Whiskeymarie

Know your ass like you know your face, people.

2012-01-11T10:39:00.000-06:00

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.

Leggings.

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:

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.
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.
(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.

Rejection Notice From Kringle & Claus

2011-12-14T12:17:00.000-06:00

Dear Ms. VonPartypants,

I just checked my list and then checked it again, and WOW, have you been bad this year. I regret to inform you that I am unable to leave you presents this year due to the reasons cited by Kris Kringle Standards Board, Partition 3, MN State Codes 16d – 82a.

Ratio of naughty to nice exceeds 9:1 (maximum ratio of 4:1 for gift eligibility)
Neither cookies nor milk detected in household with freshness date later than 1998, and/or were spoiled, stale, or otherwise substandard.
Stocking contained foreign material including but not limited to: toe nail clippings, lint, stale cheese remnants, decade-old candy cane, pet hair.
Advanced SantaScan™ technology detected "Nice List" forgery.
Substandard chimney due to ongoing “Fix This Fucking House” project.
Upon rooftop arrival time inspections, subject was found to be awake, pantless, and a blood alcohol level of 2.3 was detected. Per long-time St. Nick protocol (Article 21, Section 6b), all parties must be in full slumber before delivery of packages as scheduled.
Ongoing costumed humiliation of household pets.
Miserable failure of blog upkeep
Proclamation to younger believers that Santa is "not keeping it real."

Address all appeals to the North Pole office, where they will be reviewed before the next holiday cycle. Fees may apply.

Kindest regards,

Santa Claus

p.s. – you are kinda hot.

You remember money, right? I think ABBA wrote something about it once.

2011-10-09T15:51:00.002-05:00

Last weekend I catered brunch at what I can only describe to other people as "my lottery dream".
The place in question was located a little over an hour out of town, near a lovely little scenic community called Taylors Falls on the St. Croix river.
I wouldn't have looked twice driving by, as the weathered farmhouse visible from the main road hardly screamed "affluent", but after I snaked my little VW Rabbit along the private dirt road cut through the field and come upon what can only be described as a "compound", my jaw dropped. Various steel-roofed and architecturally-amazing out-buildings housing art studios and living spaces flanked the main house, which was a picture-perfect study in art, style, comfort and eccentricity. Art and style was everywhere- from the twin beige Barcelona chairs in the entryway, to the unassuming block glass ceiling in the dining room.

I was in love. And jealous. Seriously jealous.

I asked the host, the owner of the compound, if she "got" what an amazing little world she had. She (heiress to a newspaper/art fortune) only half-heard me as she had just gotten up and hadn't had her coffee yet, but she replied, "Um, yeah. It is nice, isn't it?"

Sigh.

Afterward, over afternoon drinks, I had the discussion with a few people as to whether or not people who are born into wealth can really, truly ever really "get" how charmed, exceptional, and very, very lucky they are. I mean, can you ever really understand what it means to be poor/broke when you've never had to decide which is more important: paying the rent on time (vs) filling your car up with gas so that you can get to the job that you don't make enough at to pay the rent on time?

I was just reading about that lengthy interview with Jacqueline Kennedy that has just been published. At one point, she discusses how JFK Jr. got mugged for his bike when he was 15. She said something along the lines of (totally paraphrased because I'm to lazy to look it up), "I asked the Secret Service following him to follow from even a further distance after that. I wanted to give him a sense of normalcy."

Um...OK. I hope she at least realized somewhere in the back of her head how...
...well, how ridiculous that sounds.

As I've mentioned before, I didn't exactly grow up affluent. Quite the opposite, actually. I know the struggle all too well- I've made the tough decisions, I've done without, I've felt the flush of shame that creeps onto your face when you can't hide "poor". I get it.
I've been lucky in my adult years. While my early 20's were definitely a struggle, I always managed to keep my head above water, a roof over my head, and I could occasionally splurge on something somewhat inappropriate to wear to 1st Avenue for "Danceteria". Now at 40, I have a very good-paying job, a lovely home, and occasionally having too much wine and buying full-priced (!!) boots online doesn't break the bank.

I'm lucky, I know. These days, having a semi-secure job that you actually enjoy is a rarity- I get that. I appreciate it all and I never let myself forget the flip side of things.

But I can't help wonder- what would it be like? You know, never ,ever, EVER having to worry? Not for a single second in your life? The bills always paid yet never having to actually work (and no- co-hosting charity fundraisers does not count as "work" unless you are an event planner and if that's the case then I'm not talking about you here anyways), vacations on a whim without having to clear it with HR first, having an entire weekend of parties and meals at your idyllic compound completely catered...

Don't get me wrong- I'm not begrudging anyone born into wealth. We are served our lot in life at birth, what we do with it after that is entirely up to us- I get that. It's just that I have to think that you really, truly can never grasp how hard things can really be if that's the case. You can travel to famine-torn countries on the brink of collapse, you can volunteer at a soup kitchen, and you can develop a wicked heroin addiction and be homeless for a while. Sure, you can do all that. But...if you're traveling mostly first-class to said third-world country, and if you leave the soup kitchen early because you have to have your driver drop you off for parent-teacher conferences at your child's very private school, and if your parents finally locate what alley you're living in and jet you off (again, first-class) to that ultra-private and exclusive rehab facility in California?

Yeah...not so much.

Not sure where I'm going with this today, it's just been on my mind all week. Maybe I'm tired of the term "class warfare" being bandied about when so many people don't even get what the various classes in the US are, or what it does to someone to be born into poverty (not that I was- we were poor, but we weren't poverty-stricken in the purest sense of the term). I wonder if there even is a middle ground, given how hard it is for either of the extremes to understand one another.
I wonder if things are only going to get worse.

Then I wonder if I'll remember to buy a lottery ticket this week. I can't say I can ever understand what it's like to never have to think/worry/freak out about money, but I'd sure like a chance to try.

It's raining, it's pouring, I'm shopping and whoring!

2011-09-27T12:01:00.000-05:00

It's gloriously rainy and somewhat cool right now, which is making me all kinds of happy, especially after suffering through yet another "Summer living on Satan's Taint". I'm feeling like a real, actual, lady-sort of human being, for a change. The cooler temps have caused a number of otherwise dormant traits of mine to spring to life- namely, shopping like Paris Hilton in a 24-hour cocaine and sparkly-stuff store, and cooking and stocking the pantry as if we were hunkering down for the zombie apocalypse.

Boots seem to be my drug of choice these days, having purchased both THESE (in black), as well as THESE in the last two weeks.
On a related note: I will be spending my Friday nights working that corner down by the docks to help pay for this little "problem" of mine. I accept cash and/or fruity candies- bring a canned good for a $3 discount!

We drove up north Sunday for not one, but two food-centered family events. In 4-1/2 hours I ate: three kinds of soup, salad, coleslaw, bread, mashed potatoes, roast duck, turkey, sweet potatoes, gravy, cake, green beans, stuffing, bread, and a small baby. Or maybe it just felt like I ate that last one, I really can't remember due to the food coma and nearly 7 hours spent driving that insufferable stretch of I-35 now that it is clogged by construction that seems to occur every 2.5 miles and bring traffic to a screeching, grinding, scream-inducing halt.

I cleaned up pet barf three times yesterday, yet I'm currently obsessed with getting another dog. This little nugget is the one I'm currently crushing on:

No, I don't know what's wrong with me either. At least when I'm on the local news or "Hoarders" you can say, "Hey! I know her! She's batshit cookoo! I always know this would happen! I don't know why I'm yelling either!"

Also, I'm doing a sort-of version of this cleanse again. Given the awe-inspiring level of my recent gluttony, I'm planning on setting aside two to three hours each day for quiet contemplation and reading of celebrity autobiographies on the terlet. Maybe I'll even bring the teevee in there. If anything gross happens, I promise I'll share. I'm a real giver like that.

Now I'm off to work, the very thing that has been consuming 6+ days of the week, every week lately. I'd like to say that I'm sitting on a big pile of cash from being so busily employed, but between the boots & the pet purchasing/hoarding...well, just refer to the above mention of my recent late-night activities.
Oh well, like the old saying goes, "Every time you give a back-alley blowjob, an angel gets its wings."

Happy Tuesday, my fully cleansed, furry little hooker boots. Happy Tuesday.