Use this time to finally dislodge that piece of spinach from your teeth or other productive pursuits.

Dearest internets:

As a loyal, non-paid "employee" of blogland, it has come to my attention that I have approximately 4.5 months of vacation, sick time and "none of your damn business" time accrued.

Although I am still remorseful over the "hot dog incident" that sparked some 325-odd lawsuits, and Betty in human resources still isn't speaking to me, I believe that I am still entitled to those benefits outlined in my contract.

Therefore, effective today, June 29, 2008, I am officially taking a week off (well, week-ish off anyways.) I will be working on my house and flossing my cats, in case you're wondering. I may also spend some quality time lounging by the pool (bathtub) with my loyal manservant Renaldo (my husband and/or cats) bringing me daiquiris (Boone's farm) and hors d'oeuvres (Doritos).

I just need a break.

Have a great week and don't cheat on me while I'm gone. Oh, and I marked all of the liquor bottles- lord knows I can't trust you kids.

XO

WM

***********************************************
(boys can stop reading now...)
(Seriously, stop. There's nothing for you to see here.)

And...

I mentioned recently that my lovely gal Lollie is preggers. She was gracious enough to invite me to her shower a few weeks ago in Florida, but alas- I could not go. My other gal Worker Mommy suggested we throw her an internet shower and was gracious enough to do all of the work, including this post-in-a-post:

Presenting the mother of all Online Showers!

Hosted by the two WMs

The lovely Lollie (link) is expecting her first little wee-nut August 2^nd! As much as we wanted to hop on the first plane headed to sunny Fl to celebrate with her in person sadly that wasn’t to be.

So we, the two WMs: WhiskeyMarie & Worker Mommy are throwing her one helluva of a cyber shower and you’re all invited!

We’ve got presents from some terrific sponsors and games so grab a drink, sit back, relax and we’ll tell you how you can join in the festivities and possibly take home some goodies of your own.

The presents: Happy Panda Baby graciously offered to sponsor this shindig and will be sending their super hip flawless sleep set for the baby to be - because we know that any baby of Lollie’s will be just that - flawless.

The folks at Belli Skin Care, who make the most divine natural and safe (link to testing) products for expectant / new moms and babies have offered up a gift from their fabulous BelliBaby line.

and

Finally, what’s a party with out cake? Mommysbabycakes is donating a fabulous three tiered diaper cake and matching diaper bassinet/k pictured for mom and baby. The cool thing about this cake is that all items are 100 % reusable and this cake will not make you gain extra lbs! Check out Mommy she’s got some of the best prices out there.

And you …just how do you fit in? Well we want you to share the love.

The Games:

Create a post in honor of Lollie and her baby using the following 20 words : nursery, diaper, bottle, onesie, crib, stroller, binky, booties, blankie, baby powder magician , practical , fedora, cinema, petunia, bison, airplane , organic , computerized, gesture.

Easy right?

Now go forth and create. And please be sure to come back here and let me know once you’ve posted your masterpiece. You have until July 11^th at which time WM, Lollie and I will select 2 winners to receive their choice of a $20 Visa Gift Card or I-Tunes Gift Card

And for a chance to win a $15 I-Tunes Card ? :

Lollie’s due date is 8/2 but we all know babies typically come when they want to. In true baby shower style leave a comment guessing the gender, the birthdate and the weight. (if it helps any Lollie was 8lbs 4 oz and her guy was 5lbs 6oz.) The closest guess whens (although don’t expect to see this particular prize until August)

Congratulations Lollie we heart you so and to all the rest of y’all “Game On!”

XO

From your hosts

The WMs

'Cause, Um...I'm um...kind of um...sort of umm'ed out.

Because I am both lazy and...
Oh, drifted off there.

Lazy. Yes.
Ummm...Enjoy.




Whiskey does Friday from Whiskeymarie VonPartypants on Vimeo.
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What I think about when my brain isn't full of squirrels, rainbows, and unicorns.

I wonder what it would be like if I were a man.

I have man hands, I always leave the lid (not to be confused with the seat 'cause that would just be weird) of the toilet up, I like a good steak and a sturdy martini, and after sex I tend to opt to look for the remote and possibly a sandwich rather than "cuddling".

I like to think that I'd be a good-looking dude, but really- who knows? My quirky brand of "Whiskey" might not translate so well to the testosterone-fueled half of our species.

I like to think that I'd look like this:

Or this:


But I fear that the reality would be a bit harsher:

Or:


Reasons I could be a man-

• Big, manly hands
• I can enjoy a stiff, non-fussy cocktail
• I can enjoy good beer
• I drive aggressively
• I enjoy no-frills, straightforward sex with little chit-chat
  
• I'm an awesome trash-talker
• I'm usually full of shit
  
• I swear too much
• I forget important dates like anniversaries and birthdays
• I am generally uninterested in reality shows about dating, dancing or "becoming a star!"
• I think about other things when you're going on and on and on about that one thing I won't remember anyways
• I scratch myself inappropriately

Reasons I'm probably NOT a (non-transvestite) man-

• I like wearing high heels and makeup
  
• I drink cosmos and white wine
• I usually smell pretty
• I dream about cake sometimes
• I'm really fascinated by malls and enjoy frequent trips to them
• Generally, I don't burp or fart in front of anyone
• When you're going on and on about that one thing I won't remember anyways...I'm probably thinking about the cats and how cute they are. That, or Clive Owen humping me.
  
• Thinking about, talking about or being forced to watch sports makes me hate humanity for creating them
• Negative on the whole "having a penis" thing, positive on the whole "possessing a vagina" thing.

My alter ego, Jamesonmorty Von Penispants/ Man Me:


He's no Clive Owen (and he's a bit hairy, it seems), but after a few (thirteen) cocktails he might look good enough for a drunk make-out.
Maybe?
Or not. Whatever.


*Props to Moe Wanchuk for making me think about this the other day on this post.
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Thank you, sexy mailman...

In the mail yesterday I received a rather suspicious-looking package. It was ticking and white powder was falling out of it. It smelled like rotting bananas and hickory smoke.

I opened it anyways, hoping it was illegal drugs, bacon and maybe a new alarm clock.
No such luck.

Turns out, it was a belated b-day gift from my gal Lollie. I love Lollie, and not just because she sends me gifts, but that does increase my affections (hint, hint, wink.) I love her because she likes to play with dolls and she's preggers- who doesn't love a pregnant lady? Huh?

She got this awesome apron for me- I have been wearing it around the house all day in an effort to channel my inner housewife, but I'm afraid to get it dirty so I'm refusing to do any actual housework while wearing it.

Whoo whoo is that in your pocket, Whiskey?
Why, it's Mr. Shinygoldowl.
I love him and am going to find him a permanent home in Casa de Whiskey.


Later on, I had a delightful sing-along with Mr. VonBaconsteiner (I believe he is Fernando's 2nd cousin, twice removed by marriage. Am I right, McGone?) and Happy Monkeyface.
Know what song we sang over and over and over? This one. Duh.

Happy Monkeyface is surprisingly good at harmonizing.

Then- as well you would expect- I tried sticking Mr. Vonbaconsteiner up my nose with little success.

Thanks Lollie! Give yourself a big, bacony, monkey-breath kiss from me!

XO

Is that your Farvenugartenmorg, or are you just happy to see me?

Glorious Monday.

Did you do anything fun this weekend? Get arrested? Have to apologize to the neighbors again? Wake up in your underwear next to a bearded woman in the back seat of your car in the parking lot of an Applebees?

Nope- me neither.




My astoundingly pedestrian weekend, in bullet points for your reading comfort:

• Started phase 1 of Operation Fix this Fucking House, which involved two trips to IKEA, the purchase of a closet system/armoire thingy (named something like Farvenugartenmorg which is roughly the size of a 50's Cadillac), the partial assembly of said Cadillac, and the realization that we can't finish assembling the Cadillac until I paint the Foyer, so now we are living in a sea of Cadillac parts.
• Got drunk and blogged.
  
• The Mr. and I realized at approximately the same moment (when I was punching my liver and saying "shut up you!") that we reference the Simpsons approximately 5-8 times a day, and we always do it at the same time and giggle like lobotomy patients. We are dorks.
  
• Decided that the Lambada (a.k.a "The Forbidden dance") needs a comeback. Working on this one.
  
• Didn't run in Grandma's Marathon (or the half, like this brave soul). Didn't even consider running in Grandma's Marathon. Remembered that I don't run unless it involves bacon, vodka, or missing cats.
  
• Realized that I was turning into that person when I sat and stared at four nearly identical green-gray paint chips for 10 minutes, noting the subtle differences between them and how this one is a tich more gray, yet this one is a scooch more green...I then punched myself in the face so you wouldn't have to.
  
• Started counting down the days until next week, when I am thankfully done teaching my class and my summer of leisure begins. Don't get too jealous- fate has once again decided to kick me squarely in the place where my balls would be if I were a man and actually had the jinglies. Yes folks- I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants will be doing my civic duty and performing (I'm training with Bela Karolyi as we speak) JURY DUTY. And don't tell me to "just get out of it", o.k? I already did that once, and that's why I got roped into doing it now. Used to be, you just told them you were a commie and got out of it, then you were off the hook until the next time your name came up in the lottery. Not so much now. Now, if you want to be excused you have to list "alternate dates" that you would be available. And, go figure, they want me there on the "alternate dates" I listed. Bastards.
  
• Also: Ate sushi, had a lemon drop martini, wrangled cats, ate cheese, shopped online, smelled my finger, cut my bangs too short, sweat a lot, made rhubarb cake, had a fat-free frozen yogurt cone at IKEA, watched the beginning of Battlestar Galactica season 4, cemented my place in the nerd hall of fame, ate prunes, talked to myself a lot, sang songs about cats, washed dishes and forgot to shave my legs.
  

Happy Monday, my socially stunted, nerdy little Sci-fi aficionados. Happy Monday.

XO

Fair warning.

I'm drunky, so I've been laid down the law (is that even a sentence??).

You'll notice that there are scribble marks beneath my post script.

This is because I have been unable to write "w's" without adding an extra "dub" today. I am not so coordinated, it seems.

This is because I am drunk. Super "wine drunk", if you must know. I'm "thinking of getting a sensitive yet sexy tattoo on my lower back" drunk.

I love you guys. Totally. Love.
Wet kisses and maybe a quick boob-shot love. We're drunk and I'm not into you but I feel sorry for you so I'll make out with you love. We already scrogged in high school so I feel obligated to be nice to you love.

Drunkily yours,
WM.

The one where I start stealing my neighbor's cats.

I've been walking to work this week, despite the 80+ degree temps that, though mild for many of you southern folk, tends to make me sweat in places that I didn't even think sweating was possible- like my eyelids and belly button. It's nice out, I walk to work, dammit. I don't make the rules, but I'll be damned if I'll break them.

I usually follow a bike path situated along the fence that runs down 35E. This is a nifty little path that, on my bike, gets me downtown in about 6 minutes. Next time I'm spending an afternoon drinkin' on the patio of the Liffey, I know how I'm getting home. This path is REALLY secluded at points, and more than once I have run into meth heads perparing to have some sort of meth fest in the woods. I have also encountered snakes, low-flying birds, snooty "bikers" in their totally gay spandex shorts, several dead squirrels and more empty booze bottles than I could count (none mine, thank you very much.) But, it's shady and makes the journey to work so quick that I would be embarrassed if I didn't walk.

Coming home last night, I was about 4 blocks from my house when I spy something familiar: a black cat scurrying across the sidewalk. "Funny..." I thought. "That kind of looks like one of my cats."
The thought then crossed my mind that one of my furry prisoners had possibly escaped- visions of cat-exploring and bird carcasses dancing like butterflies in their little brain. I like to think that they would set up their own little fiefdom and rule with a gentle but firm hand, making sure that no cat, whether they be a stray or a pampered Persian, goes without Friskies and a friendly daily butt-sniff. I like to think that I'm not a freak and thinking about these things is normal, so humor me.

The cat in question had darted under someone's porch. I had a bad feeling about this situation, so I stopped by the house and started meowing/calling to the cat. I heard a faint little "mew", but no sign of the inky dark kitty.
"That's not your cat, silly. Go home" I thought.
I walk in the house and the Mr. comes bounding down the stairs. "Trouble got out. I can't find him."
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
Instantly I blamed the Mr, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

I started mentally filing for divorce as I tossed my bag down, started hyperventilating and ran back out the door.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck!"
The Mr. looked sheepish. I don't handle this stuff well. My poor little guy, out there all alone...
Who will give him squishy food, I asked myself. WHO WILL GIVE HIM SQUISHY FOOD???? CAN"T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE SQUISHY FOOD????????????????????

O.k, so I REALLY don't handle this sort of stuff well.

So, I ran back (flailing or freak-out running might be better terms) to where I saw the black cat.
"Meow, meow, meow" I called to the porch. God, I was talking to a porch. What a tard.

Five minutes of meowing, crawling around on my hands and knees in a stranger's front yard and mentally signing the divorce papers in my head later, I see a black furry face appear.
I gingerly approached the beast and noticed he didn't have a collar on. Bad Trouble! You escaped your collar too? You're a crafty one- that's for sure, you little scamp.

The cat hopped up the stairs of the neighboring house and began meowing. I hurried up to him and went to pick him up to smother him with kisses and take him home.
About half of a second before I scooped him up, I realized that this cat was fatter than Trouble. Too late.
I had him in my arms and realized that "Shit!" "This isn't my cat!"

Just then the front door opened and a startled-looking woman appeared.

"Um, Mycat'smissingandIthoughtthiswasmycatbutit'snotmycatandI'm
sorrybutIthoughtitwasmycathaveyouseenmycat?"

She looked at me and testily says: "No, that's not your cat." as she grabbed him out of my arms and quickly ducked into her house.
As she was closing the door I tried to get a plea in. "My cat got out. If you see him, he's wearing a skull and crossbones collar..."

She looked horrified.

"Um, thanks." I mumbled. Door slams.

Damn.

We found the little turdlet safe and sound at the next-door neighbors, tucked percariously under a scratchy shrub.

All is well with the world. And after a stern talking-to about actually watching the cats when they go outside, I've decided to give the Mr. another chance. But he's on thin ice, that one. I think he owes me something either sparkly or boozy for my pain and suffering.

Well, pain and suffering and the fact that I am now going to be regarded in my neighborhood as a cat thief. A drunk, meowing, watering the plants in my pajamas, singing to myself cat thief.

Lovely.

Happy friday, my fuzzy little free-roaming turdlets. Happy Friday.

XO

Another reason why the FBI is "keeping an eye" on me.

So, we're remodeling soon. In order to be able to afford a project like this, we opted to re-finance the house over me taking a side job as a "special needs" stripper. Pasties give me a rash, and on the plus side we got a better rate, our payment is hardly going up, and such and such.
So when you do this, the bank basically sends you a big-assed check which will then serve as your "remodeling fund".
We got this big-assed check last week (and by the way, UPS- leaving a priority envelope on my front stairs where any yahoo could walk buy and steal my new bathroom, new wiring and pretty new other stuff is totally not cool), but I just got around to depositing it today.

So I walk into the bank, fill out the deposit slip, then sidle up to the teller.

Him: "Hi there, what can I do for you today?"

Me: "I'd like to deposit this into my savings, but I can't remember my account number. Could you look it up?"

Him: "Sure, just let me take a look at that..." (pauses.) "So, can I ask why you have such a big check?"

Me: "Oh, yeah. I sold a kidney."

(crickets) (teller makes a frowny face)

Him: "Um..."

Me: "Just kidding! We refinanced, blah, blah, blah..."

He reaches under the desk and pushes the silent alarm. Security comes running and I'm dragged off screaming "I'm kidding! Can't anyone take jokes about selling your organs on the black market anymore???"

O.k, that last part didn't really happen.
But the rest did, and I learned today that no- no indeed- people do not think organ-selling jokes are funny anymore.
How come no one told me?

Let's travel 'round the world, just you and me punk rock girl...

1986-1989

I totally thought I was punk rock.

Sure, when the real, original punk explosion happened I was knee-deep in play-doh and barbies, but dammit, I needed to rebel and I liked leather.
And, I liked rebellious "bad" boys who liked leather.

Living in a very small town outside of an 80's, Reagan-era, depressed smallish city to a teenager was equal to living in the seventh circle of hell. I wanted excitement and noise, I got farms and a town square that consisted of two gas stations, a beauty shop and a museum devoted to the milling of grain. No car and no one to drive meant another Saturday night listening to records by Fear and the "Let them eat Jellybeans" compilation at Waffle's house while her mom brought us sodas and rice krispy treats and we pretended we were listening to NKotB. Sure, the treats were delicious, but we were pretty sure that Sid and Nancy never sat around wishing they were cool while snarfing Doritos and Funyuns. Sid and Nancy didn't have to hide records with songs like "Jesus entering from the rear" from their Moms.
Sure, there was that whole heroin thingy, but you get the drift.

I was growing out of my love for Duran Duran and bubblegum pop. I started listening to the local college radio stations.

It just clicked.

Where before I loved Wham! (god, how I LOVED Wham!) (O.k, still do) and Huey Lewis and the News, my interest now leaned towards bands like GBH, The Germs and the Dead Kennedys.

Today I found a box that had a bunch of buttons I used to wear back then.

Such a rebel.



Seems I was a Gumby-lovin', peaceful sort that volunteered occasionally for Planned Parenthood (keep your debates to yourselves, people.) And I guess I thought I was of English descent and had visited New York, though I hadn't.

I also wore a lot of black and embraced my darkside. Soiuxie and the Banshees, the Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus and Christian Death provided the soundtracks to our darker moments. "Darker" moments meaning not getting asked to dance at the local teen dance club "Faces" when the Smiths were on, or chipping my blood-red nail polish on my longish fingernails.



Looking at what we wore and what we did to our hair, you can tell we still had a pretty good sense of humor. Sane people don't pair clunky, knee-high lineman's workboots with green fishnets, a vintage sundress, an army surplus bag and spiky orange hair. The Violent Femmes, The Dead Milkmen and The Dickies kept us entertained those days.


I suppose I should regret the hair, the unfortunate clothing choices and the time spent huddled over a record player that could have been better spent studying for my SAT's.

I suppose I should.

But I don't.

Holy crap, it was a lot of fun.
It was silly.
It was at times really, really stupid.

It was difficult and liberating.

It was perfectly flawed, perfectly perfect.

I don't regret a single second of it.

Rainy days, Mondays, and poo.

No time today AGAIN, as poo and other unsavory bits have backed up through the floor drain into my scary basement over the weekend and I am too grossed out to think.
Right now two dudes are down there snaking the thing out. Last time this happened, a few years ago, the guy who came out to fix it just (o.k, even I'm gonna get the puke shivers now)...

just stuck his bare hands down there & dug it out.

Ugh.
Gag.

The dudes today don't seem to be interested in such nastiness, luckily. But I'm still disgusted. I hate my old house sometimes.

Good weekend, nothing exciting. Rueben burgers, cleaning, pizza, wine, garage cleaning, bloody marys & brunch at the Triple Rock, a little shopping, some Battlestar Galactica (geeks, I know), a rainstorm or two, but no "marshmallow anus insertion silly". Sorry. I can't think about the booty and it's various functions right now anyways.
Gross.