Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The hamster shouldn't complain about his wheel, dammit. At least he's working out.

If I should cast off this tattered coat,
And go free into the mighty sky;
If I should find nothing there
But a vast blue,
Echoless, ignorant --
What then?

-Stephen Crane

This is my one of my very favorite poems ever. I've never seen it as purely a comment on whether or not there is an "after" for this life or not, as I made that decision for myself a long time ago (Nada. Zip. Not in my summation anyways. I'm not the boss of you- think whatever you want to think, Thinky McThinkerson). Nope.

For me, this has been a less tangible, less obvious observation on those things that we see off in the future and wonder, "Should I?" What if I cast off the idea that my job is possibly a tireless routine that, over the years will suck my soul out despite the amazing hours and great pay, and start seeing it as something that I, theoretically, have the power to forge into something life-changing? What if I'm wrong about that and get stuck in an endless routine of contentedness and hamster wheelishness? What if I dare to do the things that I know will maybe make my restless and never-contented ass happier than I probably deserve to be? What if I don't? What if I was wrong in the first place? What if I was right?
Earlier this week, I fleetingly thought, "What if I really do have food poisoning and I have a 'whoops I crapped my pants' moment at work?" Ok, I guess that's not relevant to the existential b.s. here, but I thought it nonetheless and I am nothing if not an oversharer. Spoiler: I didn't crap my pants.

Anyhoo, I think my LONG standing writer's block has stemmed from my basic life-paralysis. I feel like I'm damned if I do, damned if I can muster up anything anyways. I know change is needed, but for the first time in my life I'm not 100% sure what those changes need to be. Maybe I need another dog, maybe I need another hobby besides competitive internet shopping and precision nose-blowing, maybe I need to bomb the shit out of everything I know as normal and create something new. I have some leanings towards certain things, but I think I've been waiting for some sign from the leprechauns that tell me what to do. Last time they told me to start fires, so I occasionally question their motives, but hey- it's what I've got. I have the wheels of change in motion, but they're moving slowly, which is probably for the best. When they move too fast I tend to run over things like squirrels and souls. One lets out a sad, squishy squeal when this happens, the other is more of a disappointed sigh.

 Not sure where this is going, mostly I wanted to explain my absence in some other way beyond a blithe, dismissive, bullet-pointed recap that I normally would do. If anyone is reading anymore, and I'd be shocked enough to maybe crap my pants for real if they were, I am back. For realsies. I feel like I needed a "breaking the hymen" (again) post to get back on that horse.
Well, I'm bleeding from the crotchal region (metaphorically, dummies) and trotting away happily on my steed, ignoring the fact that last time I rode I was horribly sore and chafed in my nether-regions the next day. Also? I may have horse-riding and "donkey shows" confused again. I'm easily confused.

Happy Wednesday, my existential little nuggets of horse poo. Happy Wednesday.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Where's Whiskey?

If you see her, tell her we miss her.

~ Whiskeymarie's friend John ~

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The best picture of a cat butt you'll probably see all day

Random photographic sort of evidence that I haven't been incarcerated for trying to smuggle squirrels into the movies or wandering the country in search of the elusive Hamburglar.  Again.  
Here you go: 

 So, this fella was sitting on a lawn chair ever so calmly for 10-15 minutes yesterday.  This may not be exciting for some of you, but I live in the city proper, and we just don't have huge birds of prey hanging out every darn day, unless you count "take a hawk to work day" which, honestly, never ends very without someone losing an eye or small child .  It was quite lovely until he squawked and swooped in to grab one of the cute little finches that pepper my yard in their twitchy, nervous way. 

 Trouble was making noises that I've never heard come out of a cat while Mr. Bigbird was visiting. I think he thinks that he'd win that fight.  Sorry Trubs, you may be big and strong, but that bird would totally fuck your shit UP- no amount of kitty machismo will change that.  Just forget about the bird and go roll around in my scarf drawer that you do in your totally not girly way.

Not pictured: 3,764 more tomatoes, 98 cucumbers, 247 hot peppers and 2 Hobbits.

Bubs singing- poor boy can't carry a tune or hit the high notes to save his life.

Good thing he's as cute as a teddy bear humping a teacup chihuahua on a rainbow.

Millie and her best side, using my poor desk chair as a climbing wall. She's like the monkey I never had...

The cuteness, it is strong in this one. Smoosh her face you must, young jedi.

Finally, the entire contents of my makeup basket from the bathroom.  No, you may not have the pills, but if you're nice I might let you touch my...brushes.

This is what happens when you have too many other cute things around the house- you stop obsessively photographing yourself and instead you spend hours trying to get the framing right so you can capture the perfect shot of your cat's hinder. 

I'll try to remedy that asap.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Stupid brains.

We had a speaker at work a while back, during one of our many tedious and markedly unproductive in-services.  Unlike many speakers in the past, which have included a ridiculously bad motivational speaker and one dude seemingly trying to mobilize us to join his army to overthrow a small government in Africa, this guy had the attention of everyone in the room, which is saying a lot considering that it was a room full of unionized folks.

He was talking about mental illness.  More specifically, HIS mental illness.  The thing that resonated most with me was when he was talking about when he (also) got diagnosed with MS (this dude not only is bi-polar, severely depressive and occasionally manic, but MS?  Really?).  He had been battling severe mental issues since he was a teenager, a fact which no one (not even his parents) acknowledged or had empathy for, but the second people learned that he had been diagnosed with MS, the cards, hot dishes, flowers and favors surged.  No one ever sent a card or flowers, or even acknowledged for that matter, his mental health issues.

And he raised a valid point- why do we look away, fiddle with our phones, or feign an emergency when someone has the balls to mention/discuss mental health issues?  I'm guilty of it myself.  Why is a disease that attacks your body so much more valid than one that attacks your brain, your psyche, your soul?  Why are mental health issues still a dirty little secret, and why do they have to be?  Just like no one goes out TRYING to get cancer, no one goes out and tries to get mental illness.
You don't attack it, it attacks you.

One person in four has mental health issues.
That's a lot, right?

I'll put it out there, for the sake of transparency/honesty: I suffer from ADD and occasional depression.  Whatever you think of those two things (and I know some of you think one or both aren't real- you can just keep your stupid opinions to your stupid self in this instance), I will tell you this: it was neither easy nor without a sense of deep, crushing shame that I finally approached a medical professional about both things.  One I medicate for, one I don't.

Whatever you think of the validity of ADD (not ADHD), this is the reality for me- when things got so bad that I: 1) drove through a red light at a busy intersection because I was distracted by someone in a bad outfit on the sidewalk, 2) would not make it to appointments/etc... that I had MANY reminders in place for on a twice-weekly basis, and 3) had no sense of control whatsoever over my own life to the point where I broke down in tears once or twice a week, then I knew something was happening that was beyond my grasp.

The depression?  It comes and goes.  This one is a bit easier to manage for me.  I can acknowledge it, recognize it, and try to power through it.  Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't.  Sometimes it sneaks up on me and manifests itself in less recognizable ways, like self-esteem issues or being physically drained.  Sometimes it disguises itself in happiness that takes a sick turn.  Sometimes it disguises itself in something wonderful happening or big challenges met, that are immediately followed by self-doubt and the inability to do ANYTHING for days.  Sometimes it is proceeded by social anxiety that brings a whole new set of behaviors, all of which end in shame and...depression.

I hold down a really good job and am respected in my field, I have an active social life, I have great friends and family, and I put myself out there on a daily basis. 
I function.  95% of the time.   Sometimes even like a normal person.

But it's not always easy, and it's not always what I want to do.   I'm no expert on the topic, I just know what I know.

I didn't choose this, it chose me.  It's not all of who I am, but it is part of me.

Keep that in mind next time you are dealing with someone who is dealing with these or similar issues.  Just because we can walk, talk, function and get through the day doesn't mean we're always ok.

Have some empathy.  Ask us how we're doing.  Actually listen when we answer.  Let us know you care.

Just an FYI, I'm not in any danger ever of hurting myself, that's not going to happen here, but there are plenty of people who are.  There are plenty of people that, if just ONE person took the time to acknowledge them, engage them, or open up a bit, that they would maybe change their mind.  That maybe that day wouldn't be  the right day to take themselves out of the running.  Because the reality is, for many people with more severe mental health issues, that's the result.  That's the answer.  That brings things, finally, to an end.
Let's agree to try to not let that happen, if we accomplish nothing else.  Ever.

Not trying to be a downer here, but that's just what has been on my mind.  I promise inappropriate language, photos, maybe costumes and suchandsuch are to come.  I think I needed to purge a bit first.  Sorry to puke on your brain.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Kick 'em in the family rules!* (Part 1 in a maybe series. Maybe not.)

I'm a woman who doesn't like to be told what to do.

Unfortunately, holding myself to this idea 100% (at times) has proven to have consequences, including (but not limited to) screaming, pouting, prosecution in other countries and flogging.  Not to go into details, but let's just say I won't be joining any knitting clubs or traveling to Denmark anytime soon and leave it at that.

So, turns out it isn't such a bad idea to hold yourself to a set of rules and regulations, much like the ones posted at the pool.  However, unlike the rules at the pool, these are ones I should/will probably actually follow.  No one is gonna tell me I need a bikini top to "cover my feedbags", dammit!

Here are a few rules/concepts resembling rules from my extensive life manual, titled "I'm OK, you're OK, they're OK.  Hey- aren't we all the same person?"  They are mine to follow, but we all could benefit from a little life guidance, right?:

#1) Never choose your undergarments for the day prior to choosing your outfit.  You never know- the situation may call for something in a different color or with more support than you originally anticipated.  Nothing is worse than being stuck, mid-day, with your "Hello Kitty" bralette peeking out from your blouse or realizing that everyone can see your sparkly black mesh stripper thong through your conservative "dress khakis".  Though, bonus points if anyone notices your latex spiked harness that you just happen to be wearing under your Sunday church outfit. 

#2) Never trust anyone with your secrets that has less to hide than you do. This one is simple enough.  Learn it- live it.  We don't want to be having to find new places to bury the bodies (AGAIN) now, do we?  Though, my tomatoes are growing like gangbusters this year!

#3) It is not necessary to tell people everything that is wrong with you within the first 20 minutes of meeting them for the first time.  You need to dole this shit out sparingly- to just throw it all at them like a monkey flings poo will only result in a shitty, shitty mess, metaphorically (and sometimes actually) speaking.  Take your time, ease them into it.  Give it at least an hour, for christ's sake. 

#4) Keep kleenex in your purse/available at ALL TIMES. NO EXCEPTIONS.  Given the fact that I've had to use (in no particular order): paper towels, mittens, shirts I was wearing at the time, tissues "rescued" from the garbage, (clean) socks (OK, not always clean, per se), towels, newspaper, and just one time- a grocery bag, this one should be obvious. 

#5) Face picking and nose picking are only acceptable in complete privacy, and no- your car does not count as "private."  I know that the situation always SEEMS dire, but please spare us all the visual of seeing someone pop a zit or pluck a stray chin hair at a red light.  Do it in the privacy of the mall restroom or your work cubicle like a normal person, weirdo.

#6) Pointing out that your squeaky shoes are making farty noises is only going to make people think that you're actually farting.  There's no real solution to this one other than to get new shoes, or just suck it up and walk proudly in your farty fart fart shoes.

#7) Look at yourself thoroughly in a mirror before leaving the house- front, back, teeth & nostrils.  Leave nothing to chance. No one wants a repeat of the "blown out butt seam unicorn underpants" incident.  Ditto the "grease stains right where your nipples are at a work meeting" incident.  As a grown-assed human, we owe it to ourselves to do this much, given the astounding amount of things that can go wrong once we walk out the door (think: bird poop/stealth boogers).

There you go- a few bits of WM wisdom to start your weekend out right.  Stay tuned for further installments.  Maybe.

Happy Friday, my inappropriate little bats in the cave.  Happy Friday.

*These are not actual rules.  I'm not the boss of you, though maybe I should be.  Yeah- I'm looking at you, Mr. Boogerfinger.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Ample-bottomed ladyfolk help ease the spinning of the earth.

First off, I'm going to share with you the most awesomely awful yet can't-look-away video that I've seen in...forever.  Watch the whole thing- your brain will hurt and you may go blind*, but it will totally be worth it just for the memories.
Ladies and not-so-Gentlemen (because I like it that way), I give you W.A.S.P:

And, you're welcome. 

The Mr. is reading the Game of Thrones books, and he seems to be discombobulated by the whole thing.  We figured out pretty quick while watching the first season of the teevee show that pretty much anyone you liked got killed.  Not "Lifetime touching movie where they get cancer and have time to reconcile their life" killed, but "Holy shit I didn't see that beheading/evisceration coming" killed.  I guess that in the books this charming feature is amplified x1,000,000, and I don't think he's too pleased with it and may stop reading.  I tried to reason with him (having not read the books and not giving of a shit if I do), reminding him that this particular scenario plays out on big and small scales every day: The thoughtful, reasonable, likeable people usually have some unfair and unfortunate malady/killing/circumstance befall them, while the grossly narcissistic/shallow/evil/douchebag contingent somehow seem to keep on keepin' on. Basically I told him that life isn't fair, and I was rewarded with an eye roll and a sigh.  Joke's on him, though- tomorrow I'm going to burn all his books.  That'll show him.

I met my girl Blondie for a few afternoon cocktails at a lovely establishment near my palatial estate this afternoon, and since it was close I rode my bike.  While we were there we witnessed an elderly woman drinking martinis who was clearly addicted to video poker, a wedding party that was stopping in post-wedding/pre-reception that looked like one or more of them would be arrested for drunk & disorderly before the night was over, and one guy that the bartender swore drank approximately 1 drink per 5 minutes, which I totally wanted to see.  Sadly, we both needed to get home for various reasons, so we exited and I unlocked & began to mount my bike as Blondie hopped in her car.  As we both were driving/rolling away, she had her windows open & "Fat bottomed girls" came on the radio.  I shit you not.  The best part was, she drove slowly alongside me for a bit, stereo cranked and windows opened, while I biked my amply-bottomed ass home. "Get on your bike and ride!"
My friends ROCK and can kick anyone else's friends asses. Don't test me on this.

I also finished teaching an Artisan Baking class, and I can say this: holy shit I'm glad it's done (as is my ass).  It was fun, I was awesome (as usual), but A) teaching a baking class during a heat wave? Yukko.  And B) Being around carbscarbscarbsfattycarbs all day long? Yukko. 
I love me some bread & butter, but lettuce and protein are looking pretty good right now. 

Oh, and I got botox again.
That pretty much sums up the time we've spent apart, my lovely little fartnuggets. 

Get on yer damn bikes and ride!!

*Vonpartypants, Inc. considers your reading this waiving your rights to sue for any potential blindness or queasiness.  Reading this also absolves VPInc of any complications due to you joining a terrible heavy-metal band or wanting to dress like Freddy Mercury.  VPInc would also like to remind you that you are loved, mostly on Mondays and every other weekend when we're court-ordered to not get drunk.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The one time ever I wouldn't want to be the one yelling "Bingo!!!"

A few nuggets of stuff you may or may not need to know in order to not give up on life, depending on your level of drunkery:
  • The other day, I was busy busy busy getting ready for a catering.  As the day progressed, I noticed that my toe on my left foot was kind of throbbing, but for whatever reason I couldn't be bothered to take 2 seconds and simply tilt my head downward to see what was going on.  Maybe I was too busy picking at things or shoving food on/into my face to pause and be concerned about one of my lesser appendages. Finally around 4:30 I decided to inspect, only to find out that at some point, likely MUCH earlier in the day, I had ripped off my toenail.  Like, 95% gone.  Like, dried blood gone.  I'd show you a picture, but I feel like I've shown you way too many gross pics of my hooves at this point.  On the bright side, my inability to even notice or feel anything at the moment in which said nail was being ripped from my body allows me to cross off another square on my "On your way to being a hobo" bingo card:
  • After the aforementioned catering, we had to load everything up into our cars in the dark.  I only had a few things in my car- some pans, an empty cooler, etc... so I figured that I would just leave it all in there until I had a chance to drop it all off at the kitchen sometime later in the week.  The next day, I had to run a few errands in the afternoon.  I plopped into my car which had been sitting in the hot sun all day and was immediately enveloped with a stench that I can best describe as "dead mermaid decomposing in the sun crotch smell."  Turns out, someone threw a covered pan in the back seat that was still pretty full with one of the appetizers that we did- it not only had mustard as a component, but smoked trout as well.  Yummy.  I may never get the smell out, but at least I'll always be reminded of the beauty of mermaids.
  • A few pics from the catering here.  The farm we were at was stunning, and now my "living on a farm-lust" has resurfaced, boiling away in my nether regions the way that many women yearn for wiggly, smelly, poopy little humans.  I want to give birth to organic produce, chickens and cows, it seems.  The berries, potatoes and baby chicks shouldn't be too difficult, but I better start doing my kegels in preparation for the heifers.  Ouchy.

Happy Tuesday, my undulating, smelly little cow butts.  Happy Tuesday.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Make a list, check it twice, then burn it so no one can bring it up to shame you. Then beat the list-bearing asshat to a pulp.

When I turned 40, one year and one month+ ago, I caved to the folly of youth and made a list of shit I thought I needed to do to stave off being one of those old people that everyone avoids eye contact with at the bus stop.  I thought that I'd update that list that I was so obviously drunk when I made just to fend off any naysayers/haters that don't think I follow through on my shit.  I also follow through on Bub's shit, but that involves my hand wrapped in a plastic bag searching through the tall grass for dog turds, which is neither here nor there.

The update, in bullet form so you don't pull a muscle like you did that one time masturbating in the Greyhound Bus restroom:

I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, do hereby vow to:
  • go skinnydipping more often (Nope.  Not for lack of trying. Does dipping my boobs in a cocktail count?)
  • wear inappropriate and unseasonal clothing whenever I can (Yup. I've recently embraced short skirts and allowing my bra to peek out of clothing with no shame whatsoever.)
  • try to overcome my intense dislike of shellfish and bivalves (Yeah...not so much.  Just, the texture.  The TEXTURE.)
  • finally try and work hats into my "look"   (Yup. The straw fedora is a fave- I'm channeling my inner Duran Duran whore)
  • shave more than just the bottom half of my legs on a regular basis  (Yup again.  Mostly due to the wearing of shorter skirts, but also out of fear of, now that I'm older, having a stroke or something and going to the ER with Sasquatch legs.)
  • jump in more puddles  (This was an easy one.  I forgot how fun it is to totally go whole hog into a puddle, water be damned.  The neighbor kids that got muddy leopracy water in their mouths from me jumping in unexpectedly can chalk that up to one of "life's lessons")
  • occasionally embrace my curly-ish hair (Not only do I embrace it, but I'm learning to love the pseudo-rastafarian mess that it becomes after 1-2 days of not washing it.  I don't even have to comb it- I just mold it into interesting shapes, like hats or shoes, with my hands and go on my merry way.)
  • tell people to fuck off more often than I do already  (This one was way easier than it should have been.  People are assholes.)
  • finally wax my cooter into a smiley face  (Not yet, but I have a Groupon for a waxing place that's burning a hole in my pooner.  I might even shoot for a smiley face WITH a lightening bolt.)
  • quit apologizing for and validating other people's issues that aren't my problem  (Once I typed this out, this one was incredibly easy.  I no longer apologized for other people's bullshittery, including relatives.  I placed the blame fairly where it belonged, walked away and felt no remorse.  This. Was. AMAZING.)
  • stop monitoring my neighbor's masturbatory practices (KIDDING!  I'm totally still checking)  (Still totally checking)
  • keep feeding the squirrels and bunnies, even though it pisses the (other, non-masturbating in public) neighbors off (Still feeding, but limiting their feeding to seeds & greenery, as the fucking squirrels love hiding peanuts in my potted plants, very often destroying expensive and difficult-to-find plants by casually tossing them aside in favor of a hiding place for their nuts.  Fucking squirrel nuts.)
  • stop feeling responsible for other people's happiness ( Half yes, half no. I'm inherently a people-pleaser, such is my lot in life.  We all know how well I've been pleasing the hobo population down by the tracks.  Can I get a what-what!)
  • Instill even more fear of "me" into my students (Not as much as I'd like, this next semester my goal is to make one of them cry while peeing in their checked pants.)
  • fart in public on purpose, just once (Nope.)
  • tell the people and animals in my life that I love them as often as I can- well, until it sort of weirds them out, anyways.(Totally weirds them out, still doing it)
  • get my shit together, for realsies  (Again, halfway here.)
  • And by "shit" I don't mean poo.  I wouldn't know where to put that anyways.  I mean life- you get that, right? (Halfsies)
  • talk to random strangers even more often than I do now  (All the time!  No fear, and I've made new friends!  Even ones that don't rob me when I'm not home!)
  • on that note- willingly accept candy from strangers  (This one is funny- I totally wrote this as a joke, then this kind of cute guy that works at Trader Joe's started giving me salt water taffy and such every time I go there.  I don't know his name, so he counts as a stranger- me for the win!)
  • quit worrying if I vacuumed today and worry more if I had fun today  (Halfsies- I still worry about the vacuuming as we have 5 furballs, but I make a point to have some fun/have some me time pretty much every day.)
  • inspect my pores MUCH more closely  (Affirmative.  Score x2 for also obsessing about imaginary stray facial hairs and using WAY more Biore' strips than recommended on the box.)
  • stop pretending to care about people's kids that I really don't know or- you know, care about.  (This one was easier that I should probably admit.  Once I decided to not give a shit, I instantly didn't.  But don't worry- I still think your little boy/girl is adorable and I'm sure they'll grow up to be President and totally not a cautionary tale on the Lifetime Network for Women.)
  • ignoring my politics (rabidly liberal) or lack of religion (hey- atheist here!) just because I am so very tired of hearing about other people's religion and politics and really don't want to debate this shit. (Done.  Outed myself as an Athiest, and blocked most of the rabidly conservative/Tea Partier yahoos from FB.  Aahhhhh...)
  • get surgically sterilized- tired of hormones, don't want to spawn, and at my age they'll likely be born with tentacles anyways.  (Not yet, but I'm reading brochures and working my Kegels in anticipation of any changes to my lady-bits.) (Also strangely fascinated lately with anything bearing tentacles.  Keep having the word "Octopus" in my brain.  Oc. to. pussss...)
  • take more pictures (Nope.  Actually took LESS.  I blame this on the communists.)
  • crash at least 2 weddings/parties/things I wasn't invited to (Nope- actually kind of forgot about this one.  Oh well, wedding season is upon us and I can wear heels again, so bring on Kool & the Gang- Celebrate tonight, come on!  Ugh.  I died a little inside typing that.)
  • wash my hair more often  (Due to a much shorter haircut than anticipated and my obsessive overuse of Bumble & Bumble's "Surf Spray" This one was a "Yes", purely out of necessity.)  Crunchy really long hair = Bohemian.  Crunchy slightly shorter hair = low-budget stripper working at the Crab Shack)
  • continue lying to my dentist about flossing  (Check.  Though, I tell them that I do it with gardening twine, so I really only need to do it once a month anyways.)
  • Bring back me & my girl's "dare for a dollar" concept.  Any dare, no matter how extreme, was only worth a dollar.  It leveled the playing field, so to speak, and always resulted in awesomeness. (Nope.  This was another one I forgot about.  Note to self" Challenge Blondie to make out with the Subway sandwich artist this weekend, all while wearing a tutu.  That's totally worth a dollar, I think.)
  • Savor every fucking moment, instead of waiting for the next, bigger, moment.  I'm a lucky girl with friends and family to spare, buckets of fun, and a life that is actually pretty goddamn fabulous.  Now I just need to appreciate that fact & get out to enjoy it...  (This one is less measurable, but I'm going to say I was totally half-assed in a good way on this one and give myself half credit.  I'm still waiting to win the lottery so I can move to that island where they let rich people have other rich people as slaves, but until that opportunity presents itself I'm content to enjoy bossing my dog around and seizing the moment when I pick up his poo in a green plastic-covered fist and happily toss it into the garbage can with all the other stinky dog poo. I'm also content to snuggle with that same furry little nugget when he curls up by my belly when I'm sleeping on my side, making me briefly wake up and smile that all is right with the world, at least for that brief, smooshy moment.  Things ARE pretty goddamn fabulous, indeed.)

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Game of Thrones: The Terlet chronicles

 Back in 1906, shortly before the great lard famine that was the beginning of the 100-year Swine War, a young family saw fit to build a house in St. Paul.  Over the years, this house saw few renovations other than when some bright soul thought to tile the ENTIRE second floor in mint green vinyl/asbestos tiles and when when they installed carpeting (sometime around 1948) that would still be there (smelly and worn through to the floor) in 1999 when we purchased this abode. 

For what seems like 10 years now, we here at VonPartypants headquarters have been toiling on what has been dubbed "Operation Fix This Fucking House"- a full on renovation & redecorating effort that looks to be nearing an end sometime in August...of 2025.

Well, I am ever so proud/embarrassed to say that we have finally finished another room- the very room that was the main reason that we started all this nonsense in the first place:  Crapper #1.

Crapper #1 was truly, truly fugtacular.  Actually, "fugly" isn't really even strong enough for this abomination.  The walls & tile were that color that Crayola used to call "flesh" (what do they call that color now? "White Folk"?), and the trim was the color of poo the day after eating too many beets.  I tried gussying things up over the years, but how horrifying that we lived with THIS grossness for way, way too long:

 (I'd like to say that the light looking like that was a recent thing, but we had the house re-wired over 2 years ago.  So...yeah.)

(You can see I just kind of gave up here.  By now we had a 2nd crapper and I pretty much just ignored Crapper #1)

The beginning of the demo. 


New and improved!  And cute!  I'm not scared to pee in there now!

The shelf is lined in cedar- that was an idea of the Mr's I was skeptical of, but it looks great & smells fantastic. 

The thing on top of the radiator is a padded landing for the kitties- I knew they'd jump up there no matter what, so I decided to make it more comfy for their furry little behinds.

So. Much. Tiling
I'm in deep, deep love with the mosaic on the floor.  If you're ever in the market, Modwalls has REALLY cool tiles (not just mosaics) at really great prices.  Highly recommended.

I thought things were getting a bit too masculine in there, so I bought this print on Etsy.  I call it "Bunny Vagina"

More stuff on the walls.  My Crazy Cat Lady influence stretches far and wide at the VonPartypants Estate. You can't walk two feet in here without running into something pussy-related.  Next week I'll show you my vast collection of cat-themed embroidered sweatshirts.

We really only have one room left in OFTFH:  the kitchen.  

OH, and the back porch.  
And the front porch. 
And the scary basement.
And the guest room. 

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Achoo, Achoo, Haiku!

Dog pukes on the bed
So much for sleeping in late
It smells like turkey

Guy drives by slowly
"Nice puppies" he says to me
I think he means boobs

Twins game on Friday
Is that football or baseball?
At least we'll have beer

Raw rhubarb, so tart
So crisp, don't eat too much though
It gives you the poops

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Somewhere between zealotry and nihilism?

I once had a conversation with someone I knew, but didn't know all that well, when the topic of religion came up.  Yay!

"So, what are you?" they asked.
"What do you mean?" I answered, not really entirely understanding what they were asking me.
"What religion are you?" they replied, ever-so-nonchalantly, as if asking about what kind of car I drive.
"Well, none, really.  I'm athiest." (In car terms, this is roughly the same as announcing that I drive a rusty 1974 Pinto.)

"Really?" was their response.  "You really don't believe in anything?"

Um...well, it's not that simple, really. 

I'm always hesitant to engage in this particular discussion with people who do not know me that well.  Once the question is asked and answered, the conversation usually goes one of three ways:

1) I see that unmistakeable flicker on their face that marks a flash of judgment passing through their head.  This is the point where they decide that, not only will they never leave me alone with their children lest I corrupt them with my heathen ways, but they will likely not be asking me to join their scrapbooking club that meets every other Monday night.  This I can live with. These same people usually try to politely "state the case" for religion, as if I could change my ways by simply engaging in a five-minute dialog about why religion is so awesome and how could I make such a choice?  I usually get out of this exchange as quickly as possible, either by telling them I have explosive diarrhea and need to visit the can, or I tell them I'm late for my "How to knit Satanic sweaters" class and I bolt out the door. 

2) They go into persuasion/arguing mode. This is a discussion I usually stop immediately, sometimes by faking a seizure or feigning narcolepsy.  Here- I'll condense what would likely be an hour-long, heated, and ultimately pointless exchange into this: You're not going to change my mind, I'm not interested in trying to change yours.  The end. 

3) They feel the same way I do, or at least they understand and have no interest in going down that road.  Then we start talking about other stuff (usually our pet's pooping habits), have a cocktail, and ultimately leave the situation as friends, or at least acquaintances that won't intentionally avoid one another in social situations by pretending to not know how to speak English.

When people don't get it, the thing they most likely don't understand is that this isn't a choice for me.  I didn't choose to be/feel this way.  I simply don't believe in God, I don't believe in heaven or hell, I don't believe in an afterlife.  I've known this my entire life, just like I know I have brown eyes and that I can't whistle.  For a while in my teens I was convinced that the posters in my bedroom were actually watching me, but I have since come to understand that no, the boys from Duran Duran were NOT watching me change clothes, so there was really no reason to shut the light off when I did.

This isn't a choice.  It is simply how I am.  Just as those that believe can't imagine not believing and would fight to the death for their beliefs, I will fight for my convictions with every cell in my body.  I firmly believe that I conduct myself in ways that are far more "Christian" than many people claiming to be as such.  I believe in the credo of "live and let live", I treat others as I would like to be treated (most of the time, anyways. Sometimes people just suck and deserve what they get), I believe that we all deserve equal opportunities in life, regardless of where, how, or who we were born to, and I believe that, whatever your feelings/leanings when it comes to religion or lack thereof, you have no right whatsoever to use those beliefs to suppress, dismiss, or persecute other people.  Period.

I just can't imagine...believing.  It just doesn't register.  It doesn't make me amoral, evil, or lacking in character.  I don't judge you or try to change your mind, how dare you judge and try to change me.  It isn't fair. 

How about we all just try to get along, accept one another as we are, maybe go get a nice cheese plate & a glass of wine and enjoy this lovely, sunny day together?

Sounds good to me.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Updates & pictures: Now with 50% more pussy shots!

 Well kiddos, summer is (in theory anyways) in full swing here at Casa de VonPartypants.  I'm done with classes, I handed out caps & gowns for graduation, I may or may not have had a few cocktails prior to said graduation, and I am officially available for parties and Bar Mitzvahs, assuming you are entertained by me singing along to Slim Whitman songs while dressed as Lady Gaga.  

A bit of the miscellany that has been keeping the squirrels in my brain busy, at least when they're not otherwise occupied humping each other and stashing peanuts in my houseplants:

None of my 4 cats or singular dog ever, ever, EVER snuggle with one another.  Not when sleeping, not when...well, sleeping, because that's pretty much all they do, right?  The other day, I was on the couch with Bacon the chubby kitty when Bubs decided to get jealous.  Before you can say "single multicolored hairy male", he wedges himself between me and Bacon, sitting on Bacon in the process and alerting me to his borderline-psychotic need for all of the attention all of the time.

I ordered a tasty purse for myself as a "god you're old" b-day giftie.  This purse is gorgeous, luxurious enough that I may have sexually assaulted it, and it is HUGE.  The box it came in looked more appropriate for two king-size comforters than a sexysexy handbag.

But I guess it's just the right size to be a "no boys allowed" clubhouse for Millie, the crazypants, talks-to-herself and sees things that aren't there kitty.

(Go away! I vant to be alone!)

Trouble likes to pretend that he's Superman when he's sleeping.

I tried to quickly pose by a fountain in Rice Park following my tipsy visit to the graduation ceremony, and I can see that my lack of self-portraiture lately is evident in the obvious deterioration of my portraiture skills.  I'm wearing a kickass dress & boots here, but I may as well have been wearing a dress made entirely of used kleenexes, given my ability to "capture the moment."

The big-ass gardening project that has ruined my back and forced me to get a lot more comfortable with manure than I normally care to (other than that one time I did it in a field on a cowpie with that farmhand. That was magical.)

So there you go- my week in photos.  Purses, pussies, and poop. 

Friday, May 4, 2012

Well, I feel eleventy plus a bajillion yet still as young as a pre-tween. You figure it out, I'm no good at math.

On this, the eve of my quatro y uno day of my birth celebration ( known in lesser countries as "Day Numero Uno Kickass, or "Fraulein Oldlein Sexylein""), I find myself pausing to reflect on what I have accomplished in this past year, the one where I found myself smack dab in CougarCuntry (patent pending).

  • I got not one, not two, but THREE zits in the past month.  Given the amount that I spend on anti-wrinkle salves, ointments and tinctures, it seems supremely unfair that a delicate flower like myself must be subjected to late-night, wine-induced extreme pimple probing, in a sad recreation of a typical Saturday night in my 1985. On a related note, do old-timey tinctures still contain things like cocaine and heroin?  If so, I'm in.
  • On a related note- I got Botox.  Twice.  Number three is coming up soon.  I see this becoming a twice a year splurge, much like designer tampons (did you SEE the Marc Jacobs extra-absorbent?  The magenta ones are to DIE for!).  Now, before you get your only-slightly-stained-panties-and-that-was-from-when-you-nearly-hit-that-family-of-midgets-with-your-car in a bunch, I would bet my next born cat that you would never, ever have been able to tell that I had done a darn thing.  The problem with all these crazy-assed monied reality-TeeVee snatches is that they tend to go, well...overboard.  A little is good, doing your whole face makes you look like a dog hanging its head out of a 747 cruising over Boise. 
  • After last May's feetie owie surgery, I can wear heels again!  High ones!  Successfully!  My personal financial consultant (aka my dog) has expressed concern about the ridonkulous amount of money spent on hooker heels in the past few months.  He says I may be able to write them off on my taxes, but only if I install a stripper pole in my front yard and spend no less than 3.5 hours a day accepting dollar bills into my underpants. I can live with that. 
  • Also, in no particular order:  I became a life-coach to a 7 year-old Mexican girl for an evening, I tried to stop putting "running" in quotation marks when referring to it as something I "do", but failed, I pulled my crotchal region stumbling off the treadmill after "running" one day, I got youtube-worthy drunk at Gwen's house while wearing Pajama Jeans, I took in a stray cat that pissed on my entire house and reduced me to a cookoo quivering pee-scrubbing rageball, I took a cat to a (no-kill) shelter for hopefully the first and last time ever, I ate so much kale & beets in one week (for no particular reason) that I pooped in technicolor, and I was extremely unsuccessful in censoring myself, even when it comes to poo. 
Also?  I missed you monkeys.  Though there's probably about 4 of you out there anymore (and two of you are drunk- you know who you are), I survived a particularly brutal school year and I'm ready to overshare with y'all once again.  Whether or not anyone is paying attention, I'm ready to be that totally inappropriate cousin that shows up at the family reunions with my "ethnic" boyfriend, reeking of doobies and making out with him and maybe Uncle Larry during the ham dinner.

 I'm here to take the blame- bring it on, motherfuckers.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Hola monos, me parece que he perdido mi pantalón.

 So I went to Mexico a few weeks ago with the Mr, my girl Waffle & Mr. Waffle (both heirs to the Mrs. Butterworth's syrup empire).  I had no expectations for this trip, other than escaping MN and possibly playing "hide the tamale" with a Ricardo Montalban lookalike on a sunny beach while drinking (hopefully) non-roofied margaritas. 

Other than the weather being kind of a dick for the first day and a half (super windy, gray, but still fairly warm) (Our condo is the one next to the palm tree furthest to the left),:

the trip was, overall, awesome.  The first night, the restaurant we had dinner at was on a lagoon, and this guy was hanging out right under where we were sitting.  He was about 5-6 feet long and was begging for treats like a scaly, man-eating puppy:
 These guys were perched near our condo for most of the time we were there.  If I have to pick a non-human mascot for this trip, I'll just go ahead and pick "scaly, bitey thingies":

The obligatory "toes-on-the-beach" photo.  Mine were already chipped and my feet were pretty mangled, and this was day one.  Why I even try to class up the dive joint that is the wonder of Me is anyone's guess at this point.  It's like trying to put lipstick and false eyelashes on a wet cat:

Then the weather stopped being an asshole and decided to play nice.  This would be day 1 of the "What kind of messed up sunburn will Whiskey get this time?" game.  Here's a hint: my legs looked like I was wearing pink thigh-high stockings, and I had a mystery half-moon burn under one boob:

Hey!  You didn't tell me that your sexy Italian grandpa was going to be here too!:

Sorry, no pics of yours truly as every single one had other people in it and I don't have time to doctor pictures right now.  Just Imagine Sofia Vergara in a bikini with my face and you'll have it about right. On a related note- there were a bunch of clearly over-30-something gals that were still rocking the pierced belly button thingy.  Now, I may offend a few of you with this, but I have to be honest- it looks ri-diculous.  I don't care if you're totally in shape, curvy, stick thin or built like a large apple- you need to cut it out.  There are some things best left to the early 20-somethings, and along with Hello Kitty and the "69" position, this is one of them. Stop it already. 

I love, love, love vacations, but I'm usually ready to go home to this little dude when they're nearing an end: 
Also, other highlights from the trip in no particular order:  Sand in my buttcrack, drunken life-coaching a 7 year-old Mexican girl, obsessing over the many exciting varieties of Mexican snack chips, eating my weight in guacamole, many fruity cocktails, a city bus with a strobe light and Latin techno music playing, salt water turning my hair into a rastafarian nightmare, and me and Waffle successfully crashing a very swanky wedding at the adjoining Omni hotel. 


Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Pepperoni and a pop-n-lock, two bits...

A few random bits of amusement from my last few days:
  • The doorbell rang about 9:30 last night, the Mr. went to see who it was.  After a few minutes, he came into the kitchen, where I was finishing making dinner, with a goofy look on his face.  "Who was it?" I asked.  He goes, "Pizza Luce- I guess they're just used to coming to our house."  The REALLY shameful part of this, aside from the delivery driver's car being set on autopilot for our address, is...I was making pizza for dinner.  
  • My girl Blondie's text exchange after a particularly debaucherous, fun & blurry evening out celebrating two of the girl posse's B-days.  Her: "I forgot until this morning that I was trying to breakdance Saturday night."  Me: "Ha! I forgot that too."  Her: "I was wondering why my back was all bruised up."  The sad part is, I think I tried to do the worm at one point as well.  I'm sure this is not at all idiotic behavior for 40 year-old women. 
  • I blew my nose the other day and there was not one, but several cat hairs in the kleenex (yes, I looked, duh.)  
No wonder it tickled.

Friday, March 9, 2012

That's Ms. Chef Kickass to you, thank you very much

I am too stupid to figure out Facebook, it seems. I just now came across this message from a former student that he left in November.  He was part of the group that had two classmates die in a three week period, as well as one of the female students having had her brother die two weeks prior to that mess.  I have always worried that so much...shitty stuff in such a short time frame would have tainted their learning experience, but finding this note today answered that question, I guess:

 Happy Day to You.

I wanted to take this opportunity to say I'm grateful for being your student.

I think this comes directly from your teaching style: both personal & direct. I think you communicate very clearly about what you need & expect, but combine that with personal relationship. Yes, losing Brian, John & Joe all at once created the need for a more personal relationship. Still, a lot of instructors create a specific distance between themselves & their students. You have your boundaries, of course, but you don't close yourself to your students. I think that resonates with people because they can see that you are putting yourself out there, stretching outside of a safe zone, and therefore students are willing to stretch outside of a safe zone to perform for you.

I often think of critiques you offered, something about multi-masking or tasking or something? Anyways, I never quite got it

I also stepped into a mess with you at one point. By questioning your authority, I got wacked back and gained a clear example of how you command your kitchen by intuition & traditional structure.

Why I bring all this up is that I am finding that I thrive in a work environment that you have created in your kitchen. I had a great time working under your direction.

I was inspired to write this because of articles on the radio about a Smithsonian Story Project focusing on teachers and their students appreciation.

You matter to me and a lot of other cooks who have walked through your kitchen. Know that you're doing it right.

And that, right there folks, is why I love my job.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

My girly scout vagina fire

So, I got this kindle fire thingy that seems to be making my life SO much easier. Not "have sex with you even though you're wearing baggy underpanties but hey we'll do it missionary so you can still read the new issue of Vanity Fair" easy, but easier than plopping my busy and tired ass in front of my tired old laptop easy. Seriously,though. I'm totally technologically stuck in a sort of 1982esque Atari2600 kind of world, so any sort of technologmical doodad that actually connects me with the universe, rather than scaring me enough to run, screaming and naked (yet again), into the woods is #1 in my book. I may or may not have date raped Mr. Kindleyfire. Only the court records know for sure, and those are sealed due to my having the maturity of a 14 year-old as well as the breasts of a 16 year-old (bought and paid for, thank you very much!) Anyhoo, to catch up: *I now have 5 cats, not by choice. We will discuss this further at my intervention. *My job is going as well as it can, considering how difficult it normally is for Superheroes to adjust to life among the commoners. I'm working hard, I'm making more than I ever have (and earning every penny like a Hooker on nickel night), and I have a wonderfully loose schedule, which kind of sounds dirty when I put it like that. *I'm going to Mehico soon, and for ONCE in my life, the thought of putting on a swimsuit outside of my tapioca wrestling league doesn't have me breaking out in hives. Granted, my suit is from the "modesty" section of the Amish catalog, but hey- throw a bitch a bone, will ya? *I'm judging a Girl Scout cooking competition soon. Yes, that's as strange as it sounds. Details to follow. Also, in case you were worried: my vagina is fine. So is my uvula, thanks for all your kind letters and e-mails. The charity fundraiser with Clive Owen was unexpected, but both I and my vagina thank you all very much. Also, if someone could let him know that he forgot to get my phone number (again! Silly monkey!), I'd totally appreciate it.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Know your ass like you know your face, people.

For much of the mid-to-late 90's and most of the 2000's, they were the joke item of clothing that you would threaten to wear out in public for the sole purpose of embarrassing your friends.  Again.  Having personally spent much of the 80's in them with varying degrees of success, they were the one item I swore would make me move to a nudist colony if they came back in style- kind of so that I wouldn't be tempted to go down that road again, mostly so that I wouldn't ever have to see other women fail miserably in an attempt to pull off this very tricky article of clothing.


Now that these stretchy, minimal, pant-LIKE things are back in fashion, and since they don't seem to be going away any time soon, I'd like to remind the world of a few guidelines that one may wish to follow when donning these pantyhose-disguised-as-pants:
  1. Stop, for the love of all that is holy, STOP thinking of these as full-fledged pants. They aren't, so just knock it off already.  
  2. Check for sheerness when they are stretched beyond their original made-for-toddlers shape.  If they only get more sheer (and shiny) as they stretch, DON'T BUY THEM.  At best, these will look like cheap tights, at worst you'll look like a human kielbasa.  This isn't a time to cheap out and impulse-buy something at the gas station checkout- go to a real, adult clothing store and spend a few bucks, damnit. 
  3. (And this one is the most important one of all) Unless you are an under-21 year-old with impeccably perfect, toned legs and butt area...COVER YER DAMN ASS WITH A SHIRT/SKIRT PLEASE.  I beg you. Whether you're skinny, curvy, smooth or lumpy, after a certain age or after a certain weight this is absolutely necessary.  No one, and I mean no one wants to see your hinder in clingy spandex as an "outfit".  This is not an "outfit".  You think you look good?  Well, you don't.  
 Do I own a pair?  Yup.  But I'll tell you this- If you ever, EVER spot me walking down the street, grocery shopping, bending over to pick change up off the ground or basically doing anything outside of the privacy of my own shameful home wearing these without an appropriately long shirt/sweater/poncho made of cat hair that covers my lovely ass, then I will happily run down my street naked & waving an "I love Newt Gingrich" flag.  For an hour.  In the snow.  I'm just that confident that you'll never see such a thing. 

It's all about knowing your ass, people. 
Know.  Your.  Ass.