Friday, December 3, 2010

Do you really think that Chuck Norris would drink a mai-tai? Really? C'mon!

I was driving down the freeway yesterday, and I saw a billboard for Bacardi "O" rum.  It said something along the lines of, "Work overtime...on your friendship."

All I could think was, Really?

I mean- sure, I have had every meaningful moment in my life over a cocktail had some "bonding" sorts of moments with people over a libation of one kind or another, but this ad sort of threw me off.

I mean, when you see a movie or something on the teevee where two people are engaged in deep, meaningful reminiscing or miscellaneous "life talk", generally it is over some sort of respectable type of beverage.  Two sisters laughing and crying together over one (or three) bottles of good red wine?  Been there, done that.  Two guys sharing a good bottle of whiskey after a particularly rough day?  I'm sure it happens all the time.  A glass of fine sherry in front of a roaring fire in your fancy high-rise city apartment?  Well, Fraiser and Niles did it all the time, so I'm guessing other folks have as well.  While I can easily see two sorority girls "pre-gaming" in their room with 13 shots of Bacardi "O" chased with gatorade before they go out to meet boys that they'll probably end up throwing up on during messy, grunty sex, I find it very hard to believe that two reasonable, adult individuals would sit around and "work on their friendship" over a bottle of Bacardi "O".  If it did, I would imagine it going something like this:

Guy 1: "Hey man, I owe you my life for pulling me and my family out of our house when it was on fire the other night.  And the fact that you went back in for Puddles, our cat?  In-freaking-credible.  Those burns sure look painful- I've never had a skin graft, but it looks like it really hurts.  You're a freaking hero!  I don't know how I could ever repay you- I love you, man."

Guy 2: "Dude- forget about it.  It's nothing you wouldn't have done for me, right? We're in in 'til the end, my man.  Now- what say we fire up the 'ol blender and kick back with a couple of tall, frosty banana-lime daiquiris?"

Guy 1: "Hells, yeah!  Make sure I get TWO umbrellas and extra sparklers, 'cause that's how I roll, yo!"


Happy Friday, my fuzzy little navels- go out and have yourself a responsible, sensible adult beverage or three this weekend, yo.

Friday, November 12, 2010

You say asbestos, I say schmebestos.

This home ownership thing, it sure can be a bitch.  (And, to head off any "ingrate" or "you selfish turd" comments, yes I know that I am very, very lucky to have a comfortable roof over my head and a job to support such things.  I know.  I'm just also going to go ahead and spew my special brand of bullshit here anyways.)

I feel like we (as in, the Mr. and myself) spend most of our weekends either cleaning the house (lest the pet hair take over and slowly kill us, cocoon-style), securing provisions for the house and its' inhabitants (lest we run out of animal-specific food and they decide to go all "Donner Pass" on our asses), or attempting repairs on the house (lest the ceiling in the dining room cave in because of the the leaky toilet upstairs, again.)

Looking back at our (now) 11 years of possessing of a home, I can't say I'd do it all again the same way, given loads of cash and a step back in time.  For those of you considering such a stupid  well-thought out decision, here are a few of my Do's and Dont's when it comes to first time home purchasing with a nonexistent limited budget:
  • Do buy within your price range
  • Don't buy a house basically because you're tired of looking and like one architectural aspect of it- say, a "bridge" stairway between the entryway and the kitchen- and the thought of looking at even one more house makes you want to peel your own skin off to start a line of eco-friendly lamps.  
  • Don't forget to notice if the house has a washer and dryer hookup, because it turns out those things are sort of necessary if you want to wash your clothes at home rather than at the laundromat down the street that is frequented by white supremacists.  
  • On a related note:  don't assume that you can just have any old reputable electrician come and install said hookups without also having to re-wire the whole house, due to silly "codes" and "safety issues". 
  • Don't assume that you'll be able to afford to re-wire the house any sooner than 9 years after you purchase. Start stockpiling quarters and swastika temporary tattoos , baby.
  • Don't buy a house with no appliances in the kitchen when you move in, especially when said kitchen looks like it was last remodeled in the Spring of 1937.  This is what those fancypants literary folk call "foreshadowing".  Pay heed to the foreshadowing. PAY HEED!!!
  • Don't forget to check if the ugly pastel tiles covering 75% of the house (including, oddly enough, the entire upstairs) are made primarily of asbestos.  Oh well, at least you'll have a good time learning how to work the word "mesothelioma" into the story of how you decided to remove all of those pesky tiles yourself and just skip the "professionals". 
  • Don't forget to check if your potential new home has any insulation.  Any.  Even crumpled up newspapers/dead rats stuffed into the walls.  Just...something. 
  • Don't assume that one bathroom will suffice for two people.  Well, not unless you want to start thinking of the back yard or plastic grocery bags as a "half-bath"
  • Don't hire a plumber who will die in the middle of installing your new second bathroom. 
  • Don't assume that a bigger back yard is better, unless of course your idea of "fun" is spending 80% of your precious free time in the spring and summer doing things like "mulching" and "picking weeds".  While those words, when taken out of context, can sound pretty fun, I assure you that they aren't. 
  • Don't ever paint any room inhabited by humans a shade of green called "swamp fog" unless you really like painting...and repainting. 
  • Don't ever think it would be a good idea to spend actual dollars a paint CALLED "swamp fog"
  • Don't hire a handyman randomly off of Craigslist.  Well, not unless you like walls built without the aid of a level, in which case I say go ahead- you won't be disappointed. 
And finally- 
  • Don't buy a house that was built before your grandparents were born.  Ever.  Try to remember that this was a time when people still used leeches as "medicine" and thought tapeworms were a useful diet aid.  Would you really trust these people to build your house?  I think not.  
(On a side note: anyone know where one can buy pharmaceutical-grade tapeworms?  Cause, I've got a friend who was asking...)

So on that note- I don't know what you all will be doing this weekend, but I sure know what I'll be doing.  
Operation Fix This Fucking House, part two: the sledgehammer chronicles

Happy Friday, my plaster-covered, asbestos-inhaling bits of sweat equity.  Happy Friday. 


Wednesday, November 10, 2010

I'm here, I'm just here elsewhere.

So...if you want to hear my thoughts on uncircumcised penises, gravy, geography and road trips, pop on over to The Real Johnson, where I am guest posting today.

Yes, I know I've been slacking on my duties here, but throw me a bone, will you?  Go, read, leave a comment and astound Johnson with your own knowledge of his maple leaf-encrusted country.  Plus, I love being the guest star in other people's lives, so stroke my ego a bit, OK?

As a tit-for-tat (tee-hee, tit),  Johnson has reciprocated with a guest post of his own for me.  You know how I love a good three way, and this time it's just you, me and Johnson.  Everyone remember the safe word? (hint: it rhymes with othertrucker)


Recently I asked the hilarious and talented WhiskeyMarie if she'd be willing to do a guest post for my blog. Much to my excitement, she agreed and provided me with a summary of her vast knowledge of my fantastic country of origin, Canada.  
It was a remarkably accurate portrait of the Great White North, replete with mostly uncircumcised penises (meaning most of the penises here are uncircumcised, not that all the penises here are somehow partially circumcised; just to clarify), hash, poutine, and comedy troupes.
Basically, if you've always wondered what Canada is like, but you're afraid to get recruited into some sort of toque-wearing socialist paradise, you could read her synopsis and get a real feeling for the country without ever visiting. 
As a matter of fact, WhiskeyMarie was so on the money that it got me to thinking about her place of origin and how little I know about it.
I'm not talking about the USA of course. In addition to the Snow Channel, Poutine News and The Gay Wedding Channel, most of us in Canada get all the same TV channels that you guys down south get, so we know virtually all there is to know about your country in general (Except the whole NASCAR thing. What is up with that?).
No, I'm talking about Minnesota. 
It occurred to me that I know virtually nothing about Minnesota.
At first I thought I had some knowledge of Minnesota; an accent, something about cheese; but then it occurred to me that all that “knowledge” was actually stuff I had gleaned from watching That 70s Show.
Then of course I realized that That 70s Show actually takes place in Wisconsin, so I was back to square one.
Having never been there, I tried hard to gather all the info I had about Minnesota and here is what I came up with:
  • The Minnesota North Stars played there until 1993 when they moved to Dallas and became the Stars.
  • In 2000, hockey returned to Minnesota when you got a new franchise, The Wild.
  • This isn't related to Minnesota, but there are only three teams in the NHL whose nicknames aren't plural. The Wild is one. Can you name the two others? I can.
  • Kirby Puckett had to retire because he went blind in one eye.
  • The word Minnesota comes from the Dakota name for the Minnesota River: Mnisota. The root mni (also spelled mini or minne) means, "water". Mnisota can be translated as sky-tinted water or somewhat clouded water.
That's all I know. 
OK, I admit it: I cheated.  
I had to look up the year The Wild joined the NHL.
So, in honour of her exhaustive four trips to Canada (all to places I have never been and wouldn't choose to go to, by the way), I hereby endeavour to learn more about Minnesota.  
(On a serious note: I'd like it to be known that I don't actually have any facts or figures about Canadians being ant-eaters or helmet heads. I do know that ant-eaters are gross and dirty.)
Also, rest-assured WhiskeyMarie: poutine with bacon is very much a reality. As are poutine with Montreal-style smoked meat, curry chicken poutine, and chipotle pulled-pork and Italian sausage poutine. Poutine purists may think it sacriledge, but all are readily available at Smokes Poutinerie (, where I am actually headed immediately after work. I estimate it's about a 20 hour drive from Northern Minnesota, but it might be worth it.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Seventeen seconds, seventeen minutes, seventeen hours.

So, about a month or so ago I got a speeding ticket.
I've only ever had one other speeding ticket in my life, and that was 11 years ago when I was pulled over with a large group of cars and was issued a ticket without even getting to say two words to the occifer, let alone treat him to the one-woman, one-act play that I have titled "Would a quick handie get me out of this? Because, I totally would: the Whiskeymarie Chronicles."

 This time I was actually pulled over, flashing lights and all, and yet again I was denied the deep, meaningful and often tearful interaction with the Popo that so many before me have used to "get out of a ticket", whatever the fuck that means.  Nevermind that I never, ever speed on purpose (well, not 99.9% of the time anyways), and that I was going the same speed as everyone around me- in fact, there were people in the lane next to me going faster than I was, which only leads me to believe that I do, in fact, have an evil leprechaun that follows me around with the sole mission in his miserable, lucky-charms-infested existence being to get me into trouble.  Man, I hate that little green asshat- I've named him Seamus MacDouchydick. 

I was informed by Occifer Mustachenstein that, while he was making my already stressful day suck so hard that it would later be entered into the Shitty Day Hall of Fame, there was a bucket of gold at the end of this dung-colored rainbow: I could go in, talk to one of Hennepin County's many delightful paper pushers, and if they deem me worthy, I could pay the fine, but keep the ticket off of my record, providing that I don't get any more violations in one year's time.  These violations include (but are not limited to): speeding, driving naked while texting threatening messages to members of Congress, running over old people for sport, and playing "bumper cars: 3D" with my vehicle. 

So last week, I got up early-ish, put on my finest dungarees, and drove downtown to deal with this.  One can make an appointment for this meeting, but I was informed that the earliest I could get one of these alleged "appointments" would be late January, which means that by the time I saw anyone, my $150 ticket would have grown into a $4,785 ticket, and yet another pesky warrant would be out for my arrest (someday I'll tell you about the other one- it involves donkeys, stalking, diapers and Clive Owen.  The gag order currently forbids me from giving you any more details).  I was told to try the "walk in" service.  I was also told to get there early, bring a book, and plan on a hefty wait.  Fun!

I arrived about 8:45- I walked in, talked briefly to a sour-faced clerk behind bulletproof glass, then pulled my ticket from the dispenser.  It was number 36, they were currently at number 9.  "Hmmm.  This isn't so bad!" I thought.  Not like the one time I went to the DMV and pulled number 11 and they were only on number 22- as in, I had to wait for 89 people to go before it was my turn.  Seriously.

The office where I had to go is located on the ground floor of the Courthouse building, and it is a dank, dreary, sad little place where one could easily find oneself planning one's own grisly suicide.  I kind of expected a wide assortment of folks waiting along with me, but mostly it was a shiftless, crabby, shady bunch, and judging from the conversations I had no choice but to eavesdrop on, many of them had spent many other hours and days in that particular office.  One woman in particular, obviously in deep, soulful love with the sound of her own (very loud) voice, had been there twice already this month because of "bullshit" cops that seem to take issue with people smoking weed while riding as a passenger in someone else's car.  Her charming outbursts every 3 minutes or so that "This is bullshit" really helped things as well, as if none of the rest of us would have recognized the bull shittyness of the situation without her brilliant observations.  Yeah, lady- no one else here has anything better to do- in fact, I'm kind of enjoying sitting here, smelling mystery farts that keep wafting over, and listening to you blather on about how you getting a parking ticket for an expired meter counts as racial profiling.  It took every fiber of my being to not reach across the stained carpet, grab her around the neck, and rip her loudmouthed head clean off in one satisfying and forceful tug. 

So I'm waiting while trying really hard to not commit premeditated homicide, and things seem to be moving along fairly smoothly.  People are getting called forth to the inner sanctum, they depart, then more minions are called forth.

Until number seventeen.  Fucking seventeen.

When seventeen hit, a few of us took notice and started looking around- "How come they aren't calling any more numbers?" "Is something wrong?" "What the fuck is this motherfucking bullshit?" (You can guess where that last one came from.)  (Yes, it was me.)
Twenty minutes, then thirty minutes came and went with no movement.  The guy holding number 18 started crying, but number 24 consoled him and talked him off the ledge.  Number 42 started offering people cash to trade numbers.  The guy sitting next to me- number 30- started fidgeting and making a strange, low humming noise.  I sat there, after finishing reading my Real Simple magazine, and already halfway through my short book, hoping that the humming wasn't a precursor to a total meltdown involving me, violence and/or humping.

Once we hit the 45-minute mark with number seventeen, the shit hit the fan.  Lady loudmouth started pacing the room, muttering to herself about having to plug her meter again, as well as her love of weed and how she could use a hit right now.  The guy trying to bribe ticket holders upped his offer to $40, without any takers.  People coming in were being told that it would likely be a 3-hour wait, which meant that about every third person that approached the window ended up either yelling at the clerk, storming out, or bargaining with her as to why they needed to be seen sooner than the other 65 or so people sitting in that sad, farty office.  One of my favorite moments from this day was when two women walked in and I heard this exchange:
Woman #1: "Damn, I should have got here earlier!"
Woman #2: "Damn, girl- you should have woke up earlier!"
Woman #1: "Girl, you know I was doing my hair.  I'm tired"
Woman #2: "Bitch, I ain't waiting for this shit.  And your hair is busted."
And...cue angry women storming out of the office.  (And for the record: Her hair was totally busted.)

Then, my second favorite moment of the day occurred.
Lady Loudmouth had to go plug her meter and duck into a doorway for a quick hit (judging from how she smelled when she returned, anyways), and the funniest thing happened.  The minute she walked out the door, the gates of heaven opened, a glorious light spilled forth, and...

...the door to the offices opened.
"Number eighteen?  Is number eighteen here?"

Number eighteen jumped up, wiped the tears from his face, hugged his comrades, and walked towards the clerk and the light.  Hurrah!  All is right with the world!  The angels have crapped sparkles and rainbows on us!  I love bureaucracy! 

Unfortunately for Lady Loudmouth, her 20-minute trip to the meter yielded the hilarious (to me) and disastrous result of her missing her number called.
Upon her return, I braced myself for what would surely be mayhem.  When she found out that she missed her chance and would have to wait yet another 30 minutes until they could get to her again, she looked like she was about to do something that would surely get her the lead story on the evening news: "Marijuana-addled loudmouth broad goes ballistic at the courthouse: Brilliant and ravishing St. Paul woman sustains minor injuries to her uvula while subduing crazy lady.  Awesome St. Paul woman will be honored as a hero in a very austere ceremony Thursday."
Or, something like that.

In the end, I wound up waiting 2.5 hours, I paid my fine, kept the ticket off my record (for now) and I (cue heartfelt piano music) learned a little bit about myself, life and this crazy place called Earth.

Then I went home and had a very satisfying poop.  Not the best day ever, but not the worst either.

Monday, September 27, 2010

I wonder if Martha Stewart ever uses the word "fuck" in her recipes? Hmmm...

 So, this Saturday I once again found myself in the lucky position of having dinner with some other local bloggers.  Drinks/wine were consumed, much Italian food was assaulted in a way that could probably get a girl arrested in some countries, and the conversation was such that there was nary a pause unless one of us ran out of breath or was stuffing our faces.  

During the course of the evening, I was told (read: demanded) to re-post my chocolate chip recipe, since a few of my fellow diners had tried the recipe already, and confirmed the total awesomeness of the fucking cookies to the other diners. 
Also, a big thanks to my fellow amazing, funny, smart & sassy diners: Lisa, Lesli, MNMom, Cathy, and MG for such a nice time- I will happily shove food and cocktails into my face with you all anytime. 

So, here you go- the recipe.  And remember- any alterations/substitutions/abominations and I cannot guarantee the awesomeness.  I took a long time figuring this recipe out, so if you change it in any way you will surely make little baby Jeebus cry and a unicorn will lose its wings.  Do you want that kind of guilt?  Do you?  DO YOU???

Whiskeymarie's Fucking Awesome Chocolate Chip Cookies (patent pending):
1c. softened butter (read that? It says BUTTER. Not margarine, not Shedd's spread country crock. BUTTER. Make sure it's room temp or you'll be sorry.)
1c. dark brown sugar, packed (you can use light brown, but it's not the same and I wouldn't recommend it. You won't regret using the dark- I promise.)
3/4 c. regular old white granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 Tablespoon vanilla (yes, you read that right. I tablespoon. I know it seems like a lot, but humor me. Also, try using the real stuff if you can, not the imitation. You can get it cheap at Costco. It makes a big difference.)
2 large eggs
3 c. all-purpose flour (measure this accurately. Don't "eyeball" it.)
12-oz bag MILK chocolate chips (I prefer Guylian as the chips are bigger, but Ghirardelli or any other "good" kind will do. Don't go and cheap out on the chocolate. And yes- yes I know that you want to use the semi-sweet chips for whatever reason.  Humor me, and try the milk chocolate- these cookies are totally different and not as good if you don't.)

If you have a mixer, use it (using the paddle), otherwise you can do this by hand too.
Cream together the butter, sugars, salt, soda and vanilla (if you are using a mixer, usually 2-3 minutes is fine, by hand it'll be 4-5 minutes. Yes, your arm will get tired.)
Add the eggs one at a time and incorporate thoroughly.

Add the flour and mix until everything is just incorporated (if you are using a mixer, pulse it on and off at first or you'll have a big-assed mess. Also, when using the mixer, I mix on low until the flour is sort of "halfway" combined, and then I add the chips so they don't get all smooshed up. If mixing by hand add the chips with the flour.)

Drop by heaping tablespoons onto an ungreased baking sheet, then flatten slightly with the palm of your hand.

Bake at 350 degrees until just lightly browned (they will look puffy). Let rest only about 10-15 seconds, then remove from the sheet to cool.

Eat em' up. You can also add 3/4 c. chopped nuts (when you add the chips) to this if you're into bastardizing recipes like that. Any other alterations/substitutions and I cannot guarantee the fucking awesomeness of the cookies and would prefer if you don't drag my name into it.
Just follow the damn recipe, will you?'re welcome.  You all can have cookies this week, but after my weekend of gluttony I will be once again "cleansing" my polluted system with protein shakes, vegetables, no dairy/gluten/red meat/booze/fun, and enough water to qualify my bladder as an emergency reservoir this week.  We'll see how it goes this time...

Happy Monday, my milk chocolatey little gluten nuggets.  Happy Monday.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Photographic evidence that I haven't had that sexual reassignment surgery...yet.

I currently have 573 items in Google Reader, which should give some indication of how my time-management skills (skills which could best be described with the words lackluster and laughable) are these days.  Yesterday found me walking into the walk-in freezer at work, closing the door, then yelling "motherfucker!!!" at the top of my lungs, such was my frustration with the day-to-day.  I can't lie- it always feels good to scream when I'm feeling as overwhelmed as a hooker on "nickel night". 

I wondered aloud recently if it would be strange to hire a nanny when you don't have any kids.  I'm finding that maintaining a house, a husband, a job and 4 pets is not as "fun" as you would think it is, assuming that your idea of "fun" doesn't involve endless animal feces and throwing together dinners made entirely of previously frozen novelty foods.  I've been getting disapproving looks lately from the hairier members of the household, and the pets keep looking at me funny as well.  I regularly forget to wash my hair, and I have given up entirely on dealing with the many piles of clutter in the house, choosing instead to turn them into either "art" or cat furniture. 

The few odd spare moments have been filled with voracious magazine and catalog reading, wine, hair-plucking, yard maintenance and pizza ordering.  Oh, and I got a speeding ticket, which was nice.

A few photos to use as filler until I get fired, win the lottery, or finally give it all up and retire to a nice tent under that freeway overpass that I've had my eye on:

I still find time to dress up the pets, it seems.

I grew some red carrots. 

I spent an afternoon on a boat on Lake Superior, and no it wasn't the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Bubs was on the boat too, though he looks less enthused about it than I was. 


Oh, and I went to the zoo.  I asked the Mr. to take a pic of me and the tiger, so he took a pic of my boob and the tiger.  Close enough. 

Aaannnddd...there was a polar bear. 

Donkey donkey donkey. 

I took a wild ride on a turtle, and you can see the Mr's mad photo skillz at work again. 

There were some crazy-assed tiny little monkeys with mohawks.  They didn't stop moving for even a second, so all my pics of them are blurry.  I totally want one. 

I hugged a friendly bear, and such was my joy that I closed my eyes and took a little nap. 

Bubs performing his favorite activity in the back seat of the car on long trips- drooling uncontrollably. 

I made cookies with blue things in them.

I found a plaster casting of my teeth that I forgot I had. 

And I found where one of the cats has been stashing cherry tomatoes from the kitchen, for whatever reason. 

There you go, my little twitchy mohawked donkey monkeys.  There you go. 

Friday, August 27, 2010

Pieces of things that don't necessarily go together, much like most of my outfits.

Random bits- much like the frozen , leftover morsels of dead squirrels that I keep in my freezer, just in case:
  • I can't seem to type today without having to correct typos every other word, and simple speech seems to be a monumental task.  I'm thinking I had a stroke in my sleep.  Does that mean I can skip work today? 
  • I think my new class is scared of me- I'm totally OK with that. 
  • I can't remember when I washed my hair last, and I don't have time to do it before work.  Maybe I'll shape it into a giant, puffy chef's hat or a honkey 'fro and call it a day. 
  • I already mentioned this on Facebook, but a few weeks ago when I was at the grocery store, what I thought was a bird whizzed by my head in the toilet paper aisle.  When it turned around and flew by me again, I realized that it was a bat.  While I was looking for an employee to notify of Dracula's arrival, the bat must have flown into the main checkout area.  There was screaming, people running for cover, and cashiers trying to trap the bat with plastic grocery baskets.  Total chaos.  I seemed to be the only one who wasn't freaked out, so I checked out in the self-checkout and went on my merry way.  I hope the bat was OK, but holy hell, that sure was entertaining to watch. 
  • There is a totally shitballs-crazy dude at the gym that I'm kind of obsessed with watching, just to see what cookoo thing he'll do next.  Like, muttering nonstop, crazy eyes, obsessively moving very heavy equipment one inch that way then one inch the other, throwing newspaper pages around, and kind of "dancing" on the stairmaster.  Last time I saw him, his antics cleared a mostly-full room in about 10 minutes.  Except me- of course I couldn't stop watching. 
  • Also at the gym: a totally naked woman in the locker room decided to chat me up the other day.  I'm too polite to say, "Um, could you at least put a towel on?  Seriously lady, your glory days were over a long time ago and not looking at your gravity-challenged stuff is difficult, at best."  I guess she liked my purse.  Um...okay. 
  • I bought new, flat, knee-high black boots for fall that I'm in love with.  I figured that I earned them with my astounding laziness and sloth this summer.  Whatever- they were on sale. 
  • Summer is finally winding down, and the temperatures are finally dipping into "not as hot as Satan's bung after three hours of step aerobics" range.  What does this mean, you may ask?  Well, it means that I finally have enough energy to not only get off my ass, but to also "do things" and "leave the house".  Also, my mood is considerably better and I no longer punch random people in the crotch from "heat rage".  Not only will I maybe get some of those pesky restraining orders lifted, but I may actually stop by this here blog more than once a menses cycle.  I know- promises, promises.  
Happy Friday, my little sweaty, nude vampire bats.  Happy Friday.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Like quicksand squishing in my toes, so are the days of my life.

I probably should have mentioned at some point how I've been off from work since June 30th.  I meant to tell you, but I was so busy...doing stuff that I kind of forgot.

Well, that's not exactly true.

I was doing stuff, but saying I was "busy" is pretty much a bold-faced lie, and I will forever swim in the shame river created from the spittle of the thousands of mouths yelling at me for being a big fat liar.

No, my summer has been blissfully boring.  The kind of boring that would make someone with things like "ambition" and "goals" and "drive" the special kind of crazy normally reserved for celebrities with paint huffing issues/schizophrenia.  Sure, I gardened a bit, I constructed houses out of discarded boxes for the cats, I organized my underpants, and I found shaded patios around town where a pale, publicity-shy gal like myself could get eleventy cocktails with a friend or two and accidentally fall into the bushes without nary a flash from the paparazzi or an inappropriately-located sunburn.  

One would think that, given the vast amount of time that I had, that I would have been on the ball enough to do maybe one teeny, tiny bit of work in preparation for my triumphant return to work.  This coming Monday
If you had thought that, I would be bitch-slapping you repeatedly right now for your astounding level of idiotness, you idiot.  You should know me better than that by now, stupid.

No, instead of "getting a jump on things" like most marginally mature adults on the planet, the most impressive work-related thing that I've accomplished in my 50 days off (so far) was to get the most wicked-awesome score on electronic Yahtzee EVER.  512, bitches!  Five hundred-freaking twelve!! (Yes, I consider this work-related as numbers are involved, and everyone knows that numbers = work)'d probably be correct in assuming that, as I get older, my brain is slowly turning into a tapioca-like mass of gray goo.  Yup.  In a few years you will probably be able to suck it out through a straw stuck up my nostril.

So now, as the final days of my Enchanted summer of nothing (patent pending) come to an end, of course NOW would be the time to be forced to sit through two days (13+ hours) of meetings under the guise of "In-service", thereby rendering my remaining few chances of being prepared impotent. 
I fucking hate In-service.
Yesterday we were forced to sit through 4 hours of lectures, 3 powerpoint presentations, a goddamn MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER that I will need to devote a separate post to, such was  Just wow, one divisional meeting, and too many technological snafus to count.  Today was worse, and that's all I can say about it until the PTSD subsides and the shitty coffee has left my veins.

So...I guess that the basic point of this rather incoherent post is that I, like many a dipshit, have yet again procrastinated to the point that I am, indeed, quite fucked.

And, no.  I don't believe that I will ever learn from my mistakes.  We all know by now that learning stuff is for losers.

Now I'm going to go and git my cocktail on and write an outline for next week once I'm good and drunk.  Lord knows that has worked for me every other semester.

Have a moderately productive weekend (but don't strain yourself sweetie), my totally screwed little worker bees.  Happy weekend!

(Oh, and?  I guess I'm on the Twitter/Twatter now.  Look for @Whiskeymarie  All the kids are doing it, you know.)

(And I just realized that I've spewed out over 600 posts at this point.  Holy shitballs, you people put up with a lot.  Freaking saints, you are.  -Yoda OUT.)

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Home sweet goddamn unfinished home.

Alright.  No one is more aware than I am that there hasn't been an update on "Operation Fix this Fucking House" in, years or so (give or take seven years).  I'd like to say that we've spent this vast amount of time tweaking and polishing and such and such for our big final reveal where I could rub your noses in the fact that we made this old hag of a house our bitch, but yeah- not so much.  I am still LeBitch of the Casa, and we still aren't done.  Can I get a FFUUUUCCCKKKK?!?!?
The funny (insert maniacal, shrill laughter here) thing is, the main reason we started the whole renovation/redecoration thingy is because of one room in particular:  the "old" bathroom.  I can't wait to show you pictures of this sorry excuse of a shitter in all of its flesh-tone tiles with diarrhea-brown trimmed glory, but that will have to wait for a (long) while, as this also happens to be the ONLY FREAKING ROOM WE HAVEN'T EVEN FREAKING STARTED YET.  Yes, I still have the ugliest bathroom on the planet in my home.  You will believe.  Trust me.  You will believe.

But...that will have to wait for now.  I'm close to being able to show you the dining room, but I have to wait for a day that isn't raining or 900% humidity so that I can finally paint a couple of things.  Yes, two of those "things" are actually living pets, but hey- I like to color-coordinate.
Yes, I can wait while you call the local ASPCA to report me...
Okay then. 

Moving on...
I realized today that the living room has been pretty much done for a while now, I was just kind of thinking that I'd wait until it felt perfect, but then I remembered that "perfect" for me is a fluctuating thing, and with my ADD and OCD and TNT (Dy-no-mite!), well, I'm just going to have to bite the bullet and wave the white flag.  It's as done as it's gonna be, and I may as well take a picture or two on the one day that there seems to be no dog puke or drool on at least 80% of the furniture, and since there aren't any pet hair tumbleweeds blowing through or embarrassing magazines left out (What?  I read Juggs and Ferret Monthly for the articles! Really!)- then today is the day. 

First, you need to know what we started with, from the beginning.

Once upon a time, a very, very broke couple bought a very, very old house because they loved it, and because it was cheap.  Dirt cheap.  Not being wise in the ways of minor things like "updated to code electrical stuff", "plumbing stuff", and ""what's that funny smell?" stuff, they were elated to find a home to call their own where they would never again have to be oppressed by the white walls of apartment living.  Unfortunately, the lovely couple did not know that plaster walls come with a whole nutha' level of frustration when it comes to painting them, especially when the plaster walls were put in around 1906 and are particularly porous:


The charming couple also knew that there were pristine, original, honey-colored maple floors underneath the 40+ year old carpeting (Oh sweet Jeebus- the smell!  Think: Old lady+cabbage+mildew+cabbage farts), but they had no idea of how much work it would take to unearth said floors.  Turns out, the 40+ year-old red rubber foam underneath the nastyass carpeting had pretty much fused to the floor.  Like cement.  And, to complicate matters, the wood underneath was in such beautiful shape that the shockingly attractive couple didn't want to use any chemicals or metal scrapers that might have damaged the finish.  Fourteen plastic scrapers, much alcohol and several breakdowns later, the astonishingly witty couple was done. 
Yes, it was as fun as you think it would be:

As our beloved couple were still in their 20's when they painted/decorated, and since they were still no joke broke, they made the room "theirs" with a mishmash of hand-me-down furniture, thrift store booty, lots of gold paint, and one zebra-striped rug that they were given as a gift.  You can't see it here, but for a long time they also had a disco ball hanging from the ceiling.  Ahh...youth. 

This is an old picture, but as there doesn't seem to be any "whole room" shots of the old living room, this will at least give you an idea of the overall "theme" of the space.  Think: Old Vegas meets IKEA meets your Grandma's parlor:

And with that, our wonderfully eloquent and well-mannered couple rode off into the sunset.  Well, they drove their VW to the convenience store for slurpees and nachos, anyways.  The End.  Well, the end of me writing in fairy-tale form, anyways.  I can't keep up with shit like that.
Again, moving on...

Phase 2 of the living room project started with the purchase of a couch, and we built (read: I built) the rest of the room around it.  This pic is the new couch, the new coffee table, the old paint job and curtains, and Rug #1 that was promptly returned, such was it's fugliness:

Here we are, once again prepping the goddamn plaster walls for painting.  Yeah, I'd like to say that we got all of this done really fast and only had to live in crack-den squalor for a day or two, but who am I kidding?  It looked like this for over a week:

And's done (for a few years anyways).
I'm not really an "old Victorianesque house" sort of gal, so in changing things up, I wanted to modernize the overall look of the joint while still keeping the basic "bones" intact.  I have beautiful wood floors and windows with simple, clean lines, and I really didn't want to mess with that. 

I like to think that I achieved my goal, for the most part.  It's still "us", but the more grown-up version of "us", still with a sense of humor and a bit o'whimsy:

The curtains are blue cotton velvet, which works well year-round.  If they were darker I wouldn't think so, but the light color makes the fabric seem not so heavy.  The rug is a shag I ordered online- I love the crap out of this rug, but I'm pretty sure that vacuuming it counts as hard-core cardio.  I worked up a shocking amount of sweat last time I did it- like, sweaty underboob and all.  Yes, I'm a tender, delicate flower- tell me something I don't know.

This pic has one of the many IKEA items that we had to buy in it (the cabinet), being that we were on a miniscule budget and have all sorts of strange, useless spaces throughout the Casa that needed filling (that's what SHE said!).  The lamp was from, and it looks super duper neato when it's lit up:

Yes, we still have the Sonny Chiba "Street Fighter" poster- I like to think of it as "timelessly elegant".  The end table was a Craigslist find from a fabulously fabulous gay boy in Minneapolis.  The lamp base was a vintage store find that I approached like a drunk, horny girl at closing time- I know I shouldn't take it home because it's kind of ugly, but I'm incapable of saying no to it in my state, and it does have a certain charm...

The only art on the walls in this room (other than Sonny) is a grouping of three photos, all purchased through various peepos on the internets.  The top one was from Sandy (who actually gave it to me when I jokingly said I wanted an 11x14 when I saw the picture on his blog.   I guess I'm glad that my ill-timed and awkward sense of humor works to my advantage sometimes.)  The middle one was purchased from someone off of this awesome MN website (thanks again for keeping it, Sornie!).  And the bottom one was purchased through bloggess extrordinaire, Ms. Campbell at Jurgen Nation.  I like how they all are kind of sort of dreamy, spooky landscapes.

Close up of the coffee table, a solid slab of old marble, bought off Craigslist from a little old lady in St. Louis Park.  The slab is seriously, no-joke heavy.  I like how it brings a little bit of nature into a fairly crisp room:

A closer look in the corner- you can see better here how I toned down from the old diamond pattern on the walls and painted subtle stripes instead:

Closeup of the lamp, just because I love the texture. 

So, yeah.  That's it for today's installment of "OFtFH": updated.

Tune in six months from now when I can maybe, possibly, probably not show you yet another finished room.  My prediction: by the time we finish the last room, we'll have to start all over again because 20 years will have passed and shit will be falling apart.  Good times. 

We'll finish today off with a treat- an "amuse bouche after the fact", if you will.

 Cat on a stick.  Yum.

Happy whateverdaythisisimonvacationdammit, my plaster-covered shaggy rugs.  Happy whatever.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Confession #3: I had to look up "harbinger" in the dictionary to make sure I was using it correctly.

In my never-ending quest to firmly place myself in the League of Extraordinary Dorks Hall of Fame, I give you another not-so-shocking confession:

I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, harbinger of all things cool and awesome...I used to freaking love Clive Barker (and still kind of do). 

Yes, I said it.  I willingly devoured the gory, strange writings that typically appealed more to nerdtacular boys with unhealthy addictions to Doungeons and Dragons and creative masturbation practices than to punk rock-ish girls in rural Minnesota in the 80's.  I've read most of his books, I've (for better or for worse, usually worse) seen most of the movies (yeah, I'll take a pass on Hellraisers #2-9, thank you very much), and I even spent a number of hours in the early 90's waiting in line at Rosedale Mall for the honor of having Mr. Barker sign my copy of Weaveworld.  I remember that he was very nice, kind of short, and not at all seeming like the kind of guy who could come up with some of the fucked up gore that he has come up with.  He seemed more like the kind of guy that would write sensitive poetry about butterflies and tea than the kind of guy who regularly writes about evisceration and limbs being lopped off casually, like how one would cut apart a chicken for dinner.

I started watching Midnight Meat Train just the other night, a movie that I had been pestering the Mr. to get for me from Netflix, much to his chagrin.  I'm only halfway through, but from what I've seen so far, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it's not terrible.  Considering the monumental stinkiocity of pretty much all of his other movies (Hellraiser #1 being the only exception- perfectly cheesy, sort of campy, and still appropriately scary), that's saying a lot.  Bradley Cooper sure is easy on the eyes, and Vinnie Whatshisname was perfectly cast: almost no dialogue and creepy as hell.  I think I'll finish watching it today- yes, I'll be the one sitting inside on a sunny, hot July day watching a movie about butchering humans for meat. 

Yay, me?

Oh, and while we're on topic of embarrassing confessions:  Yesterday I decided put on eye cream while I was going pee, and I thought to myself, "Hey!  I'm multi-tasking!".

Set the bar low, Whiskey.  Set the bar low. 

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

"let me hear your body talk..." OK, maybe that's enough talk for now. Tell your body to shut up.

If you've been taking your Adderall like the nice doctor prescribed, you may remember that I joined a gym.  You may also be kind of twitchy and grinding your teeth down to sad and bloody little nubs from the amphetamines, but that's really not my problem now, is it?

A few random observations from my first 6 weeks of sweating profusely from every crease I own in the company of strangers, AKA going to the Y:

*To the oddly-shaped gal who seems to always be there when I am and seems to never, ever leave...
Here's the deal:  Tights do not equal pants. 

Did you hear that?  Did it make sense?  Do any of those words exist in your dancewear-as-haute-couture world? 

While I totally admire your commitment to such a daring and bold look, I have to say, um...not so much with the execution of said "look".  Semi-sheer footless tights over granny panties?  No, no, no.

My kind but firm suggestion is this:  before leaving for the gym, stop and take a good, long look in a full-length mirror.  If you can see a shockingly accurate outline of your underpants (including the tag), and if your legs look better suited to heels and a party dress, and if you can clearly see where the "control top" portion of your "pants" begins...then I suggest changing before you go.  And yes- yes I know you can afford real workout pants/shorts.  I've seen your ipod and tenners- they're nicer than mine.  You've got no excuse, Ms. Grannypantyhose, unless poor judgment sprinkled with cookoo counts as an excuse these days.

*I was forced to blow my nose in my gym towel the other day while on the elliptical.  I was also sweating like a heavyset, middle aged Eastern European man with impressively excessive body hair on vacation at dance camp somewhere near the Equator.  To the non-sweating, not huffing and puffing all asthma-like gym-goer next to me that day, I apologize.  Seriously- you shouldn't have had to witness that. 

*And what about the cute little 20-something Asian-American girl who seems to have the superhuman ability to run for 30 minutes, take a hip-hop aerobics class, then cool down with intermediate yoga, all without so much as a drop of perspiration or even a second of bargaining with the Universe for mercy?  I'm totally trying to not hate you, but keep it up and I'm going to start slipping lard supplements into your water bottle, OK?

*I was on the elliptical (again) the other day next to a dude who looked exactly like Hulk Hogan circa 1987:

Seriously- Yellow head scarf, red tank top, yellow Zubaz-like pants and the handlebar mustache.  The whole freaking shebang.  I wanted to ask him how he was doing since the divorce, but he was the only person in the gym sweating more than I was, so I knew that it would be best to just leave him be.  Pretty much the last thing you want to do when you're drenched in your own bodily fluids is carry on a conversation about your feelings.

*Also, in no particular order:
Geriatric boobies, Creepy dude that draws odd pictures in a child's notebook while waiting for a certain piece of equipment, Holy shit there are a lot of dudes that lift weights while watching themselves in the mirrors!, The one guy who keeps moving the damn fans despite the "Do not move the fan" signs, Me plotting to kill fan guy for hogging not one, not two, but THREE freaking fans on a 90 degree day when the AC seemed to have given up the will to live, The lady who doesn't wear headphones while working out yet still seems to have some sort of music in her head judging by her insane giggling and singing, Me accidentally taking home several of the gym-provided towels and being too embarrassed to bring them back so they're just sitting in my dining room all smelly, Running into a Lance Armstrong-esque coworker who has like, 8% body fat and does redonkulous triathlons and stuff right after I had a particularly sweaty and red-faced workout and had to make "conversation", More geriatric nudity, and finally- the icing on the cake...

...I'm pretty sure I saw the nutsack of a 60-something dude when it peeked out from his very short shorts.  I'm hoping I regain my vision sometime soon, but if I have to see that again I'll pass on this whole "sight" thing as it may be totally overrated. 


Speaking of getting physical, the reason the word exists:

Me-fucking-ow.  Adam, I'll take you, your Ants and your smouldering sexiness anytime, any day, any way.

OK, I have to go now.  I'm all misty in my lady-bits and it sure as hell ain't from working out.

Happy early Wednesday, my glistening, rippling six-packs of sexiness.  Happy early Wednesday.


Sunday, June 13, 2010

If I dig further back, I'm sure I'll find pirates and cannibals.

I've never tried to kid myself about my ancestry- my elders weren't exactly signing the Constitution or discovering the cure for polio.  It's far more likely that they were weaving the cotton for fancypants men's pantaloons or milking the cows to make butter for the White House post-Constitution-signing dinner/kegger.  I'm fine with this, and in fact, I kind of think that it's awesome that I come from a long line of hardworking folks who were intimately familiar with callouses and tired feet. 

Well, I found out this weekend exactly how hard the work was for one of my relatives, in particular.  I was at a family wedding (for my cousin) and one of my uncles filled me in on a rather colorful piece of VonPartypants history:  Turns out, my great-grandmother (Or great-great?  I think it was just one "great") was...

...a madam.  At a brothel located over a bar in West Duluth. 

A madam!

I am waaayyy more pumped about this than a normal person would/should be.  I have hooker blood in me!!
Wait- that sounded morbid and serial killer-ish.  You know what I mean. 

I'm guessing that most people wouldn't be finding this quite as awesome as I do.  BUT  I DO!  Madam!!!

I'm guessing that the reality of the job and what it entailed wasn't quite as glamorous as I have it pictured in my head, and the callouses involved weren't located on her hands (or, maybe...).  But in my rodent-infested noggin I'm thinking of something sexy and classy, or sexy and sassy- something along the lines of "Belle du Jour" with Catherine Deneuve or "Irma la Douce" with Shirley MacLaine, but I'm guessing a more accurate scenario would involve sweaty factory workers, someone that looked like Patty the daytime hooker from "My Name is Earl", dirty sheets and a few shots of cheap whiskey.


I almost forgot- my other great Grandma specialized in trafficking homemade hooch to and from the Iron Range (you MN people will get this) during prohibition.  


I couldn't have received better news this week even if I had found out I was giving birth to twin spider monkeys.  I feel vindicated for both my slutty years in my early 20's, as well as my deep, soulful love of cocktails.  It's in my DNA, dammit! 

Now, I need to find pictures of these women just to satisfy my curiosity.  Will they look used hard and put away wet like the saggy, middle-aged, bleached hair, missing teeth hookers you see on "Cops"?  Or will they have a quiet elegance about them, wise beyond their years but still turning heads left and right?

Yeah.  I know what you're thinking.  Maybe it is best to leave that question unanswered and keep living in my imaginary hooker-hooch world.  Until I hear otherwise, I'm telling people that I'm descended from a Faye Dunaway-esque line of "bad"women (a la "Bonnie and Clyde").  This should explain it enough for most people. 

I'll let everyone else decide on their own what vice I'm going to decide to be an expert in, because I'm not telling once I do. 
Right now?  Right now I'm just weighing my options. 

A girl should ruin her reputation just the right way- this isn't a decision I take lightly, you know...

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Your Grandma says "hey"

So, I'm not sure if I mentioned it here, but I recently joined a gym. 

The "Y" to be exact. 

It's been a number of years (read: 15) since I last set foot in an organized workout emporium of any sort (unless we're counting drunken roller skating or competitive eating, which I totally do), and the last time it was only to take water aerobics with 65 year-old women named Ethyl and Bernadette at the Duluth "Y".  Yes, I was 24 years old.  Yes, I thought water aerobics was "hard exercise".  Yes, I was an idiot.  But hey- I was still young enough that I didn't have to worry about what I looked like in a swimsuit, and my metabolism was such that "working out" was totally unnecessary anyways.  I could eat a cheeseburger, fries and a shake 4 times a day and still lose weight.  Now?  Now I just see a picture of a french fry and my ass fat starts expanding at a rate of three inches per hour.

So far, this whole working out thing is going fairly well- I haven't broken any bones, and I've only almost fell off of the treadmill five times twice.  My favorite treadmill incident was when I decided to find a new song on my ipod (yes, I have one of those now too- you young whippersnappers have nothing on this broad- in that same spirit I figure that next week I'll start smoking as well)...

...where was I?  Oh yeah- the ipod/treadmill thingy. 
So, I'm on the treadmill, going along at a pretty good clip, and I decide to fumble on the ipod for something more inspiring, musically.  Suddenly, I kind of started listing to the right, and I started to lose my footing.  Forgetting completely about that pesky "pause" button, I began flailing about oh-so-gracefully, looking for something to grab so I wouldn't go flying off the treadmill, cartoon-style.  In my "challenged" state, I got the cord for my ear buds caught on my arm, and I managed to disconnect them, sending the actual ipod to the floor (which in this case was the treadmill itself), which in turn propelled it into the wall directly behind me, leaving a mark.  I managed to finally find the pause button, only to look up- sweating profusely and totally red-faced- to see three different people looking at me like I am was the biggest dork on the planet.
Good times. 

I also kind of forgot about the locker room at the "Y", but I was quickly reminded of how charming it can be within the first 3 minutes on my very first day.  I went in to grab a locker, and there the reminder was:  right in front of the door, standing under one of those hot air hand dryers was a 65+ year-old woman, naked as the day is long (on a side note: the whole "Brazilian wax" phenomenon does not seem to have caught on with the geriatric set.  Nope.).  I hope that my face didn't reflect what I was thinking, which was "Wow- I didn't know skin could do that."

Aaahhh, yes.  The "naked" factor. 

I'm no prude, and I totally have no problem with nudity, but when you're not prepared for it, even seeing the entire Brazilian Men's Soccer team unexpectedly nekkid would be totally awesome unsettling, right?  Right?

Yeah- who am I kidding, it freaks me out to see old people buck-assed (or nearly buck-assed) naked.   There you go. 

Oh my beloved YWCA, what other delights do you have in store for me?  I can hardly wait to find out.

Happy Tuesday, my sweaty little aerobic leprechauns.  Happy Tuesday. 


Wednesday, June 2, 2010

A is for Ambulatory

Going to see my bestest monkey, Gwen, this past weekend was eleventy hundred sorts of awesomeness.  Man I love that weirdo.

I ran into Gwen when I was stopping to pee after I got off the plane- she was coming out of the pisser, I was going in.  The best part was that she didn't say "HEY!" or "Whiskey!!" or anything like that when she spotted me- she just sort of let out a hee-haw, nerdy sort of giggle.  It was adorable.  We hugged and immediately starting talking about pooping.
So predictable, we are.

I was wearing a t-shirt that I had made just for the occasion (some of you will get this, some of you may not.  It's a long, embarrassing story that I'll save for a drunken post in the future):

The weekend was perfect- a blur of food, animal hats, fake butts, cocktails, too much wine, more food, sunburn, lounging, cannonballing, ice cream, cat grooming and manual labor.  I think at one point that Gwen slipped me something in my drink and got me to re-roof her house, but the only evidence I have of such a thing was waking up with asphalt shingles stuck to my knees, and I guess I now own a nail gun.

A bit of evidence that I actually spent the weekend in St. Louis with Gwen, and not pole-dancing at a truck stop in Arkansas, as rumors on the in-ter-nets would have you believe:

Gwen and I after our commitment ceremony at City Hall.  Gwen wore white, I wore a donkey suit.  It was as beautiful as it sounds:

The giant, tiled, mushroom/penis sculpture at the bar we went to Friday night.  It was penitacular:

Gwen and I slow dancing, catholic prom style:

Gwen is quite the gardener.  She currently is attempting to grow human butts, with mixed results:

Hanging out at the Hamptons (aka Gwen's back yard by the big blow-up pool) with a fruity beverage and pig ears:

Once we were tipsy enough to refuse to recognize any idea as a bad one, we decided to give each other tattoos, "prison-style".  My boob rose:

And my Celtic/Asian/Generic stripe, based on any number of tattoos generally found on Ultimate Fighting enthusiasts:

The line at the frozen custard place we went to Saturday night, after a long day of grilling, boozing, tattoos and boobies.  There were seriously close to 200 people there, but the line moved really fast. 

Gwen couldn't figure out why everyone at the ice cream store was looking at her funny, then she remembered that she had a hat on.  On a related note:  I am not wearing pants in this picture.  No lie. 

Before I flew home on Sunday, we met some of Gwen's friends for brunch at a swanky hotel.  This?  This was just the "dessert station".  There was also a "cured meat and cheese station" and both an oyster bar and a bloody mary bar, among other treats.  Oh, and unlimited mimosas.  
Best.  Brunch.  Ever. 


I miss my monkey-girl already...