved." Biting my inner sassmouth's tongue, I told her that, since I was lucky enough to have a good job that I could buy my own copy and she should give hers to one of those homeless folks. She looked at me like I had single-handedly cured leprosy. This lady was awesome.
  • The really old dude I didn't notice until he came up to me to pay for his stuff. When he handed me a pair of handcuffs (Blondie's), a few sparkly barettes and a coffee mug, I had to pause for a second. Um...what the hell? I think this is one of those things best left not thought too hard about.
  • And the best one of all- the old lady with the walker (complete with tennis balls on the ends) picking out clothes for her granddaughter. She needed help picking stuff out, and as it was the end of the second/last day of the sale and I was bored, I was happy to volunteer. She was sifting through the racks, and she asked me if I was married. "Yup", I replied. "Thirteen years!" She then asked if we had kids, and much to her dismay I said no. "Why not?" she asked. "Um...because we don't want them? We have two cats and a dog though!" I could see the monumental disappointment on her face. "Well," she said, "they sure are nice to have around when you're old, you know." Subject dropped, she kept shopping. "Who wore these tiny clothes?" she asked (for the first of several times). "Most of these are mine", I told her. She turned, gave me a once-over and said, "Yeah, I can see that you USED to be a good-looking girl." (insert blank stare and muffled giggles from me here) "Who wore all these nice clothes?", she asked next. "Um, I did. Back when I had to dress up for work", I replied. She looked at me- hooded sweatshirt, jeans, black Ugg-style boots, sweater cap and braids in my hair- "So, how come you don't dress up anymore? Not even for your husband?" I just hung my head in shame and said, "Well, I wear a chef coat and black pants every day for work, and we don't go out as much..." She made me tell her where I work and then asked for my work phone number so she could come and eat in our public dining room sometime. When I wrote down my last name and work number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her, she asked, "So your name- that's Italian?" (I guess VonPartypants sounds Italian- who knew?) "Um, actually it's my husband's family's name and it's Corsican, not Italian." Big pause. She looks at me...then she goes..."So you're Catholic then?"
"So you're Catholic then"

Man, I hate having yard sales.

Man, I love having yard sales.

Anyone want to come and sit in lawn chairs with me at Blondie's next year? I promise cocktails and first dibs on the free box to you- yes, YOU. Deal?

Happy Whiskeymarie's Back Day, Bitches!- my hardly-used and a bargain at 50 cents little nuggets of yard sale goodness. Happy WBD.


Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Monkeypox, schmonkeypox.

Dear whomever bothers to stop in anymore:

I know you're tired of hearing how annoyingly busy I am at work and why I've seemingly abandoned you, so hows about we pretend that I am off battling the Monkey Warrior Tribes of Eastern Estonia? I am Captain Whiskeymarie of Wussy Infantry #459. We carry q-tips as weapons, and use banana muffins, chocolate-covered bananas and banana pudding as bait. So far we haven't any prisoners, but we've all gained 5 pounds.

Wish us luck.

Yours in battle,

Monday, September 28, 2009

Five point seven five

5.75 days on Operation De-Pollutionation.

That's how long I made it. Not the 7 days of clean living and horrifyingly healthy eating that I had hoped for, but a record for a cheese and pork product lovin' gal like myself.

A summary:

Days 2-4 were HARD. It's funny how no sugar, no caffeine, hardly any carbs and no crystal meth will just suck all the energy right out of you. My legs felt like lead weights by the end of the day. I was spacey, distracted and a little cranky. Day four found me yelling at a student in the walk-in cooler, and I may have "accidentally" pushed your grandma down a flight of stairs for walking too slow.

On the hunger side of things, days 1 & 2 were pretty easy- I wasn't too hungry, my willpower was fine. By days 3 & 4, however, I found myself staring at food a little too long and a little vulture-like. I think it was making my students uncomfortable. As hard as it was though, I didn't cheat, which is saying a LOT.
Towards the end of day 4 and up until I had to eat birthday lasagna and cake at my in-laws on Saturday, it all got better. I wasn't hungry, I had a bunch of energy, I felt light as air, my allergies were almost nonexistent, and my jeans were getting surprisingly loose.
However, after the lasagna and cake, and after I said "Fuck it, I might as well have some wine" later on, and after pizza for dinner last night I can't say I feel the same. Nor does my digestive tract. It called me this morning and requested a new home. I denied the request, but promised to work on it's living conditions. I'm thinking of buying it a TV.

On to the poo:
Sadly, nothing explosive to report. The um...backup that I was experiencing remedied itself rather unremarkably, and I experienced none of the life-affirming, apparition-seeing miracle poos that I had expected.
The most interesting thing about my adventures in poo last week was that it was very, very...colorful. Think beet juice one day, that hellish broccoli soup another, and lots of carrots the next. I can't say that I've ever pooped in technicolor before. That was kind of fun.


I felt so good doing this (overall) that I'm doing it again this week, at least Monday-Friday. I'm realistic enough to know that I maybe can't eat like a vegan monk 24/7, but I'm pretty sure I can do it during the week at least one more time. I'm going to quit posting about it exclusively, but I promise if I am blessed with the "come towards the light" poo, I'll let you know.

In other news...

I finally got curtains in my kitchen:

(Insert cock joke here)

And Bubs finally learned how to use the computer.

As soon as his typing improves, he'll be blogging for me. Finally that lazy moocher can earn his keep. Expect lots of posts about his wiener and why the cats should be given to hobos.

That's all for now, my starving little broccoli turds- happy Monday!


Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Day two, not to be confused with #2

Quick update for day two of Operation De-Pollutination:
  • I'm reeeeeaaalllyyy tired and kind of a zombie- too bad human flesh is on the "do not eat" list right now. Dang.
  • Speaking of eating, I think I would eat rancid eggs covered in cat litter before I'd eat that broccoli soup again- ever. Luckily, tomorrow has a different menu.
  • This cleanse is making me painfully aware of all the grazing and mindless eating I do- some at home, but mostly at work. I had to stop myself about 45 times from just popping something in my pie-hole without thinking about it.
  • That said, I made it through the whole day today without deviating from the plan (aka cheating on my colon). No snacks, no sneaking a bite here or there. Trust me, no one is more surprised about this than me.
  • And no- for the first time in many, many years, I did not poop today. I'm worried that my body is saving it all up for some big, fireworks-esque display. I'm having a tablespoonful or so of olive oil tonight like Other Gwen recommended. This scares me very much- please add me to your prayers, chants, sacrifices or whatever the hell ritual you people do when you want something to happen/not happen. Pray for my safe journey to the other side of the bathroom...
  • That is all, I'm just so very tired right now............................................................Zzzzzz...

Monday, September 21, 2009

I just realized that I ate vegan ALL DAY. Lord have mercy.

Day one of Operation De-Pollutination went just fine.

What I ate:
*Breakfast was a genuinely yummy blueberry-almond milk smoothie (with protein powder) . I was worried I'd be so ravenous by lunch that I'd start sneaking cat treats, but not so much. I was fine.
*My mid-morning "snack" was coconut water, something I had to go to the co-op to find. It is $5.99/liter. Ugh. But, it tastes good and it was exactly what I needed to help me make it to lunch without my belly rumbling loud enough to make my coworkers think that I'm keeping a wild boar under my desk as a pet. I predict that this will be the first thing I get sick of consuming during O.D-P (yeah, you know me). Just a hunch.
*Lunch was delicious. No, I'm not kidding. I had a salad with greens, avocado, cucumber, and a fabulous carrot/ginger dressing that I am currently in love with. I may or may not have made out with it. I may or may not have taken it out behind the middle school and got it pregnant.
*Afternoon snack: raw almonds and pepitas. I'm not much of an afternoon snacker anyways, so this was fine. Plus, I like raw almonds and pepitas, so...yeah.
*Dinner was the green soup pictured in the previous post. It was OK. Not great, but OK. I've never found broccoli soup to be anything worthy of too many descriptors anyways, so I'll just say "it filled me up" and leave it at that. Well, that and I'm a little scared of what it will look like tomorrow, you know- in the can. I promise to keep you updated.

Beyond that, I have consumed 100+ ounces of water, peed every 14 seconds, drank lemon water first thing in the morning, not been all that hungry, and I feel pretty darn good.

So far.

Let's see how I am after 5-6 days without wine.

So, kind of boring so far, but I have a feeling that things are going to start getting interesting soon. And by "interesting" I mean "hungry, poopy and strange."

Happy Monday, my soon-to-be-cleansed, adorable little digestive tracts. Happy Monday.


Sunday, September 20, 2009

The other Gwennie in my life, not even remotely as much fun as the first one.


I'm reading this month's Esquire, and one of their writers wrote an article about Gwenyth Paltrow's website, Goop. The author spent a few weeks living his life as if Gweneth were his tall, blonde, pale, almighty lord and savior, and that every word typed from her long, graceful fingers was enrobed in gold and should serve as a guide to life. Yes, it was tongue-in-cheek, but he actually did some the things she wrote about and seemed none the worse for wear because of it.

Do I love Gwenyth Paltrow? No. Do I loathe Gwenyth Paltrow? No. Other than her obviously superior genes that allow her to remain lithe and willowy into her 30's, unlike many of us that are less "lithe and willowy" than we are "squishy and teetering", I really have no reason to dislike her. In fact, I dare say we would probably like each other well enough, given ample wine.

The thing is, the one item he did that got my attention was a 7-day "cleanse" that Lady G recommended for post-overindulgent grossness. The author followed it, felt better, and though he went back to his wicked, gluttonous ways after the fact, he said he actually felt better than before he started. Much better.

How does this apply to me, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, underpants whisperer extrordinaire, you ask?

Well, lately my life seems like an endless whirl of overindulgent grossness. Multi-course dinners, bread, cheese, butter, wine, dessert, huge breakfasts on the weekends, wine, more cheese, more wine, red meat, pork, how about another glass of wine, and then...more. And more. And more...

You get it.

Am I going to stop enjoying such eye-rolling, tongue-lolling pleasures such as lamb bacon (holy hell- that was good), creme brulee', cheese to infinity, mid-rare beef and Doritos dipped in duck fat?

Hells to the no.

But...even I need a break. My insides feel as polluted as the gutter outside of a college bar on a Saturday night. I feel like I have gravy coursing through my veins. I worry that calculating my cholesterol would require an abacus, a Nobel-prize winning biologist, three calculators and fourteen days. I fear that my heart will give out the next time I squeal with glee after getting a double-yolker egg.

(waving white flag) I give.

Now what?

Well, for a week I'll say goodbye to things like last night's dinner:

(beet salad with chickpeas, feta and citrus vinaigrette. Balsamic-chile marinated chicken on scallion-fresh corn polenta with tomato-roast corn vinaigrette)

And say hello (!) to tomorrow's dinner:

(broccoli-spinach soup. That's it. Just soup.)

I'll also say goodbye to a bunch of cash, as groceries for just PART of this week's delights came to $111.00. Ugh.

Oddly enough, however, I'm kind of excited for this. Will I make it all week? Will I start hallucinating from hunger? Will I get arrested for attacking a small child for their sweaty handful of M&M's?

Only time will tell.

I guess I'm putting this all out there so that if I go down, I go down in a blaze of public humiliation. Y'all can witness the very moment (or close to it) when I lose my shit completely and scarf an entire box of Cheez-its and an entire family-size pizza in a record-breaking 32 seconds. You can be there to shame me, 'cause I know how much you like to witness apocalyptic failures. In advance, I say...you're welcome.

I'll be posting every day throughout "The Cleanse", but be prepared- you're getting it all. The good, the bad, and probably the poo. Hi- have we met? I'm Whiskey and I love to overshare. I also love one-eyed cats and incontinent monkeys, but that's neither here nor there.

If this kills me, make sure Classic Gwen gets my celebrity underpants collection as well as my husband. I owe her that much for cheating on her.


Sunday, September 13, 2009

You can tell Marge, the temp, that her services are no longer needed. Call security if she cries.



You're still here? Aren't you hungry by now? I mean, it's been 18 days since I left you here with little more than a roll of toilet paper, a half-eaten box of good n' plentys and a bottle of off-brand strawberry schnapps. Oh, I see- you've chewed off your own foot out of hunger- good thinking. Most people (amateurs) would start with a hand, but you're a clever one- always thinking, you are. You always wanted a wooden foot anyways, right?

I'm sorry to have wandered off like that. I took a left turn at the Piggly Wiggly and found myself hopelessly lost. Eighteen days later, here I am- sunburned, starving, barefoot and more familiar with the mating habits of raccoons than I really care to be.

How did I keep myself busy, you ask? Well, other than singing old Barry Manilow tunes and picking at debris under my toenails, I did the following:
  • Celebrated 13 years of marital marriage with the Mr. - We had a lovely and lavish dinner here, and as you probably guessed, much of our conversation over dinner was about which pet we'd eat first if we had to. Sorry Bubs, with those "chicken leg" hind legs and "frog leg" front legs, it was no contest. Such romantics, we are.
  • Put way more effort into my job than I'm used to. When did work become so much work?
  • Ignored the internets, my cell phone, e-mails, actual mail, smoke signals, sirens and messages in bottles. It was uncomfortable and itchy to do so, but satisfying nonetheless.
  • Cooked and cocktailed. A lot:
(looks like boobies. Tee-hee- boobies.)

  • Wrangled:

  • And, um...not much else. It was gloriously boring.
Sorry to leave y'all hanging like that. I'm not dead, I'm not leaving you, and I'm not infectious anymore.
Now, go make yourself useful and get me a sandwich- I'm hungry, dammit. Bring me a glass of wine and some clean underpants while you're at it. Now!

Happy September, my sunburned and flaky little frog legs. Happy September.