Bye-bye blue cheese odor and sweat rings- see you next year.

At long last, you finally get a break from my incessant bitching about summer, sweaty underboobs and humidity so high that the cats started to mildew.

Finally it is sweet, glorious, chilly, wonderful fall. Hello, sweaters. Hello, jackets. Oh how I've missed you- let's play dress-up later, o.k?

Instead of sitting here in the house typing away about underpants, Doritos, and feet, I'm going to shove my hooves in some walkin' shoes, put on a clean pair of unders and go out and enjoy the day. Maybe I'll even pick up a bag of Doritos to crunch, crunch, crunch whilst I crunch, crunch, crunch the leaves beneath my tootsies.

You should do the same.

Yeah- you. I see you there- watching Oprah, eating m&m's and scratching your bum. Stop it- no one's butt itches THAT much. I know it's fun to scratch. Still- stop it, you're grossing me out.

Get up, get out, enjoy the day and say "hi" to strangers along the way (except that hobo by the tracks- don't talk to him. Talking only encourages him to show you "Mr. one-eyed wiggly", and trust me when I say you don't want to see that).


Trouble and Pooter heartily agree. Get out of the damn house, will ya?

Happy Friday, my orange and red maple and chocolate-dipped crunchy leaves. Happy Friday.

XO

Because only getting coupons from the oil change place is starting to make me feel pathetic...

Have I mentioned my super-hot mailman? He seems to be on a rotating shift, so he's only dropping mail in my box (that's what she said!) every once in a while, but holy balls that dude is easy on the eyes.
I have decided that increasing my mail input/output is the only way to insure that he will continue to make special deliveries to my mail-hole, so I am once again opening up the can of worms that is the "Whiskeymarie mail project".

I started this a while back, and it has been really nice sending mail/postcards/etc... via snail mail to some of y'all. Though I have slacked off a bit these last few months, I have the bug again and would like to get back in the habit.

So, here's how it works: You send me your address and I sell it to the CIA. Just kidding- I don't deal with them anymore after the whole incident when I "accidentally" ended up in Guam with no clothes and my passport missing. Good one, guys.
No, silly- if you want to participate, e-mail me your address and you will receive real, actual, paper mail with human writing on it. I can't guarantee what you'll get or how often, but you will get something at random intervals, whenever the mood strikes me. Sometimes stickers and gifts are involved. Sometimes. Don't get your hopes up. And yes- smooshed up, half-eaten gummi bears count as "gifts" in my mind.

And no, you really don't need to explain to me in comments why you "can't give your address out, but gosh I'd love to, but you know you all are criminals anyways, but I'd really totally do it if I could, blah blah blah." If you don't want to do it just tell me a joke or something.

Do it or don't. No big deal. I won't think less of you if you don't, because really- I only think about myself anyways.

And those of you who have already signed up- let me know if I need to update your addresses as some of you have moved/gone to jail/gone into hiding. How will I come knocking at your door at 4:00 in the morning if you don't live there anymore? Hmmm?

Mail away, my little seventeenth-century, ruffled shirt-wearing scribes, mail away.

XO

e-mail: candycanewhiskey (at) yahoo (dot com)

Stick a pitchfork in me- I'm done.

At Casa de VonPartypants it appears that we have traveled back in time.

A simpler time, where men were men and women were plain and tall. A time when we milled our own flour, did our business in a wooden box in the back yard, and plucked our eggs for breakfast from the warm bums of fluffy chickens.

A time when fornication was for procreation and a bra was a new-fangled contraption designed to hoist our previously saggy mammaries into newfound levels of perkiness.

A time when...

A time when computers didn't exist so we had no reason to want to scream and throw the beast out of the nearest window because our internet connection has once again slowed to speeds that can best be compared with a slow-leaking tire, and has been this slow for two freaking days now.

Argh.

Until this improves, I will just write my posts down and hand-address a copy to each and every person in the entire U.S. as I am sure this would be the quickest option, and I know how weird you are about giving out your address.

You can expect to receive yours in 6-45 weeks. Look for the envelope with the monkey stickers and the greasy Cheeto smears.

Oh, and if you could do the same for me so that I can actually read your posts, well that would be totally awesome of you.
Thanks a ton, sweetie- you're the best.

XO