Is there such a thing as bad Whiskey?

Some of the bad* things I've done in my life, briefly (much like the underpants):

• Stole a 5-cent candy lipstick from a convenience store
• Repeatedly prank-called our substance-addled and anger management therapy candidate choir teacher in junior high school with my friend, M.
  
• Got detention in 6th grade, thereby forever tarnishing my badge as School Patrol Co-Captain FOREVER, according to our obviously gay but married and angry supervisor.
  
• Globbed lotion on the hairbrush of that bitchy, frizzy-haired blonde girl at summer camp, which resulted in her throwing a hissy fit of epic proportions, landing all of us sharing the room in big-assed trouble. I never confessed- bitch deserved it.
  
• Took $5 from my Mom's wallet once
• Peed on the lawn of a church
• Commited statutory rape once- he was 17, I was 19.
• Ate all the cookies, said the dog did it.
  
• Gave the Mister my nasty, nasty stomach flu.
  

*You all know I save the REALLY bad things for real posts and my therapist. Duh.

Happy Thursday, my lying, cheating, cookie-eating balls of anger. Happy Thursday.

All rumbly in my tumbly

Dear stomach flu/foodbourne illness/whatever parasite I caught eating that sandwich off the floor of the e-coli ward at the hospital:

I am not at all happy that you made me spend all of Sunday night on my bathroom floor, using a towel as a pillow and a robe as a blanket in-between high-pressure barfing that made my stomach hurt so much that I contemplated removing it then and there with a pair of toenail clippers. The whole "chills then sweaty fever-y" stuff was charming too. Even while it was happening, I kept thinking of the scene in "Trainspotting" where Ewan MacGregor is trying to kick the junk, minus the whole dead baby crawling on the ceiling thing. It was charming- even more so at 5:00 in the morning.

I'm not too happy that you made me miss work Monday- a very important day this week as I had some very big things going on at work and really needed to be there. The whole "not being able to get off the couch except when I needed to get to the bathroom in which case I kind of walked/half-dragged my carcass upstairs, only to be so exhausted that I had to rest a bit before venturing back down the stairs and back to the couch, which now has a permanent indent from my sicky ass? Well, that kind of sucked.

I'm also a bit peeved that you tricked me into thinking I was fine to go to work Tuesday, but once I got there you made me so queasy, tired and rumbly-jumbly in my tummy that I was worried that I had accidentally ingested a family of angry ferrets. The whole "not being able to walk 10 feet without sweating, getting so pale that I was nearly invisible and having to use an oxygen tank" was a bit much, don't you think? If I was just going to go home anyways, why send me in in the first place? This was yet another very important day at work for me, and I'm pretty sure my coworkers now resent me and think I was faking it. I will forever be branded with a scarlet "A" for Asshole.

I'm feeling a bit better today, and I'm going to attempt work again. We'll see how it goes.

I will thank you for one thing, Sir Stomach Flu. There was a few times there where I was worried that you were going to bestow the ultimate humiliation on me- one that I managed to avoid even through elementary school and that one time I ate an entire Little Caesar's Pizza myself in college. I thank you for sparing me this shame, though a few times yestarday during my brief stint in the workplace I had my doubts that you had my back.

Dear Stomach flu, I thank you for not making me spontaneously shit my pants. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I owe you one. Also, a small woo! to you for not making me barf all over the conference table yesterday. I and my coworkers thank you. I encourage you to do the same today.

But you still suck, Sir Sicks-a-lot. And I hate you. Good-bye!

XO

Waffle all you want, baby. Waffle away.

A brief weekend recap as I planned on having a relaxing day making out with my laptop (no tongue), but an office remodel going on elsewhere in my house for much of the day sent me back into 1998 when everyone was sad and poorly dressed because they couldn't read blogs and had no internet shopping.

In bullet form, because I know how much you hate it when I write my posts in grenade form:

• Me & Blondie went to the MOA on Saturday, and it was PACKED. We had to park on the roof of the parking ramp, wade through snowbanks to get in (I clomped right through, up to my knees- I'm an idiot), and hurl ourselves into the undulating mass of sweaty mouth-breathers and screaming kids. We started keeping track, and had we been using bingo cards Miss Blondie would be going home with the $24.87 jackpot with her four corners of "dudes with wonky eyes". I would have the lowly second prize of a packet of tomato seeds from the dollar store as all I could have marked off my card was "crazy but sweet deaf-mute dude that I recognized from somewhere else but can't remember where" and "everyone in Arden B. is going to think I farted because that baby has a poopy diaper and I just walked into the stink". Still- it was fun, I scored some great deals, and we had sushi and booze and eventually forgot all about how much we hate children. Kidding! Really, though- I think Saturday rendered me sterile as we couldn't walk 10 feet without passing a screamer- whatever is left of my ovaries sent me a note informing me that they are switching careers and becoming bellybuttons. Whatever- three would be cute.
• Later that evening, home and comfy with Sancerre sloshing around in my belly, I went upstairs and sat in front of the com-pu-tor. I paused, and then I said out loud to no one in particular, "no good can come of this" and turned it off. I think such a rare occurrence should be noted- Me: 1, Drunk blogging: 0
• Me and the Mr. watched not just ONE, but TWO Infomercials for Time-Life music collections. These things are like deep-fried, crack-covered bacon & cheese nuggets to us- we won't ever actually buy "Romantic hits from the 70's", but for some reason we can't get enough of the commercials. Maybe it's Tony Orlando's mesmerizing mustache, maybe it's that every time that one Lobo song comes on we both go "Lobo!!". I don't get it either. If I had any pride or shame I wouldn't even mention that we had already seen one of them before, yet willingly sat through it again. Luckily, I have neither. Please send help.
  
• Speaking of bacon, I had a bacon waffle for breakfast today at Jay's. Yes, oh sweet baby jeebus YES, it was as good as you think it would be. A not-too-sweet waffle with crisp bacon nestled inside with a dollop of barely sweetened whipped cream and just a drizzle of maple syrup. I've never come so close in my life to sexually assaulting a waffle.
  
• Otherwise, in no particular order: cleaning, dusting, much sleeping, more wine, Pizza Luce, Weeds season 3, training for the kitty summer olympics, plucking stray hairs, going to Menards, playing dress-up, collecting cat dust bunnies, shoveling, mucho laundry, resisting the urge to pick at things on my face, a wee bit of cooking, talking to strangers and running with scissors.
  

Happy Sunday, my little bacon-waffle loving mall walkers. Happy Sunday.

XO

Holy crap, unholy crap.

This is a story about poo. You've been warned.

My beloved readers, I have mentioned before that I enjoy the marginally clean comforts of a semi-private water closet at my place of employment. This fact brings me immeasurable and disproportionate joy in my otherwise pedestrian existence. Having a golden key to a private crapper is my version of getting invited to the party of the year at Clive Owen's house, except there's no party, no Clive, and the only decorations are some dusty fake daisies in a basket that some hopeful soul brought in years ago to give the place a "feminine" touch.
Some of you that work in adult, sanitary, modern office complexes and have things like "expense accounts" and "windows" may not understand why I would take the time to boast about such a monumentally lame thing, but if you worked where I do- a public institution of higher learning- you would get it. The "public" restroom nearest my "VIP" restroom has such a high volume of use by such a wide variety of ladyfolk that I regularly hear reports of "it was the only stall that didn't have puke in it" or "it looked like someone just threw a bag of shit at the wall". I haven't set foot in there in a long, long time, but when I imagine it in my mind, it looks like what would happen if you opened a cat food cannery inside the monkey cage at the zoo.

The private can is a small joy in my life, just shut up and let me have it, OK?

So...
I clicked the key in the lock the other day and entered into the private, quiet, and surprisingly roomy institutional terlet that I hold so dear.
Because I share this restroom with fellow culinary personnel and other various, random staffers who have cleverly discovered that the key for this room is the same key that opens many, many doors in our building (including, but not limited to: classrooms, kitchenettes, storage closets and the tomb of the unknown janitor), I started to do what I always do before perching my bum on the elongated bowl, which is to check the seat for any abnormalities such as stray hairs or miniscule crustaceans. "Peek before you pee" is my motto. So is "No no Cheetos in the nose", but that's neither here nor there.
I approached the porcelain bus with a full bladder and a scrutinizing eye.

That's when I saw it.

The giant, so dark that I actually made note of how dark it was mass of evil sat in the bowl, perched on the little ledge looking at me, defiantly. There was no smell, no "spray", and no other visible signs that this dark matter had not just dropped from the sky into my blessed and holy space from some alien being trying to mess with my head and mess with my crapper. It sat there proudly, staring at me in that way hobos do right before they start humping my leg and grabbing for my purse. I know this look, and it scares me.

I had to make a decision as I was now in the unfortunate position of having entered the room- thereby creating the possibility that there may have been a witness to my having been present in the same vicinity as the offending object, and therefore bringing about the possibility that I may have produced the nugget of evil myself. Crap.

I decided to just flush the beast away to a better, happier place where it could roam free and be reunited with it's poopy bretheren.
So, I flushed.
Nothing.
I flushed again.
Nada.
Fine. One more time- third time's the charm, right?

It wouldn't budge. I swear I heard it giggling, mocking my efforts.

I flushed, and flushed and flushed again. Round abouts the 14th try, I saw a crack in its facade.
It moved. Just a little.

One push of the button, one final woosh of water, and the tremendously terrifying turd broke free and slid away- saving me from possible humiliation and the probably permanent title of "Princess Poo".

I breathed a sigh of relief. Big mistake.

It hit me like a pile of roadkill in 100-degree heat. Like raw, rotten hamburger covered in fermented gym socks. Like the collective armpit stink on the last day of Woodstock.

The smell.

By disturbing the poo's final resting place, I had unleashed the hounds of hell. The smell was unlike any poo before or ever shall be. It filled the 5' x 8' space so quickly and potently that I had little time to think before the stench would permeate my clothing and skin and I would have to spend the remainder of the day dealing with everyone around me sniffing suspiciously and wondering if I had a glandular problem.

Reputation be damned, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. There was no way I would be able to spend even one more second in that foul, fetid stinkbox no matter how urgent my need to pee was. I ran out into the hall, the heavy door shutting firmly behind me.

I had escaped the poo of Lucifer and the mighty fog that accompanied it. I quickly looked around for any witnesses that would need "disposing" of later on in some sort of mafia-esque fashion involving piano wire and a cattle prod - all clear.

Knowing I couldn't face yet another scene of carnage so soon, and knowing that only months of aromatherapy and psychotherapy would erase the memories of this horrifying day, I took a sharp left and walked the past the public restroom, my bladder whimpering a little.

Nearly a block and a half later (it's a big building) I settled my bare bum onto the clean seat of the only other semi-private loo and tinkled away, relieved and happy with the memory of "The Day of the Poo" already starting to fade.

The end.

Share your blog, share your cookies.

Once again it is time for Blogshare, an interesting concept started by -r- : Bloggers could sign up and have a totally anonymous post of theirs published in a top secret location, and in turn they would publish an anonymous post on their blog. A full list of participants is HERE.

Y'all know most of my secrets: my shameful and crippling addiction to snack foods, my unrequited love for John Malkovich, my inability to both whistle and snap, and such and such. But I do think it's interesting to have something out there that no one knows is written by me, and I'm sure the anon (I don't even know who it is) blogger posting here today thought the same thing. Sometimes people confess secrets in Blogshare, sometimes they write about people they otherwise can't, sometimes they tell embarrassing stories. Today's post from an anon scribe is more of the "secret" variety.

So today I give to you, my friends, a post written not by me, but some other soul out there in the world. Be kind and don't swear at them or make inappropriate sexual advances the way you normally would with me:

I am depressed. Not hide-the-sleeping-pills and get heavy medication depressed, but just a normal, terrible mood depressed. The kind of depressed that makes getting out of bed challenging, makes being polite to people nearly impossible, makes me moody and grouchy and irritable.

I've always been the happy one. The girl who cracks jokes and smiles and sees the humor in even the most dire of situations. But lately I can't be that girl. I can't find joy in anything. I fake it, though. For my husband, my family, my friends, I pretend like I'm still doing okay, like I still see the funny and the silly and enjoy the ridiculous.

I don't want them to worry, to ask me how I'm doing in that tone of voice. I don't want them to think less of me. So I pretend like I'm still me, like my world isn't tumbling down around my ears. I cry in the shower, where no one can hear or see me.

And then I meet friends for drinks and force smiles.

I don't want to pretend any more. I don't want to be this sad, moody person anymore, either. I want to be myself again.

But I don't know how.

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

I'll be back tomorrow, folks.

XO

Monkey dreams and Dorito nights.

I realized today that 99% of the time I am able to naturally wake up without having to use the dreaded alarm clock. I work later in the day, so getting less than 9 hours of sleep just seems like I'd be passing up on the Universe's bounty, and we all know that makes baby Jeebus cry. I want to laze around in bed until 9-10 or so, and I'm sure that you only want what's best for me too. You're givers like that, and I thank you.

Unfortunately for me, however, the mornings are about the only time I can get anything productive done like waxing the cats or flossing my toes. I've reached a point in my housekeeping, personal hygiene, and overall productivity (or lack thereof) where some big decisions need to be made: Continue enjoying the happy sleep time that the Gods of Awesome have seen fit to bestow upon me, or (shudder) start employing the annoying "EEEE-EEEE-EEEE" of modern technology and drag my groggy ass out of bed and actually accomplish something more than my daily tofu/chickpea scramble and a cup of tea before noon? Against my better (yet still marginally poor) judgment and love of pillows, I think I know the answer to this one.

I'll give the alarm a shot- but if I haven't conquered the world/won a Nobel Prize/made it to the finals on American Idol after a week or two of that crap, I'm back on the sleep express. Anything less than "Queen of the world and the Mole-people too" seems hardly enough motivation to interrupt my bizarre dreams and cozy, coocoon-like slumber, don't you think?

Too much? Reaching too high?

Fine- if I can manage to both shower AND swab my uvula on the same day I'll consider the experiment a success.
I already hate that alarm clock- I think I'll name him Trevor after that guy that spit on me when I was in 7th grade on the Saturday-afternoon bus to go roller skating. Trevor was a real douche.

Good morning, Trevor. You suck!

Have a nice day!

Falling off the Welcome Wagon.

I've been informed by the officials in charge of "Operation Fix This fucking House" that I can chalk another room up as (basically) done, provided I can submit dated photographs and a "clean" urine sample. They sure are picky over there at OFTFH headquarters.

The entryway is 99% complete. Woo. Hoo.

Well, it's technically a room, and we don't have much in the "win" column yet, so just give me this one, will you? The only other finished room is the new crapper off of our bedroom.

I take the entryway seriously, as obviously this is the first thing people see when they enter my home (that's what she said!), the second usually being cat hairballs the size of tumbleweeds lurking in the corners, ready to attack when provoked.
I want the room to be inviting, but not so inviting that I have to slip my guests a roofie and leave their unconscious bodies by the side of the freeway with a note pinned to their underpants.

I hate when it comes to that.

This is what this room looked like when we first moved in:

Painted mint green, with smelly 40-50 (no lie) year-old carpeting that smelled of old lady and cabbage. The same curtains could be found in the living room and dining room, and had a pastel depiction of what appeared to be the White House. There was no door on the closet, and the light fixture was a dainty floral-etched glass & brass number.

Here the Mr. is, trying to pry the carpet from the otherwise-pristine wood floors- the carpet was so old it had sort of "fused" to the wood. We didn't want to scratch the wood, so we had to use plastic scrapers and water to get that nasty carpet out. This pretty much sucked hairy donkey balls. You will note the delightful floral wallpaper and the fact that we had to wear masks whilst doing this. The smell was painful.

For the next nine years, the entryway was painted a glossy red with a light-mustard colored ceiling. We were so tired of white-walled apartments when we first moved in that we maybe went a little "overboard" with color. Like, stop me before I paint the cats to coordinate "overboard". I actually really loved being greeted by the red, but it really was starting to look as dated as feathered hair and prairie skirts.

I don't have too many decent pictures of the red, but here it is in a pic from a while back when we were going out for some reason or another. You get to see the room, plus I get to redeem myself from my last post with a picture that doesn't resemble Nick Nolte's mug shot.

Now, how it looks in it's newest incarnation:

Soft metallic silver walls, white ceiling, a little more "minimalist" overall. Well, "minimalist" for me, anyways. I like to call my brand of style "restrained clutter" or "cluttered minimalist"- take your pick.
We now have a closet door- stained as close to matching as possible. It ain't easy matching old, perfectly worn, honey-colored maple floors. The flat rock on the radiator has a few fossils in it- I don't even really remember where it came from.

The print above the radiator is a 1972 print I picked up at a vintage store called "Loving Couple". I think it looks like my cats, even though I bought it before I had both of them.


We have one of those stairways going upstairs that is sort of a "bridge" to the kitchen- you can access it from both sides, which I love. This feature is nice in that I don't have to walk ALL THE WAY AROUND the house to get to my wine/cheese/snack foods. Whew! Why burn calories when you don't have to, right?:


The prints over the stairs are by Matthew Cipov, and I have to thank Shannon for sending me some fabulous little owl prints by him that started me buying a whole bunch of his stuff. It is creepy and beautiful and minimalist and wonderful:

I have six of his "mask" series prints (two that I haven't put up yet), the one above with the group of young men, and the owl prints from Shannon. That's probably enough...for now.

And you can't see it in these pics, but I also have a snazzy new light in there:


So, if we're keeping score: Two rooms down, 7 or 8 to go.
We should be done sometime around Spring 2013.

If we're lucky.

Oh, how silly of me- it seems that I have tripped and fallen into a vat of wine. My bad.

It seems I slipped yesterday and fell into a big 'ol pile of hangover.

This is what it looks like:

This is what my head currently feels like:


And the rest of me:

What I'm pretty sure I smell like:

What I will likely be requiring for lunch, after-lunch snack, and possibly dinner:

And this company will be seeing a boost in the price of it's stock due to the eleventy hundred that I will be consuming, "beer bong" style:

Happy Friday, my little cheeseburger marching bands. Let's be careful out there this weekend.
Happy Friday.
XO

Will you still love me when I'm 104?

I'm 37. There, I said it.

(addendum: Not my birthday or anything, just thinking about it today. Feel free to send gifts anyways.)

Had you told my 16 year-old self that someday I would be twice that age plus one, I would have immediately imagined myself with a walker, sagging support hose, and attempting to use expired coupons for cigarette brands that no longer exist.
When you're 16, you admire people in their 20's- they can legally go to the bars that you only get into via wriggling through the moldy bathroom vents, and they (unless of course I dated them) had their own apartments.
"Independence!" screams the 20-something years.

But the 30s? The 30s where where you went to wither and die an unremarkable death. The 30's were where a leather miniskirt started looking "comical" rather than "cool", and where rocking a studded army jacket and ripped flannels to the grocery store started looking "homeless" rather than "edgy".
"Pathetic and mediocre!" screams the 30-something years, to a 10-something person.

Well...at least that's what my 16 year-old mind interpreted this current decade of my life to be. Sixteen year-old me didn't bother to plan for the next two hours, let alone the next two decades.

But here I am: alive, well, and not a pair of granny panties or bottle of Metamucil in sight. I mostly have all my original teeth, and I have yet to accidentally poop my pants. So far.

I made a list a while ago of all of the parts about me that have most noticeably changed since 1987ish, and I may as well post it here in the private forums known as the interwebs:

• knees- my left knee is slowly disintegrating, eventually I expect it to have the consistency of homemade applesauce. I'm going to hold out for surgery until I can get one of those replacement knees that plays the theme to "Sanford and Son" when I walk.
• Back- My posture is horrifying these days, but I figure down the road I'll have a second career as a hunchback at a Disney theme park somewhere.
  
• Sleeping habits- actually improved. Gone is the insomnia of my 20's. Now I'm working towards the "sleeping 22 hours a day" of my 80's, much like a cat.
• Feet- Man, these things don't age well, do they? I think I might know now what corns and bunions are, but that doesn't mean I want to.
• Hair- The stuff on my head is better than ever, yet grayer than ever, and luckily I have (so far) been spared the freakish and random stray hairs that people I know sometimes find on things like chins, ears, foreheads and such. The day I have to get my ears waxed is the day I start limiting my clothing to colorful nylon sport suits with metallic tennies.
• Face- I am (so far) loving everything about how my face is aging. Cheekbones appeared out of nowhere, and that cluster of hairy warts between my eyes is hardly noticeable anymore.
• Butt- Though I spend much, much more time suffocating it on the couch for marathon sessions of "Law and Order", it seems to be holding up. No "flat, saggy, old lady ass" happening, and luckily (knock on wood) no extreme widening or looking like a pair of cheap pantyhose stuffed with jell-o fruit salad.
  
• temperament- I have (mostly) given up the angry, pan-throwing, road-raging, starting fights in line for communion ways of my 20s. These days I mete it out sparingly, so if I go to town on you with a verbally abusive tirade that drags in your mother's possible past as a prostitute and that time you had sex with a sheep- you can sure as hell know that you definitely earned it.
• Humor- Where, in my youth, tripping and falling in front of a busload of Italian male models or not noticing that my skirt is tucked into my underpants until four hours after dressing would cause me to retreat into my room for three weeks to write angsty poetry about the incidents and how I blame it all on society's treatment of third-world kittens, now I just laugh it off. Oh, and sometimes take pictures and post it on my blog. I really just don't give a crap anymore, and we all know that shit is funny.
• Sex- I'm going for quality rather than quantity these days. When I want it I want it, but when I don't the Mr. best move on and leave me with my magazines, prescription pills and wine coolers. Let's just say that this is a slight (read: huge) change from my early 20's, but much like bathing and combing my hair- It gets done only when the mood strikes me. Sometimes I'm squeaky clean and have shiny, bouncy hair for weeks, sometimes I look like I spent the last week sleeping in a lice-infested monkey cave.

I wondered what I'd look like when I get really, really old. You know- like, 50. (Kidding! Kidding!)

But seriously- if the booze, Velveeta and Doritos don't strike me down in the near future and I actually make it to 80-90, how bad is it going to be? I found an image generator that gave me an idea:

Before:


50-60 years from now:

Yikes.

Happy Wednesday, my aging little lice monkeys. Happy Wednesday.

Lifestyles of the marginal and infamous.

I'm not sure what I'm doing different in my life that I seem to have no time whatsoever lately for this blog/reading blogs. Perhaps I could spend less time inspecting my face for imaginary zits, or If I cut back to one day a week instead of three for my doctor-prescribed uvula massage, or maybe if I spent less time dressing up the kitties and re-enacting great scenes from "Fantasy Island", maybe just maybe I might open up a few hours here and there.

I hate these random posts, but it's really the only safe and medically-approved way to convey the information to you today, trust me. My past week, in original bullet form because I know how the imitation bullet form gives you that rash on your...you know:

• I've had disturbingly vivid and realistic dreams this past week. In one, I got really drunk in front of this dorky guy that I went to high school with and then tried to make out with him, which he refused. I woke up panicked & embarrassed and worried about the impending reunion this summer.
• I fell on the ice once, and almost fell 3 other times. My butt hurt for three days, my pride hurt for 5. It's called salt, people. You live in MN- salt your fucking sidewalk, will you? Next time I slip on someone's skating rink of a sidewalk they're getting an angry note tied to a brick through the window.
  
• Operation Fix This Fucking House is up and running once again. This weekend we were unsuccessful in moving the longest couch ever upstairs into the Mr's newly painted and re-floored office. As I can no longer tolerate this couch sitting in my dining room, it now resides in the front porch with the rest of our orphaned furniture. It seems to be getting along with the old living room chair, but the vintage patio set is ignoring them- they're cliquey like that. The dining room is finally taking shape, and If all goes well (HAHAHAHAHA!), I should have "before and after" pics for you soon. My house is starting to look pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.
• I went here Friday to check in on some ice carving that was going on. I love that when they designed this hotel, they decided to embrace the winter rather than fight it, so they opened a courtyard "Ice Bar" where the bar itself, and much of the seating is carved from ice. There's a roaring fire pit, fabulous art, and ridiculously expensive martinis that make you feel much cooler than you actually are. The theme of the ice carving exhibition was "demented", and the projects ranged from daggers and skulls to a hippopotamus coming out of a toilet. Other than the fact that it was bone-chilling cold & windy, it was pretty cool to be out and about and seeing something interesting.
  
• That same night I had dinner with old Duluth friends here. The food was really good, the company was great, and I managed to make it through the evening without pissing anyone off or getting arrested for indecent exposure. We'll call this one a success.
• Yet another trip to IKEA, yet another $250 I'll never see again. Buuntengaargen, my ass.
  
• Work. Lots of work. Lots and lots of work.
  
• Not much cooking- last night we had the Mr's brother over for dinner. I made "fancy taco night" fare: homemade black beans, spicy chipotle shredded chicken, charred peppers and onions, fluffy guac and all the necessary accoutrements. We broke in my new bamboo dining room table and shiny white modern chairs and acted like civilized adults with cloth napkins and everything. Wine was consumed, our bellies were full. It was lovely.
  
• I accidentally ripped off 2/3 of one of my lesser toenails, yet oddly enough it didn't really hurt.
  

There you go. Now we're caught up and I can get back to "regular-type" posting. You know, things like "Ponderings on the life of a pubic crab" or, "I forgot I ate a pound of beets the day before, so I almost called the doctor" or, "Whiskeymarie's picks for the geriatric summer olympics!"

Lucky you.

Where Girl scouts fear to tread...

I've had this bin of stuff in the basement that's pretty much been there since we moved in, and before that it moved around with me through various apartments, boyfriends, getting married and finally buying the house. If I were a trust-fund baby, it would be an heirloom cedar chest filled with (use your best Katherine Hepburn voice here) "Mummy's finest linens, Grandmama's pearls and pictures of Poppy from his polo-playing days".

(back to nasal Minnesota voice)
Yeah...not so much:

Instead, I've got an overflowing plastic bin filled with odd mementos that smell like my basement.

I decided it was time to drag it up and see what exactly I have in there- turns out I packed a LOT of stuff into that thing. My high-school diploma, my card certifying that I once learned how to properly swim so that when people see me flailing wildly in a pool I can say it's just my "style" not that I "never learned", A folder full of funny cartoons and such from a very talented, artsy ex-boyfriend, Elementary school yearbooks and such & such.

Oh, and a Cabbage Patch doll:

She used to have purple glasses, but I guess I lost those. I don't even remember why I have one, as I was waaaaayyyy too old for one by the time suburban moms were clawing each others' eyes out for these things. It has an actual little diaper on, a fact which kept me awake at night more than once. I posed her with my incomplete Girl Scout sash- you will note the baggie of not-sewn-on badges, which pretty much sums up my life.

I also had a needlework project I made when I was about 7 that, I believe, proves my theory that I am psychic and knew that these would figure prominently in my future:

Oh, how I love the pink elephants. What? You don't see them? Just me?

Proof that I was once smrt:

And that I cud spele reel gud. I is awwsum.

The program from my first big concert-ever- Duran Duran (age 13), and one of my "Student of the Week" awards (how I managed to not spend the two dollar prize on liquor/candy is beyond me) from high school (I have three, but before you build the shrine for me it should be noted that I went to a very small school- repeats and "pity certificates" were inevitable):


The Polaroid taken when me & Waffle became the 10th grade badminton champs. BOO-YA!!!!!
Yes, I'm aware of how lame this is, but please note my wicked awesome sweatshirt and hair (and Waffle's glasses- nerd alert!) Just let me bask in the glory one more time:


In (if I remember correctly) 11th-grade English, we had folders that we used to turn work in, and we were encouraged to decorate them however we saw fit. I'm really surprised that, after seeing mine, that there wasn't "emergency counseling" to exorcise the demons from my soul. Oh well, it WAS the 80's and most of us WERE possessed, so I guess I see the reasoning there (feel free to read my Pulitzer Prize-winning essays- it's like looking into the mind of a tortured young genius):


"Arty" dance photos from my freshman year in college.

For some reason, these make my skin crawl. But, I still have that vintage nightgown and occasionally drag it out, light up a cigarette, pour myself a bourbon and pretend I'm an aging drama queen in 1940's Hollywood. My name is "Helene-Marie St. Soursnouse", and I can be best remembered for my Oscar-winning role as "Frenchie", the down-on-her-luck Parisian lady of the evening with a heart of gold in the 1931 epic "Where Love Feared to Tread with Angels".

Finally (for today), the books that kept me awake at night, tucked under the covers with a flashlight, for most of my pre-adolescence:

If I were ever given three wishes from a magical genie that would appear from rubbing my toilet bowl "just right", one of those wishes would totally be to have my life be like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book. The other two would probably involve winning the lottery and magical underpants, but that's neither here nor there.

I'll dig out more later, once the musty smell subsides.

Happy Tuesday, my little adventure-seeking gud spellrs. Happy Tuesday.

XO

Butter my muffin

I'm running late, but here's a quick recap of my weekend, in bullet form because I know you're easily confused:

• I accidentally watched 3/4 of "The Ice Princess" because I couldn't reach the remote and was too lazy to move. Couple that with my ability to watch shockingly bad movies for no apparent reason and a big glass of sauvignon blanc and that's what you get- Kim Cattrell playing a bitter, aging figure skater too busy reliving her dreams of glory through her daughter to see the mousy friend who has the potential to be a SUPERSTAR...ON ICE! Cheesy soundtrack, and no nudity or swearing, so I was completely lost.
• My cat let loose a hot smelly fart directly on my arm. It felt as gross as it smelled.
  
• While I was watching shitty movies, I was reading a Marie Claire magazine from September '08 (yes, that's how far behind I am, but dammit I'm reading them all and getting my money's worth!). They had an interview with that nice Obama Barak fellow, but I don't think he's got a chance in hell of winning the election, in my opinion. They also had some nice fashion ideas for Christmas. Maybe that $3500 purse is finally on sale by now...
• I painted my husband's office for him while he was out of town to watch hockey. Yes, unfortunately you read that right. I sure hope he likes unicorns and rainbows as much as I do.
  
• I made muffins:

They were from this cookbook. I have been craving them for weeks, but I remember them being more awesome than they seemed. But still, they're pretty fucking good and maybe I built them up in my mind too much, Like, "Holy crap those are the best muffins in the history of muffins in the history of the WORLD!" sort of too much. Lemon on top of lemon on top of lemon with a little ginger. I highly recommend this book if you like baking and are willing to try some more "involved" recipes.

That's it for now as I'm not just a little late, I'm moving into "embarrassingly" late territory with every second that passes. Sorry for stealing this monumentally boring three minutes from you, and no- you can't cop a feel as payback.

Happy Monday, my little farty muffintops. Happy Monday.

XO