So sorry if you missed the fantastical tale of how Whiskeymarie.com was hijacked by corporate terrorists, ripped from my bosom and thrust into the uncaring hands of total strangers, but unless something significant happens in the next hour or so, this blog is no more.
Oh, don't cry my little chickpea- I hate to see you all red-faced and snotty like that. Seriously- that's a good look for no one. How about instead you come to my new home? It's still under construction and completely inadequate right now, much like a FEMA trailer in New Orleans, but it is my new home nonetheless.
If you venture over to marietimesthree(dot)com, I'll do my best to make this a smooth transition for us all, even if I have to slip you a roofie or ply you with grain alcohol. (If that address is still in transition, e-mail me and I'll give you the info).
Happy new blog, my faithful little nuggets of awesomeness. Happy new blog.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Whiskey row the erg ashore, hallelujah!
I'm terribly sorry to have left up my birthday post for 47 days. No, I wasn't trying to milk it (OK, maybe a little) for sympathy/gifts/love/butt squeezes, I just got redonkulously busy with work and life in general. Bad news is, I'm still kind o' busy until tomorrow, good news is that after tomorrow I'm off until JUNE FIRST, SUCKAS!!!
God, I love my job. (bows head in shame for gloating. Notices something shiny in the other room, runs off.)
(comes back with a ball of used foil)
Remember when I said I was signing up for a rowing class?
Well, I've been to one already and now the second class is tonight. We spent day 1 learning how not to kill ourselves by trying to breakdance in the boat in the middle of the Mississippi, and then we practiced our mad rowin' skillz on one of these:
They call it an "erg"- I think that's short for "ergotron" or "ergalicious" or something. Alls I know is, the ergotron kicked my ASS. But I loved it- I'm a masochist like that.
I tried starting a round of "Michael row the boat ashore" with the other newbie rowers, but they just smiled politely and stared at the wall in front of us for the remainder of the training. No one made eye contact with me after that.
Tonight we actually go out on the river in a training boat they call the Barge. In my head I'm calling it "Large Marge's Barge"
I'm super excited. If I live through it/don't accidentally kill everyone on the boat, I'll let you know how it was tomorrow.
Oh, and I got some turtly awesome bee-day gifties that I'll tell you about as well. Unless you'd rather I talk about my lady-bits again, whatever.
Happy Turdsday, my little boats filled with love and gummi bears. Happy Turdsday.
XO
God, I love my job. (bows head in shame for gloating. Notices something shiny in the other room, runs off.)
(comes back with a ball of used foil)
Remember when I said I was signing up for a rowing class?
Well, I've been to one already and now the second class is tonight. We spent day 1 learning how not to kill ourselves by trying to breakdance in the boat in the middle of the Mississippi, and then we practiced our mad rowin' skillz on one of these:
They call it an "erg"- I think that's short for "ergotron" or "ergalicious" or something. Alls I know is, the ergotron kicked my ASS. But I loved it- I'm a masochist like that. I tried starting a round of "Michael row the boat ashore" with the other newbie rowers, but they just smiled politely and stared at the wall in front of us for the remainder of the training. No one made eye contact with me after that.
Tonight we actually go out on the river in a training boat they call the Barge. In my head I'm calling it "Large Marge's Barge"
I'm super excited. If I live through it/don't accidentally kill everyone on the boat, I'll let you know how it was tomorrow.
Oh, and I got some turtly awesome bee-day gifties that I'll tell you about as well. Unless you'd rather I talk about my lady-bits again, whatever.
Happy Turdsday, my little boats filled with love and gummi bears. Happy Turdsday.
XO
Monday, May 3, 2010
Suck it up, put on yer monkey hat and have a day, damnit!
Yeah, it's my farkin birthday.
I actually kind of forgot about it this year, being that I'm busy like a hooker bee on honey day and on account that I'm turning the regrettable age of thirtyfreakingnine.
In honor of the occasion, I'll sing you the song I sing my cat, Millie, on a near-daily basis.
(Imagine this in the key of G and sung in a castrato-falsetto voice)
"la-la-laaaa......"
"Her name is Millie,
she is so silly,
if she were a pickle she'd be dilly,
if she were a movie she'd be Free Willy,
if she were a horse she'd be a filly,
if she were a landscape she'd be hilly,
if she were a criminal she'd be kind of killy,
if she was a president's brother she'd be Billy,
if she were a flower she'd be a lily,
if she were cheap fabric she'd be quite pilly,
if she was a feather she'd be quilly,
if she was a Valley girl she'd be all "Really?"
if she was an actress she'd be Meg Tilly,
Aaaaaaannnnndddddd...
(pause)
if she were any cuter I'd eat her for dinner. Yup."
(bow)
Now, it's time to put on my party hat and display the appropriate attitude befitting a misfit 39 year-old who would rather be scratching her ass with a rose bush than having another damn birthday.
Dammit.
I actually kind of forgot about it this year, being that I'm busy like a hooker bee on honey day and on account that I'm turning the regrettable age of thirtyfreakingnine.
In honor of the occasion, I'll sing you the song I sing my cat, Millie, on a near-daily basis.
(Imagine this in the key of G and sung in a castrato-falsetto voice)
"la-la-laaaa......"
"Her name is Millie,
she is so silly,
if she were a pickle she'd be dilly,
if she were a movie she'd be Free Willy,
if she were a horse she'd be a filly,
if she were a landscape she'd be hilly,
if she were a criminal she'd be kind of killy,
if she was a president's brother she'd be Billy,
if she were a flower she'd be a lily,
if she were cheap fabric she'd be quite pilly,
if she was a feather she'd be quilly,
if she was a Valley girl she'd be all "Really?"
if she was an actress she'd be Meg Tilly,
Aaaaaaannnnndddddd...
(pause)
if she were any cuter I'd eat her for dinner. Yup."
(bow)
Now, it's time to put on my party hat and display the appropriate attitude befitting a misfit 39 year-old who would rather be scratching her ass with a rose bush than having another damn birthday.
Dammit.
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