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...