Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Asked and answered in an only slightly confusing manner.

I haven't forgotten that I have unanswered questions and unfulfilled promises from this post, I'm just real slow sometimes. Today, due to some gentle prodding and probing (that's what SHE said!) from my beloved EG, I will answer some more of your burning questions. Well, at least the ones that don't include costumes, vaseline or bungee cords getting involved.

  • My darling Patti asks:

"Dear Whiskey,
Have you ever grown herbs from seeds in containers? If so, was it successful?"

Yes, indeed I have, my dear. I have attempted basil, thyme, sage, parsley, various kinds of mint and oregano. While everyone else in the state of MN seems to have basil bursting forth from their pots o' plenty by July, mine have managed to die somewhere around June 15th every stinking year. Thyme did fine, the sage only took off once I put it in the ground and now it comes back every year, Parsley hated being in a pot but loved being in the ground, mint was "meh", and the oregano was wimpy. I should note that our summers have been grossly hot (think sweaty ovaries hot) and as dry as Joan River's love canal. I'm not good at what professional gardeners call "regular watering", so I am usually the sad sack at the Farmer's Market buying herbs when the rest of the world gleefully cuts their own from a clay pot on their patio. I seem to have what is referred to as a "black thumb" which is in no way associated with "black plague".

"Dear Whiskey:
I tried your recipe for tripa alla romana. Delicious. Now I'm thinking marrow bones. Any suggestions?"

I think the best way to prepare marrow is very simple- roast it. Put the bones in a 425 degree oven for 20-30 minutes, until the bones are browned and the marrow is cooked through. Then, simply scoop it out with a butter knife and spread on toast points/crostini and sprinkle just a bit o' sea salt on it- perfect and simple.

  • Anonymous had a lengthy question involving cooking a turkey and a subsequent "turkey tumor" that erupted from the carcass of the bird while it was roasting.
To sum up:

"OK, this is a totally true life story, please please tell me what you think was going on ... and is there a sane way for a cursed cook like me to try again and bake a turkey for T-Day?"

Anon- the only way to overcome your fear of turkey tumors is to get back on that gobbler and ride baby, ride. While I seriously have NO IDEA what happened while you were cooking the bird, I do think it was a freak thing, much like when Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson tongue-kissed (shudders). If you don't cook another turkey, you will find yourself waking up in a cold sweat 5, maybe 10 years from now, wondering how come you're covered in gravy and cranberry sauce. I command thee to roast of thine fowl. I also command thee to quit buying turkeys from Cletus the slack-jawed yokel. seriously- we're not even sure those are really turkeys and not turkey vultures. Big difference. Good luck and godspeed, anon.

Please take your time and be thorough-

Where do babies come from? (When a man and a woman really, really love each other, they express their lov....oh, fuck it. We all know babies mysteriously appear 9 months after you drink too much white zinfandel with your hot pocket at lunch and let the guy who mows your lawn "show you around the shed" in the back yard. Duh.)

Why is the sky blue? (because God pees blue, and this is his little joke on the world)

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? (this can best be expressed in scientific terms: Length of woodchucks teeth, multiplied by hours spent "chucking", divided by number of woodchucks, adding number of hairs on the woodchucks butthole = wood chucked.)

Is there really a Santa Claus? (No use beating around the bush here- yes, EG. Yes there IS a Santa Claus. He just knows your deepest secrets and is scared to come to your house anymore. Better you hear this from me than on the street.)

Why does the sun shine? (My butt. Oh, sorry- I thought you asked where does the sunshine come from. My bad.)

Why does the wind blow? (Mostly to keep the stink down, but it also blows for the sheer entertainment of seeing the underpants of unsuspecting females who stupidly thought to wear poofy skirts on a windy day.)

How was the universe created? ( There was a gigantic explosion from which all of our solar system was borne. On Earth, Dinosaurs evolved from the murky depths of the sea, grew large and ferocious, then they roamed the earth eating people like Adam and Eve because they were naked, slow-moving, delicious and tender humans. The end.)

Where does it end? (About 60 miles North of El Paso in a little town called [oddly enough] Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Huh- who'd have thunk it?)

How many stars are in the sky? (Only three, they just use a lot of mirrors.)

How many roads must a man walk down before they call him a man? (only one, and it's called the "Hershey Highway")

Why does it always rain on me? (Because [see above] God knows you have a sense of humor)

Is it because I lied when I was seventeen? (Well, to be honest- yes. This will haunt you forever.)

Why can't I have a pony? (Because, while ponies seem like perfect apratment-dwellers due to their small size and ability to be litter-trained, their smell and the "clomp-clomp" of their little hooves tends to piss of the neighbors. Plus you need a good hay supplier, and I don't think there is a reputable one where you live.)

Do you think I should cut back on the coffee? (No- it's really the only thing holding you together at this point. I wouldn't recommend it.)

Where does the white go when snow melts? (This, my dear EG, is where caucasians come from. Don't tell anyone.)

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? (Neither- dinosaurs came first, retard.)

What is your favorite color? (I like puce, but sienna and titanium white are nice too.)

What is the atomic mass of Plutonium? (I'm not sure what you're asking here, but If it's what I think it is, I'm going to go ahead and say no. No, you cannot put your atomic Pluto in my mass. I haven't done that since College.)

Who shot J.R? (Ooh- I should know this one, but I plum forgot. I'm just gonna say that it was Professor Plum in the library with the revolver.)

Why did the chicken cross the road? (According to my grandpa: "In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken had crossed the road, and that was good enough for us!")

Dude, where's my car? (I let your neighbor borrow it to go and refill her antipsychotic medication prescriptions. Hope that's OK...)

Paper or plastic? (Neither- I carry all my groceries in an aluminum briefcase- spy style.)

What are you wearing? (Should I lie and say just my lace panties and high heels, or should I tell the truth and say plaid golf pants, the top half of a donkey costume and combat boots?)

What if there were no rhetorical questions? (Blogs would cease to exist and we all would have much, much more time on our hands to do productive things like "have a life" or "bathe")

How soon is now? (When you say it's gonna happen "now", well, what exactly do you mean?)

And finally...

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? (Twelve. Unless you let Mabel up there with her big ass, then you're down to 9.)

That's it for today, folks. Stay tuned for more installments of "What the fuck was I thinking asking you all for ideas and questions?: The Whiskeymarie Brain Chronicles starring Phoebe Cates as Whiskeymarie with special appearances by Pauly Shore and Bette Midler!

Happy Tuesday, my inquisitive little chicken ponies. Happy Tuesday.


Monday, March 30, 2009

Let's hope it was a "lost in translation" sort of thing.

Dear person that found my blog by Googling

"Blue Waffle Vagina":

I'll give you the waffle, but you're gonna have to work a little harder for the other one. And just a hint- wine, flowers and Doritos go a long way in my world, sweetie.

Sincerely yours,


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

"Laying Tile" and other euphemisms, part deux.

Operation Fix this Fucking House is up and running again!

Today I am attempting to replace my checkered tile kitchen floor myself. I have never done anything like this before and I'm pretty much winging it. Pictures to follow if/when I actually finish and assuming I'm not in the hospital recovering from extreme glue inhalation.

This will be interesting, methinks.

I can use scotch tape to stick the tiles down, right? Right?

I thought so- this should be a piece of cake...

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

I poop on you, Gwen.

When I started blogging, I had no idea how many cool, funny, interesting and socially misfitted people like myself were out there. I've developed friendships with many of you, actually met some of you, and probably don't remember drunkenly calling/e-mailing others of you.
One of my most favoritest peoples that I've met here is my shorter, funnier, "separated at birth" girl, Gwen. I realized pretty quickly after she started popping up in my comments that she and I were kindred spirits. We both love monkeys, we both swear too much, we both say and do inappropriate things at what is usually exactly the wrong moment, every time. I love her to death, and now I can officially say that I've seen her naked.

To explain...
A while back, me & Gwennie got a bug up our collective bums to visit one another. Originally she was to come to MN to see me, but circumstances/timing/etc... made this difficult. This past Monday I was just checking out how much it would cost for me to visit her, and when a ridiculously low price popped up, I made the decision that if the monkey can't come to Whiskey, the Whiskey will go to the monkey. A few squealing phone calls and a few days later, I was greeted in the St. Louis airport by none other than Lady G.

She had a full day planned for us, and the first stop was at the amazing farmer's market for bloodies and shopping (yes, they sell bloodies at the FARMER'S MARKET. I decided right then and there that I need to move there).

Here I am outside the market:

At the market. Note the worried look on Gwen's face. Poor girl had NO idea what she was getting into...

After picking up stuff for dinner, we stopped for sandwiches. I had some sort of meat extravaganza, the remnants of which can be seen here. It was so freaking good that Gwen wanted to lick the tissue:

After a few more stops for incidentals (best grocery stores ever- two fab Italian markets for salty meat things, cheese, wine & bread, tuna for ceviche, etc...) we went back to Gwen's adorable house and just relaxed. We cooked together, drank sangria, sat in her back yard and got to know one another, and then I corrupted her kitties by feeding them too much catnip.
I freaking LOVED her kitties. Max slept at my head both nights and Skylar totally didn't pee on my bed, which I think means he liked me. Gwen's friend H came over, we giggled a lot. All in all, day one was a success:

The next day, I woke up and snuggled with this guy. For having shared an entire batch of sangria, two bottles of wine and several Jack & cokes, I felt pretty good.

We went to brunch at a place called Three Monkeys, but much to my disappointment there were no monkeys to be seen, on the buffet or otherwise. Liars.

The one "touristy" thing I wanted to do was to go up in the arch, as I had been to St. Louis once before to visit the Bowling Hall of Fame (no, not kidding), but had no idea you could actually go in it. I am not smart.

There was a buttload of people there, so we waited in line for tickets. Oddly enough, while we were waiting to get in, a guy behind me goes "Ooh, are yoo from Minnesoooda? Yoo betcha!"
I thought he was making fun of me, but turns out he & his wife were from the St. Paul area too. What a small world.
We had an hour or so to kill before we could go into the little pod thingies that carry you to the top, so we first watched a 1960's film about the making of the arch. It was all crackly and everyone in it was smoking, generally while working hundreds of feet up without any safety gear. Scary.

Then we went into the museum and harassed the animitronic displays:

If you've never been up in the arch, you should try it sometime. They pack five people into a "pod" that is roughly the size of the trunk of a car, and then run you up to the top. If you are afraid of tight spaces, this would probably kill you.
It is kind of crowded at the top, and the windows to look out are really tiny, but the view is amazing. It's kind of scary to look down and see the little specks of people.

Here is Gwenzilla giving the arch a little lick before she took a big bite:

I love you, Mr. big, imposing stainless-steel arch. Mwah.

After the arch, we drove around in Gwen's convertible and just looked at stuff.
Gwen seems to know everything about everything in her city. Seriously- she knows more about St. Louis than I know about how babies are made. She should be a tour guide to people other than just me.

Then, after the touristy stuff, and the "getting to know you" stuff and the "let's behave" stuff...
...well, we took the gloves off, baby.

We started by doing a "progressive drinking" tour of an area called "the loop". Beers and a bloody at Blueberry Hill, a martini at someplace called the Del Mar, wine and a sausage at somewhere that I don't remember the name of, and finally much needed dinner (and more wine) at another restaurant that I can't remember.

Then we ditched the car and walked to a bar by Gwen's house, where we met our new friend Gary:

Three or four more cocktails and one bar closing later, we started the walk home. For some reason I thought it would be funny to pretend to poop in a dumpster:

...Which started a whole series of "I poop on you" photos (edited for your NC-17 pleasure).

Next up, the washing machine:

And the dishwasher:

And Gwen's big jar of change:

And her plant:

And her toaster oven:

And the scary terlet in her basement:

Classy broads, we are.

Then we decided to play "dance party with costumes" until 4:30 in the morning.
Here I am wearing a bridesmaid's dress from Gwen's wedding with a feathered hat, a spongebob squarepants necklace and a jester hat.

You will note that this is the same outfit, only on Gwen this time.
Yes, we have seen each other nekkid, and no, we're not giving you details, pervs.

Mmmm...heart. Yum.

Then she got all bossy on me and made me go to bed. God, she's such a rag sometimes.

The flight home was...interesting. First off, we forgot to set an alarm (big surprise, drunkys) and we woke up just before 10 and my plane was to leave at 10:55. I believe I was still drunk.
I basically threw everything in my suitcase (accidentally leaving 1/4 of what I brought behind), threw real clothes on and we jumped in the car. Gwen broke the land speed record and got me there with 10 minutes to spare.
I was TOTALLY zonked on Ativan, and I had two bloody marys on the flight (though I dumped 2/3 of the second one in my lap. The best part was me giggling to myself on the small plane and taking pictures. I seriously have like 20 from the flight home, 4-5 of which are of my cocktail-soaked crotch).
I played Yahtzee and tried to not get arrested by the airplane police.

Overall, it was a stinking good trip.

Thanks for everything Gwen! Next time you can come here and we'll trash MY house- deal?

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Acid rain and underpants

I realized the other day when I asked for requests that I neglected to fulfill one from long ago, and no- I'm not referring to that dude in high school who asked me to play his "skin flute". Lord, I can't even play the triangle- that dude was seriously confused.
Anyways...Someone (I believe it was you, Patti) asked me to tell the whole story of my one and only experience with a certain illegal substance.
Fine, here you go:

If my less-than-stellar memory is correct, this would have been the summer of maybe 1990, right before I made my first move to the bustling Twin cities area and moved in with the former competitive roller skater. (The pic is the only one I could find from approximately that time, so you can have a visual. My eyebrows seem to be multiplying at an amazing rate and threatening to stage a coup here.)

The Rainbow Gathering was in town that year, and many of my substance-inclined friends had basically moved to the woods or wherever the hell those hippies were spending the summer wiping their butts with leaves and stuff. It was quiet in Duluth, and my roommates and I were spending most of our time hanging out at our apartment drinking wine coolers, eating McDonald's and watching MTV.

Our apartment was an old three-bedroom, second-floor deal on third & eleventh in Duluth. We rarely locked the doors (and even if we had it didn't matter as it seemed like everyone in town had a key), so we seemed to have a steady stream of riff-raff, potential boy-toys, people needing a place to crash, and pretty much anyone looking for some semblance of a "party". We were nothing if not good hostesses. The decor was early "thrift store", including the obligatory scary couch and rickety, mismatched tables and chairs. We had a mannequin, Olivia, at the top of the stairs whose outfits changed almost as often as ours did. And yes, on occasion, both Olivia and ourselves would greet the morning after a particularly blurry party wearing a t-shirt, boxer shorts and high heels.

The night in question found a few of us hanging around, drinking vodka & kool-aid and just sitting around wondering if we were missing out on something better to do. We discussed stories we had started hearing trickle out from the Rainbow Gathering- stories of a dizzying merry-go-round of hook-ups, near-death experience drug use, and dirty, naked hippies talking about their "auras". We were repulsed, enthralled, and slightly aroused. We were party girls, but our upbringings prevented us from taking our rebellion THAT far. Plus, I was scared to death of catching an STD of any sort, and I was convinced that herpes was airbourne and gonorrhea flowed like water at the Rainbow Fest. I didn't need or want to go there to find out for sure.

My friend, who I'll call "Dizzy", and I were in a squirrely mood. We were sitting around with our friend Slimy (who, coincidentally, we had both messed around with at one point or another. Duluth is nothing if not incestuous), getting a bit past the point of tipsy. Slimy had a reputation for kind of smarmily (is that a word?) trying to seduce women, especially the drunk ones. It was a weeknight, but we all stayed up talking, drinking and trying to figure out what other sort of trouble we could get into.

Before we could even finish our thoughts, Slimy pulls out a little plastic box from his pocket, and from the box he pulled out a small piece of paper.
"Know what this is?" he asked.
Dizzy and I just looked at it- we were still a bit naive in the ways of drugs, but we hated looking like rubes so we kept our mouths shut. I looked at him and raised my substantial eyebrows warily.
"Well..." he went on, "this is Rainbow Acid from the Rainbow Gathering. It's pretty strong but a lot of fun- you guys wanna give it a try?"

Normally, I would have thought about this long and hard, because- and I have mentioned this before- my being raised on a steady diet of ABC "afterschool specials" pretty much had me convinced that most drugs would either kill you instantly the first time you tried them, or you would surely end up in a wheelchair eating cheeseburgers through a straw and having your Mom take you to prom out of pity. Our parents drank, and other than that one time my dad slept on the lawn, booze seemed- to us- to be fairly fun and benign. Drugs? Not so much.


But, as we were 3/4 in the bag already and I had the day off tomorrow...why not? How bad can it be, I thought as I took the tiny square of paper and stuck it on my tongue. Really- how bad?

For an hour or so, I felt nothing. Nada. We sat around, had another kool-aid cocktail, and waited. I started to get kind of antsy. "What should I be feeling? I don't feel anything", I said.

"Just wait", Slimy said with a smirk. My guess is that Slimy thought he had a fun evening ahead with either one or both of us giving into our wonton hippie-girl sides and deciding that maybe tonight was a good time to give that whole "bisexual" thing a try that was seeming to be so popular lately.

Not so much.

For me, it started out with all of the colors that I saw kind of getting a Southwestern hue- terra cottas, dark green, hazy gold. I sat and stared out the window for what seemed like an eternity going "Santa Fe coooolllooorrrrrssss..." Slimy was transfixed with staring at his hands in-between telling me what he thought would happen to me next. Dizzy had disappeared.

After a long stretch of staring at the sky through our dirty windows, I snapped up and decided that Dizzy had to see the Santa Fe colors as well- so I went looking for her. Where the hell was she?
I heard noise coming from our bathroom, and the door was closed. I knocked. "Dizzy? You OK in there? Can I come in?"
I heard a warbly reply that sounded like yes, so I went right in.
There she was, naked, laying on her side in six inches of water trying to swim. "Im in the wooooomb", she kept saying. "I'm in the wooooomb."
Even in my state, I knew this was funny.
"Dizzy- you are NOT in the womb- you're in my bathtub. And you're naked. Why are you naked?" I giggled.
All I got was more splashing and "wooooomb..."
Slimy looked like a wolf at an all-you-can-eat sheep buffet.

Slimy and I (after much giggling and pouring cold water on Dizzy) went to the back porch where I kept a perma-grin on my face and stared at the sky like an idiot. He hit on me repeatedly, I may have kissed him to shut him up, I don't remember for sure. Yuk.

After a while, Dizzy emerged from the womb, wearing her unders and bra. Then, it started to rain.

I think I had the brilliant idea to go out and splash in puddles. Problem was, in our state the closest we could get to an actual "outfit" was our unders, our Chuck Taylor lo-tops and our biker jackets.
So, there we were, in front of our apartment on a normally fairly busy street, jumping in puddles in our underwear and giggling like idiots. It was awesome. Being a weeknight and absurdly late, there wasn't a soul around (well, not that we noticed anyways).
After much splashing, and once our shoes were soaked through, we went across the street and laid down in the grass by a parking lot and just stared at the trees, still in our unders. I was still deep into my "Santa Fe" thing still, and Dizzy was muttering about "people" and "butterflies" or something. Slimy had gone inside.
I don't know how long we laid there, but after a while something started to go wrong for me. My belly was all topsy-turvy and my "Santa Fe" thing started turning into a "Rosemary's Baby" sort of thing. I got a bit paranoid and discombobulated. I ran inside, not bothering to see if Dizzy was with me. I ran into my room and laid on the bed, muttering about if I was going to die or not. Slimy sat there and both comforted me and tried to cop a feel at the same time- like Prince Charming, that guy was.
The best part was, for what ever reason- the combo of acid and booze started giving me the worst bloating and gas I had ever felt. I was drugged-out, paranoid and farty, and all I had was some douche who gives acid to drunk chicks to keep me company. The most awesome part about this is he STAYED and STILL TRIED TO GET SOME ACTION even though there was a light fog hanging in the air from all of the mostly-silent farts I was slowly and painfully releasing.
I. Was. Miserable.

At some point I fell asleep, and when I woke up to the phone ringing. Slimy and Dizzy were both gone, thankfully.
My Mom was on the phone and wanted to get lunch (it was noon already). Argh.

I couldn't say no even though I was still feeling the effects of the acid, so I hopped in my car and took my Mom to Perkins for lunch. All I can say is having lunch with a parent, on acid, is one of the stranger things I have ever done. Her words seemed to come out reeeaaally slowly, and my pauses before speaking seemed to last 5 minutes each and were accompanied by the light jingling of imaginary bells in my head.

Two days later I was still sick.

Never again, I said, and never again I did.

The end.

Oh, and as a postscript, Slimy is now a city council member in one of our lovely Twin Cities' suburbs and married with kids. Dizzy is still Dizzy. You know where I am.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

What I lack in knowledge, I make up for with enthusiasm...

This weekend, the universe saw fit to reward us Minnesotans for putting up with yet another craptacular winter filled with snotcicles, butt-breaking ice slicks, temperatures so low that our thoughts froze, and near 24-hour indoor isolation by throwing a little nice weather our way. Knowing that the winter has crushed our souls and lowered our expectations considerably, the fact that it was 60-ish degrees the past few days was enough to inspire things like "outdoor activities" and "good moods". We realized that sometimes the sun is warm- who knew?

Saturday was so lovely that we (by "we", I mean "the Mr.") decided to wade through the 5 foot-high pile of styrofoam and cardboard in the garage and attempt to find the grill. We needed to celebrate the day properly with charred meat and fruity alcohol concoctions. A few friends were invited, we half-assed cleaned the house, and I donned my finest halter top and hot pants like any good hostess would (kidding. Everyone knows that BBQ = thong.)

First I made white sangria. I love red/traditional sangria, but it doesn't love me back, unless you call pounding headaches and the feeling that angry ferrets were battling it out for the title of "ferret king" in your belly the next day "love". If that's the case, I think I know a few people I could set you up with- just say the word.
Basically, my sangria goes like this- I cut up a bunch of citrus (oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit), put it in a big container, add about 1/2-2/3c. sugar and a 1/2t. vanilla. Then I pound on it with a wooden spoon to extract some of the juice and some of the citrus oils from the rinds. I then let this sit for a few minutes so the sugar dissolves.

Then I add about a 1/2 can of frozen lemonade concentrate (for this size batch) and about 1/2 to 2/3c. brandy. I usually use cheap apricot brandy, but as I didn't have that on hand, I used the only version of brandy we had in the house. Oh well, if I must:

Then I added one of the big (1.5 liters) bottles of some sort of light, dry white wine (pinot grigio, sauvignon blanc or a dry riesling will work fine- if you use regular riesling, cut back on the sugar or you'll give everyone diabetes). Right before I serve it I add a can or two of plain sparkling water. You can adjust any of the ingredients to suit your taste, and this is best if it has a few hours to sit and develop the flavors.
Make sure you taste it often so that you are 100% sure it is delicious enough to serve to your friends. In fact, I recommend making one batch to serve, and one for "quality control" purposes:

We grilled flank steak, and I forgot an "after"picture, so I guess you have to use your imagination. I rubbed it with lots of garlic, smoked paprika, cumin, coriander, chili powder, a bit of lemon, olive oil and S&P. I let it sit at room temp for an hour so that the flavors could penetrate and it wouldn't be so cold when it hit the grill. I served it sliced thin with a roasted red pepper/jalapeno salsa (loosely based on this recipe) and it was tender and delicious, much like I imagine making love to Richard Marx in 1987 would have been like.

I served it with grilled asparagus and this potato salad. It has baby reds, corn, tomato, tons of fresh herbs, bacon and feta cheese on it (very loosely based on this recipe- I added parsley, chives, mustard & lemon to the vinaigrette and substituted feta for blue cheese). It was so freaking delicious I wanted to be alone with it in a dark room with barry White playing softly in the background.
Nothing fancy for dessert- just my fucking awesome chocolate chip cookies (recipe here), which we all know are THE BEST FREAKING COOKIES ON THE PLANET.

Proof that it was, indeed, sunny this weekend. I went for a walk Sunday and the sky was perfectly blue and it was 66 degrees. Shortly after this I started sweating profusely from both my face and misc. crevices and had to take my coat off. I haven't been outside without a coat since June of '97, I think.
This morning it was gray and cool, so I threw on an ugly nylon water-repellent tarp and went for a walk along the Mississippi.
I ran into a monkey and we had a chat.
"You from around here?" I asked.
"Nope. I'm lost. I live in Baltimore with a sexy barfly and I was kidnapped many months ago by a crazy drunk lady who looks a lot like you but usually smells like Doritos. Can you help me get home?", he replied.
"Sure, silly monkey. I can do that. I'll mail you out tomorrow and you'll be home before you know it."
"Thank you, kind lady", he managed through his tears of joy. "If I had to spend another day with that broad I surely would have gone mad. She's always trying to make out with me and she sings songs to me that I probably should recognize, but mostly it sounds like someone is strangling a flock of geese. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Here he is with some river boats in the background. The one on the left is where I had my first cooking job- an old tugboat that was converted into a B&b/restaurant. We cooked in an actual galley- it was the best job ever. Though, cooking on a boat was a wierd feeling- it moved very subtly, and I usually didn't notice how that affected me until after work when I would step on the dock on the way to my car and start wobbling like every day was St. Patrick's day.

Oops! I looked away for a second and Mr. Monkey was almost swallowed whole by a giant bird! After much wrasslin' and disposing of the bird's body in the river (shhh...you can keep that secret, right?), monkey was fine.

On the way back, I looped through downtown and accidentally fell into the St. Paul St. Patrick's day parade. Should I feel bad that in the 10 years we have lived here that I have not once witnessed this?
So. Much. Green.

I've never seen such a large concentration of people who were completely schnockered before noon. I wandered through the undulating mass- many, many blocks of it- I was particularly confused by the large numbers of kilts in the audience. I guess what we lack in actual knowledge, we make up for in enthusiasm. One guy had spray-painted his whole body green, hair & all, which was impressive. He ran off before I could get a picture, sorry.

I'm not Irish at all, so I don't really get into the whole concept, but this video could make even someone like me feel a little "Irish" for a day:

Now I'm off to drink some Jameson and Baileys (maybe together, maybe not) in honor of the day, I guess.

Happy Tuesday, my drunken little leprechaun monkeys. Happy Tuesday.


P.S- Your requested posts are coming- no real excuse, I've just been lazy and devoting much of my week so far to quality "magazine" time. I do that sometimes.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

This is either going to be the most awesome thing ever or something that's going to take years to apologize for.

It's official! Next weekend I will be going to Gwen's house, stealing her cats and alienating her neighbors. All of your hot "blogger on blogger" slumber party fantasies are finally going to come true. I fully expect the internets to explode from this once in a lifetime meeting, or at the very least the air will smell like nacho cheese and cat litter for a few days.

Pray for us.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The one where I get you to do my job for me because I'm on spring break and can't be bothered.

Ever have so many things spinning in your brain that you can't really focus on just one to post about? Is that just me, or is that the pharmaceuticals talking again?

Well...while I'm working on putting together coherent thoughts that use things like "real words" and "punctuation", now's your chance to be heard. While I decide if, what, and how to tell you about that one thing, now you can finally have your questions answered and your requests honored*. And in return, all I ask is that you quit bitching to customer service about my blog being "defective" and "not a good return on your investment" so I have a chance in hell of getting a raise this year, or at the very least I won't get flogged again.

Something you want me to post about but I got too busy chasing squirrels in the back yard and I never got around to it?

Have a deep, burning question to ask? And, just to head this one off at the pass- Yes, those pants look ridiculous on you and you really shouldn't wear leiderhosen to a formal wedding. Any other questions?

Any new questions in the food/cooking/wine arena? Maybe I can help you decide on what platter to serve your moose testicle canapes on (I'd go with the antique silver from your grandmum), or maybe I can help you decide what wine goes best with Doritos (Boone's Farm Strawberry Fields).

So while I'm getting acclimated to my 2.5 weeks off from work (WOO! PAID!) and re-acquainting myself with this com-pu-tor thingy, let me know if there is anything you (Yes- YOU!) want me to pull out of the gelatinous blob in my head that the rest of you may know as a "brain". Please start all comments with "Dear Whiskey..." because I like when you call me "dear".

Ask away!

*Whiskeymarie, Inc. reserves the right to ignore some questions and answer others simply with the word "bumblebee". Whiskeymarie, Inc. neither implies nor promises happiness and/or satisfaction with her responses. Whiskeymarie, Inc. is not responsible for injuries recieved as a result of following advice given. Whiskeymarie, Inc. is not suitable for ages 1-57 and will occasionally spark and/or catch fire randomly. Proceed with caution.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Work it, girl.

Lately I have read a lot of blogs (Pistols & Punchline, to name a few) where people are discussing bad jobs that they have had over the years. Being that I come from a long line of disgruntled, underpaid, overworked people with a blue collar buttoned firmly up to my eyebrows, I too can lay claim to having worked some monumentally soul-crushing/I-should-probably-be-embarrassed-I-did-this jobs in my 29-odd years on the planet. Some lasted but a day, others lasted much, much longer than they should have, much like this introduction.

My first "real" job (beyond babysitting and mowing lawns- good stories both for another day) ever was at the convenience store about a mile from my house. Being that the town I grew up in was a small farming community with a Town "hub" consisting of two gas stations, a hair salon, a car-repair shop, an on-again, off-again restaurant, a post office, a few insurance agencies and a teeny museum devoted to the milling of grain (I shit you not)- the fact that I scored one of the very few jobs available at ALL was huge, to say the least. I wore a red polo shirt and jeans, stocked the shelves, cleaned out the soft-serve machine in the deli area (most hated job in the place. Do NOT, I repeat- do NOT eat soft-serve ice cream from a gas station, that's all I'm sayin'), ate cookies, drank gallons of coke from the fountain machine, ran the register, said I cleaned the restroom but never did, and swept the sidewalk occasionally. All this for the handsome sum of $3.85/hour. I was sixteen- a fact that never seemed to deter some of the local divorced/single men in the area from hitting on me. Repeatedly. One asked me on a near-weekly basis if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle. Dude! I'm SIXTEEN! This was before the whole Katie Poirer incident, and I was often scheduled to close up (midnight) by myself, which even then I thought was a monumentally bad idea. Let's take a 16-17 year-old girl, leave her alone at a high-dollar-volume business right on the freeway, and let's put her in charge of locking up, counting large sums of cash and walking out to her car, alone. Yeah! That sounds like a GREAT idea! One night when I was once again alone, some creepy guy came in (after milling about for a good 20 minutes, making me very nervous) and says "Looks like a good night for a robbery!"
He wandered back out to his truck and started rummaging through the back- I could only assume he was looking for a rifle, a clown costume and some duct tape- while I freaked the fuck OUT. I called the one and only law-enforcement official in town- a lovable but less than reliable guy who lived on my road and whose family we knew well and spent a lot of time with. He was a nice guy, but he wasn't exactly "tough" or "reliable". Think more Andy Griffith, less Vic Maki. Luck was on my side that night, as he actually answered his phone, dragged himself out of bed, and was there giving the perp the stink-eye in a matter of 5-10 minutes. I'm pretty sure I dodged a pretty nasty bullet that evening, and I quit shortly thereafter when I got a new job...

Hotel Maid!
Worst. Job. Ever.
Everyone I worked with seemed as if they had resigned themselves to a lifetime of drudgery around age 8, when the only gift for them under the tree was a kid-size broom and dustpan set with a tag attached that read, "dreams are for the pretty kids. Keep your expectations low. Merry Christmas!" On the rare day that I walked in sporting a good mood or had the audacity to smile, the head housekeeper would see it as her personal mission to take my soul, spray industrial-strength toilet bowl cleaner on it and scrub that sucker free of any hope beyond a life on my knees (that's what SHE said!) cleaning bathtubs and picking gum out of carpeting with "YO! MTV Raps!" playing in the background. The occasional perk of some miniscule tip (rarely happened), an unopened bottle of booze or a forgotten copy of People magazine just wasn't enough to sustain me. I needed out. My hands were raw from chemicals and the thought of having to spend even another second with Pruneymug Bitchbuster was fast decreasing my will to live, as was the $4.14/hour paycheck. The navy, seersucker-striped, polyester "blouse" with matching navy poly pants uniform wasn't exactly a huge selling point either. Sexy.

Next, I got an offer I couldn't refuse ($4.50 an hour? Jackpot!!) to work as a cashier at Target. Not much to say about this one except that it was...okay. The head cashier was a brillo-haired, grumpy, moon-faced woman who was married to some 2nd or 3rd cousin of mine and had the sort of over-inflated ego one gets working in a small town with the title "manager" attached to their name tag for too many years. I didn't really like this job, but the discount and the mindless nature of the work made it passable. This was around 1991.

I also worked during this time as a waitress at a bowling alley. Yes, you read that right. Bowling alley waitress. I was the girl who wandered down the lanes in my tight black jeans, fetching Bud lights and brandy sours on "league night". You only got decent tips if you flirted with the guys bowling, which I flat-out refused to do. Needless to say, my biggest night in tips amounted to around $20. One of the bartenders there raked it in with her permed, curling ironed, over-processed blonde helmet and jeans so tight that the phrase "camel hoove" comes to mind, because "camel toe" really wouldn't do this thing justice. She wore enough makeup to supply most of the 1987 "Miss America" contestants single-handedly, and her name was Tammie. Perfect. I made very little money here, but as my rent at this time was $115/month, it really didn't matter.

Also, in no particular order, (along with how long I lasted in each profession) as this post is starting to resemble Crystal Gayle's hair- long, boring, and won't she just freaking cut it off already??? : Janitor (one day), Visual merchandiser (I dressed mannequins & stuff- 2.5 years), Retail grunt at Kohl's (2.5 years), manager of sylvester's in Duluth (some of you know what this was- 3 years), Cosmetics salesgirl at Dayton's (3 months), clothing salesperson at Dayton's (2 weeks), restaurant hostess (2 years), Server (on and off for forever), line cook at a restaurant where the owner wore the tightest jeans ever and had his fly down all day (one day), Banquet server at an old-school steakhouse with the black dress and the whole to-do (1 day), Temp at a jewelery manufacturer where I inspected rings all day (9 months), temp at a high-tech business where they left me alone all day and I broke the fax machine, couldn't figure out how to answer the phones and accidentally stole the washroom key (one day), temp working in the temp office (3 days), and many, many other retail/restaurant jobs.

And the one job I'm still waiting for?

Lottery Winner.

I feel I'm qualified, and I have proven that my spending skills are truly unmatched. So, um...can I put you down as a reference?
Thanks- you're a doll.

Happy Monday, my hard-working, camel-toed little grunts. Happy Monday.


Sunday, March 8, 2009

Hot girl-on-monkey action!

My weekend, in photo form because I know how too many words just confuse y'all.

I started off Saturday with a healthy breakfast: Plain Greek yogurt with blood oranges, a tangerine/grapefruit hybrid fruit (forget the name), and drizzled it all with honey. I also made a chickpea/tofu/spinach scramble, and toast. All of this fiber and the vitamins confused my colon a bit, considering the past two weeks we've spent together. We worked out a deal where I promised to never projectile expell food taken in, and he promised to get back on track with the whole "giving me ample warning" thing.
Win- win.

My snazzy new lambskin bag that I love so much I'm considering going to one of those "kid farms" to pick up a nice toddler to carry around in it. What? If Angelina can accessorize with babies, why can't I? I sure hope I can find one that matches- do they make babies in silver anymore?

You all know that IKEA boxes = kitty habitrail in my house. I went all out on this one- a roof, windows, and amply stocked with catnip. They love it.

Trubs is peeved. He needs "alone time" with the catnip and I keep bugging him. He's such a drug pig. Look at his eyes, duuuude.

Hey there Charm City Girl! I took monkey out for one final evening before I'm sending him back to you.
He's legal to drink, right? Cause, at last count he downed four of those puppies. But then he puked up two, so I guess that's o.k.

Oops- you weren't supposed to see this one.
I may or may not have violated Monkey in a number of unsavory ways last night. He didn't seem to mind, and the fifty he left on the nightstand before he left sure was a nice touch.
Hmmm...I probably should have used some sort of birth control.

Now I'm tired and need to spend some time catching up on bloggary and such since I seemed to fall off the planet this past week, what with my whooping cough, scabies, herniated ovaries and all.

Happy Sunday, my catnip martini-drinking little liquor monkeys. Happy Sunday.