On Beverages and Being Lazy

It was a lazy Saturday morning. Quite uncharacteristically, we both slept in. Miraculously, the dogs allowed our slovenly behavior. Upon waking, the dogs needs were tended, but we elected to drink our coffee from bed while channel-surfing.

We ended up viewing a History Channel program on the, well, history of beer in America. From the early competition of breweries in Milwaukee to the vision of August Busch in St. Louis and later upstarts in Colorado, we learned of the challenges of bottling, the introduction of canning, and the woeful interlude known as Prohibition. More than once, the narrator mentioned Busch's dream of making America a nation of beer drinkers. After one such occurrence, Suzanne lifted her coffee mug in tribute and exclaimed, "I love these people!"

Coffee on lazy Saturday mornings is good. Almost as good as entrepreneurism and beer.

Salud.

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The Best Damned Day

I don't do birthdays. Oh, I'm fine with celebrating the birthdays of others, just not my own. I don't care to have a lot of fuss; frankly, I hate being the center of attention. I don't drop hints to coworkers or friends when my birthday is approaching, I beg Suzanne not to sing to me... and, this year, I adamantly insisted that I not be the recipient of another blogosphere VaginArt celebration.

Against all odds, my friends both here at home and across the country respected my wish. Of even greater unlikelihood, I am acknowledging--publicly, willfully, gleefully--my birthday. From the handmade gifts that were a total surprise, to the Japanese Maple that now resides in Connecticut (simply waiting for me to claim it), the thoughtfulness of my dear friends demands more than a gracious receipt. They deserve celebration.

The hand-drawn card taped to a beer from my own fridge was pretty damned funny, too.

Thank you all for a wonderful day. :)

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Inanity

I despise the current Wendy's marketing campaign. You've seen them - some guy is wearing that Godawful red-haired pigtail wig that replicates the restaurant's logo while engaging in burger conversation.

I like Wendy's. Hell, I own stock in Wendy's. It's my name. But the ad campaign blows. It's stupid. Annoying. That's Wrong*.

*Almost enough so to make me refrain from purchasing that delectable new hamburger comprised of jalepenos, bacon, and two kinds of cheese, melted between two beef patties. Mmmmmm.

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Hiatal Highlights

Aka, bits and pieces of what was happening while I was not blogging.

I took out a mailbox... while driving a company car, with my newest employee along for the thump. Oops.

A couple of very dear friendships were compromised. *Whine warning* Isn't quitting your job after having a baby enough? Must new mommies move out of state, too?

A couple of budding friendships continued to blossom (y'all know who you are, and I love you).

Virtually nothing changed on the home improvement front. So far, I'm okay with that. I'm thrilled to report the water hoses have been put away for the season; of course, the grass-growing efforts dictate that we blow and bag the leaves nearly every freaking weekend. Ah, well.

My parents visited, and it was relatively (pun intended) painless... even when we all went to lunch with Suzanne's mom (yikes!). My dad climbed another step up on his pedestal by commenting, "What is, is" when I mentioned my mother's avoidance of my lesbianism. Perhaps the moment was cuter because he said it in old-mumbly-man-from-Texas Spanish... or just because he's my daddy and his unconditional love and support are a cornerstone of my life.

We replaced our shitty cell phones. Suzanne's new QWERTY keyboard has vastly impacted the speed with which she texts.

We celebrated Dud's 10th birthday. He remains fit and active, and I continue to believe self-delude that he'll live forever.

We saw The Boy perform when his tour brought him to the area. The show was as cheesy as a fondue pot at a Packers tailgating party, but he was undeniably good. He's also being paid well, a dream come true for parentals of a no-longer-child pursuing a career in music theatre. Go, Boy, go!

I'm certain there were other occurrences, good and bad... but that's a fair nutshell. I, um, also missed my blogging relationships, so it's good to be back. :)

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Kinda Like Back Home...

... where, if one orders a "coke" at a restaurant, the inevitable question is, "What kind?". In small-town Southeast Texas, "coke" is synonymous with "soda" or "pop" to the rest of the country.

In Northern Virginia, or at least in MY household, I note a similar misusage:

Suzanne: Would you bring me a couple of those almond rocas on your way back?
Wen: How many is "a couple"?
Suzanne: Four.

To my knowledge, this largesse of coupling does not apply to sexual interactions.

***

Y'all have a couple of nice days this Thanksgiving. :)

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Just in Time for Thanksgiving

Wife of weese thought it was bad when I sorta kinda broke the bathroom door during their visit. That was easily repaired, however, with a little wood glue, sanding, and painting. My mother's treatment of the bathroom sink fixture, however, was a bit more vexing.

Note: We intentionally chose a retro-style fixture to match the, um, style of our 1950's home. That fixture, however, was neither old nor cheap. What the hell!?!?

Although Suzanne and I did manage to procrastinate make do for a couple of weeks, there is NO WAY we can expect our Thanksgiving guests to employ the same strategy... is there?

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Big D Wins!

Meaning Dudley, of course. I wouldn't dare gloat about the Cowboys victory over the Redskins in this household. Certainly not.

After that last interception, Pixie turned her back on the game.

Suzanne was smarter. She went grocery shopping.

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Nothing But a Number

'Twas the night before Chr--

No, that's not right. Let's see. It's supposed to be the story of when I turned 40, but that milestone hasn't actually occurred yet. Lest any of you old farts slightly more youth-challenged folks think I'm glorying in that fact, I am not. I have been acutely aware that nearly all of my blogfriends, many of whom I love dearly, are older. Genteel soul that I am, I won't name names nor point fingers. Some are older than others, of course.

Take Teresa. Hell, she's only turning 40. Forty. Big freaking whoop. Forty is young in my mind, particularly as I witness the energy, activity, and joy of those of greater chronological achievement. Of course, it helps that I'll be able to claim to be in the same decade as Suzanne when I do turn 40. I wonder what other distinctions will herald that hallmark?

• As I will no longer be working for the agency that is slowly crushing my spirit, I may be employed in an entirely new profession.
• I will be nearly three years into the Five Year Plan.*
• I will almost certainly still be wearing braces.**
• I will continue to revel in the joy that I glean from our amazing friends and pets.
• My truck will be paid off.
• We'll likely have a much better concept of The Boy's future.
• My yard will be as beautiful as a golf course.
• And, possibly, I'll finally have changed the picture on my Driver's License, replacing the picture from when I moved to Virginia - when I was 28, with short hair.

Why do I feel like I'll look back at this in a couple of years and laugh? Ah, well. This isn't truly about me, anyway. Today is the 40th birthday of my friend, and I wish her all the enjoyment a day may hold.


*More on that later. Maybe.

**Okay, the idea of braces at 40 isn't all that delightful.

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Ahhhh

A monstrous conflagration roaring fire in the fireplace.
Football on the TV.
Fantasy Football on the computers.
Dogs cuddling.
A cocktail or two.
Good friends, sharing.



A damned near perfect weekend.

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no, No, NO

A brief aside while a guest was on the phone.

W: Remind me later to tell you about [my boss's] great nephew.

S: Her right nipple?

WTF?? If you knew my boss, you'd know why I gagged.

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We're Expanding Our Horizons...

Instead of being embarrassed by the number of beer cans in our recycling bin, we're now chagrined by the abundance of beer cartons in our trash. (I'm not sure if the pizza box helps or hurts our image.)


Whatever. Good times.

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Happy Birthday, Baby

While not precisely how I envisioned employing "power tools" spending the hours preceding football, I'm not complaining. We're a good team. :)

No More, For Now

I've been a lousy blogger this year. Not only is my posting down, but I've struggled to even keep up with all of your blogs.

So, I'm taking a break. I don't want to delete my blog permanently and I'm too lazy to save every freaking post as draft, so this notice will just have to suffice.

Thank you to those of you who expressed concern. All is well. I'll be back when blogging feels like fun again, instead of an obligation.

Alarm!

S, speaking with the righteous indignation of Those Who Get To Sleep In: The neighbor came knocking at the door at like 7 o'clock this morning!

W, thinking something isn't right, the neighbor KNOWS we're bedslugs. Then it clicks: Suzanne, I was still here at 7:00. Try again.

S, busted: Um, okay, it was probably like 9:00.

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Topography

Or... the doggy version of Where's Waldo.


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Say it with Me....

"Awwwwwwww..."


So sweet, isn't he?


Sorry. I know Eva is hot, but I was damned tired of looking at Mr. Longoria.

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There are Worse Names...

I'm guessing he doesn't enjoy it much, even though she is fucking HOT.



See?

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Vision

Today's quote of note:

Don't borrow someone else's spectacles to view yourself with.
~Simon Travaglia (Who?)

Certainly I'm guilty of that. But the question begs: How does one view oneself?

My "glasses" are often quite smudged. Similar to "beer goggles", I recognize that what I "see" may look different in the morning, or next year... and certainly is different than what others see.

We are fluid, we homos homo sapiens. Our perceptions, thoughts, and ideals are naturally influenced by our environment. Whether a subtle shift in interpersonal dynamics, a less-than-satisfactory hair day, a major job change, or a war in another country, we constantly receive external feedback and new information. We sift the data, either consciously or unconsciously; the input may reinforce preconceived notions or challenge them.

Of course, there are some beliefs that are so ingrained they seem an intrinsic part of who we are. A "frame" for the glasses, so to speak. I find I'm quite comfortable with my personal framework.

Now, I just need to polish those lenses.

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Introspection... Exposed

Although I haven't referenced it too often, I have been absolutely miserable at my place of employment for some time. A handful of people that know me well are acutely aware of this, and have been encouraging me to find a new job. I started out thinking about that, but the process somehow morphed into what the fuck do I want?

I don't know why I'm sharing this, except that feedback would be welcome and it's been in my head for too long.

So...

• What do I like? Dogs; food; sports; music; books; computers; processes; writing; the English language; neat, orderly existence


• What do I dislike? People (i.e. interpersonal interactions, answering the phone); bureaucracies, being the center of attention
  


• What are my strengths? Explaining things in terms others can understand; spelling; proficiency with Word, familiarity with Excel; good vocabulary; supervisory experience; good work history of progressive responsibility; excellent attention to detail; typing 80 wpm; sense of humor; significant familiarity with disability rights, issues, and laws; supportive friends and partner; ambition; physical strength, relative good health; persistence; loyalty; sensitivity to others' perceptions


• What are my weaknesses? Limited formal education; distractibility; procrastination; downright lazy at times; poor self-perception; low frustration-tolerance; stubborn; fear of being judged; hearing; some physical limitation due to back/shoulder pain; need for order; competitiveness; difficulty asking for help


• What are my needs? A reasonable income; benefits; a shorter commute; a sane supervisor; stability; approval

So, there I am, exposed vocationally encapsulated. Thoughts welcome.

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Wannabe...

Back when I first started this blog, I struggled a bit with what to call it. I'm not sure what I intended with the Wannabe moniker at the time; wannabe a writer? Wannabe living more in the world and less in my head? Wannabe rich, successful, powerful, beautiful? Wannabe a better partner, daughter, friend, employee? Wannabe living on an island with ten dogs and no cares in the world? I don't think I had a clear concept of what I wanted. I still don't.

My wants today are still diffuse and, largely, unassuming.

I want to finish the renovations of this house.
I want the fuck out of my job.
I want my dogs to live forever.

I know, those are wants, not wannabes. For now, I'll settle for wannabe posting more often than bimonthly.

Ooh, ambition.

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WWSP?

WHERE WILL SYD PUKE?

I know, silly question. She's made it clear she'll puke just about anywhere, and for silly little reasons like mayonnaise, anything au gratin, or beef tongue. Still, a few (thus far) unmentioned locations come to mind...

7. The sexy brown farm truck

Hey, I didn't say K's truck. I don't think Syd has a death wish.





6. While driving her "hupty"

TLF optional.







5. On her keyboard

It's bound to happen...






4. On her shoes

Again...







3. In her purse

Hey, she already has dog poop in there...






2. On the roof

I'm wondering if this might be a case of "been there, done that"...









1. In Cybill Shepherd's cleavage

Y'all thought she was just peeking, didn't you?

(Thanks, Weese)




I figured as long as I was going to top the shit list, I'd earn it. ;p

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Oh My... Goodness

Who knew there were members-only Christian paintball parks? The link to the fantastically cheesy article about such a facility in Wisconsin (God's country?) is below, but I'll give a few highlights.

"Christian paintball park provides friendly fire" is the sub-title from the Canadian paper that ran the "article."

The term holy war is also used, of course. As is fighting for the glory of God.

In addition to prayer before combat, the rules apparently prohibit cheating, "spiteful" play, and swearing. [Fuck THAT.]

It's called Promised Land, and the paintballs have the little Christian fish symbol printed on them. [!!!!!]

A few quotes from the "Christian Soldiers":

• I've looked in the Bible, and can't find anything wrong with paintball.
• On a Sunday we could be in church, but why not be out playing paintball and spreading the word?
• There's an impression that Christians are wimps -- that they're just no fun.
• The secret is not to get shot much.

And finally, there's this little nugget:

While glad to save the Promised Land, after a day embedded with God's play-army, I have lingering questions -- which I ask Ohio Christian player Dan Skinner. Would Jesus play paintball? And how well?

"The Bible talks about Jesus wrestling with his disciples," he answers. "I believe if he played paintball he would play just like anyone else. He wouldn't use his divine power to win, because that would be cheating."

What would Jesus do? Laugh, for starters. I hope.

[Source]

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Truth

Suzanne, in an email with a friend:

Please feel free to speak your mind. You know I always do.

Yep.

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Not an Ass, But Still Nice

Certain pervy bloggers have been passing around this cute little [not even remotely safe for work] link to a computer screen cleaner. Although it's as freaky as it attractive, we had fun with it for a few minutes.

Several hours later...

S: My screen is dirty. [A sincere statement, not intended as a lead-in]

W: I sent you a monitor cleaner already! [Giggling and thinking I was quite clever]

S: That didn't do any good. All that did was leave lick marks on the outside of the screen.

[Pause]

W: Hey! [Not so clever after all, but damned amused]

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June 21, 2007

Summer's officially here. Today's the summer solstice and is the longest day of the year.

Whether you like it...


Or not.


(Yes, this counts as a post, damnit!)
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Twelfth Night

Yeah, so it's been 12 full days since I last posted. Twelve days full of sunshine and conscientious watering, as a matter of fact.

Yeah, I'm writing about grass again. Check it out.

Don't worry about that barren patch in the middle. That area will be graded with the dirt that was delivered today, then freshly seeded. Note the lush quality of my grass relative to the pre-existing stuff. Overseeding of several such areas of the yard is also on the to-do list.

I'll try to refrain from posting more pictures of additional grass growth.

But no promises.

[Dirt update, per Weese's request.]

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WWWD?

It started innocently enough. Given our recent success in other landscaping endeavors, today I wanted to tackle the sparse, weedy area of our back yard that was once referenced as "the wildlife habitat." When we purchased our home, it was in need of a little attention. Most of our attention has gone to the inside of the house, but we have done - or paid for - tree work, and we did remove the massive pile of branches and other debris that comprised the wildlife habitat. The area has lain untouched by anything other than the mower since that time. I soaked it pretty well with the hose last night to facilitate loosening the dirt to utilize this fine product:

Per the instructions, I needed to loosen a couple of inches of the "topsoil" (we'll use that term loosely, mmkay?) prior to applying the combination seed/fertilizer. A few moments into my task, I realized there was yet another layer of crap buried in the earth.

I shucked my gloves and went to consult with Suzanne about the options. We decided it would be best to do the job the right way, rather than half-assing it. We reasoned that, despite the apparent health of the existing weeds, grass might not grow as prolifically. We didn't want weeds in our new grass.

And, the penultimate decision-maker: What Would Weese Do?

WWWD*? Weese would do it right. And how could I, a young (enough), strong (enough), stubborn (hell yeah) lesbian with four sound extremities, not do WWWD (What Weese Would Do - nice how it works both ways, huh?).

So, documentation of my WWWD labors. Halfway, but not half-ass.

The excavation items today included screen, plastic sheeting, linoleum, candles, two steel rods, a plastic milk carton, several margarine-type plastic containers, plastic potting trays, paint rollers, and more. For the record, I'm not sure how I feel about global warming, but that shit about how plastic never deteriorates? Absolutely true.

If When I finish this particular project, I fully intend to engage in another WWWD ritual: cocktails.

*"WWWD" Copyright Syd, 2007. Used by permission.

Reason Number 1548

... that I love Trader Joe's.

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Suburban Wildlife*

Watching the sunset over the backyard this evening, I noticed this:

I laughed, assuming Suzanne had placed it there to torture play with Pixie. When she saw the object of my amusement, she started laughing, too.

It seems it was placed there by the contractors we had at the house today.



*Title not meant to imply lack of actual squirrels, despite Pixie's vigilance.
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Discharge

This just pisses me OFF. Now, now that military recruiting is at an all-time low, NOW gays are good enough?

Discharged gay sailor is called back to active duty

Grrr. I love my country. I respect and support our soldiers. This fucking war, and all the associated expense in lives, money, and international respect, just makes me ill. The selective application of laws and loopholes is just icing on the cake.

I'm so sick of this political diet I could choke.

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Do You Know Jack?

I imagine by now that the concept of "Jack Radio" is fairly well-known: a format of music from the 60s to the 90s, plus "whatever" else they feel like playing. DC did have a Jack, called George, but the format changed recently. There is a Jack out of Baltimore, but the signal strength doesn't really stretch to accommodate my commute. Not that it matters, really. I'm much more prone to listening to sports radio or Don & Mike. Yesterday, however, I did discover that Baltimore's Jack 102.7 is sponsoring a concert in July: Jack Fest!

Oh my f'ing God. Are they serious? Jack Fest? Is it sponsored by Johnson & Johnson? Or Astroglide? That's whacked.

I hope the name doesn't rub anybody the wrong way. Nah, only a jerk would get bent out of shape over that. You've really got to hand it to those marketing people. You just can't beat that name.

It's a shame the lineup doesn't include Green Day, since they apparently have some affinity for choking the chicken.


I'm not going to touch the potential food vendor items. Wait, yes I am. Surely some kind of beef. Maybe salami. With mayo. Or hot dogs. I doubt they'd have bananas or cucumbers, but pickles might be available. Yeah, foodstuffs with preservatives are probably the best shot. Beef jerky, anyone?

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Well, Spam is a Meat

As most of you probably know by now, my email is a Gmail account. More often than not, I'm a fan of Gmail. The "not" generally involves those (usually brief) spazzes when Gmail is "unable to process request. Please try again in a few moments". I think it's cute that the trash can shows recycling tips, and the spam folder has Spam recipes. (OMG, some of those recipes...!)

I've been impressed with Gmail's success in capturing spams and dumping them into the spam folder. Unfortunately, I do have to go to the folder and officially trash them. Because I can't stand to have that bold Spam (8) offending my sense of order, I dump the folder several times a day. Occasionally, the nature of the spam does catch my eye. Of late, I've been besieged with male sexual organ enhancement products. What the FUCK? Of all the bullshit that could inundate my account, why this? [Don't be nasty, Sydpacker. Oh, what the hell - go ahead.]

The best of the worst:

• Stop blaming your lack of getting laid on everything under the sun. Maybe it's the moon...
• Sex can be one of the most enjoyable parts of your life. Um, duh.
• No more floppy dick. 'Cause floppies are, like, so old school.
• My wife loves the new size of my dick. She calls me Big Boy now. Better than "Vienna Sausage", no doubt.
• This email will make your dick bigger. Just LOL
• Stretch her out with MegaDik. Yikes!
• She'll hurt so good with MegaDik. That's better.
• Make your dick huge this summer. For the summer? Is this like tanning?
• Are you a stud in the sack or a dud at the back? At the back of...? Nm, I don't want to know.
• Do you have what it takes? Become a solid 8 inches. Yes, I said *8* inches. Could be helpful doggy style. Maybe that's the "back" reference...
• Get a visit from the Big Dick Fairy. Sounds rather gay.
• Do you ejaculate before or within minutes of penetration? Frequently. Is that a problem?

Thanks, Gmail. I've had my "fill".

Maybe in May

Is it just me, or has April just sucked, and sucked, and sucked some more? (If it is just me, I may have to switch to an every-other-month, or every-other-OTHER-month blog posting schedule.) Fortunately, I don't think it is only my perception. Crazy weather. Crazy people. It's all been distracting, and beyond dismaying. Hell, I even forgot to call my mother on her birthday, yet was timely in my efforts for Syd's Bitch and Wife of Weese. Just crazy.

So... Fuck April. (The month, Asshats. Don't be nasty.)

My point? There IS hope, people. First, American Idol has finally been liberated from Sangina. With a little luck, I'll be able to resume doing laundry in my OWN laundry room soon. The Orioles are over .500, a virtual miracle. And then there's World Naked Gardening Day! [Ya'll really need to open that link to see the header.]

Why garden naked? First of all, it's fun! Second only to swimming, gardening is at the top of the list of family-friendly activities people are most ready to consider doing nude. WTF? Haven't "family values" gone far enough?

More daring groups can make rapid clothes-free sorties into public parks to do community-friendly stealth cleanups. And mug shots are such a nice addition to any family album.

Gardening has a timeless quality, and anyone can do it: young and old, singles or groups, the fit and infirm, urban and rural. no, No, NO!

Do it inside your house, in your back yard, on a hiking trail, at a city park, or on the streets. Insert your own "do it" joke here.

...post your thoughts and images onto an Internet site... Um, that's called porn. Not that I'm maligning porn... oh, nm.

And for those of us that don't have a garden, might I suggest a little bush trimming to honor the day? After all, "All that's involved is getting naked and making the world's gardens--whatever their size, public or private--healthier and more attractive".

Coincidence that this date is concomitant with Cinco de Mayo? I don't think so.

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Please, Sir, may I have some more?

What, you want a post? Eh, what can I say; it was just one of those weeks. Er, two of those weeks. Whatever.

Without further ado, I present my one-and-only Season Whatever American Idol post. Yes, I watch the damned show, although this may very well be my last season thanks to the absurdity that is Sangina's continued presence among the "top" performers. I'm not going to rant about that, however. This post was inspired by none other than Mr. Phil Stacey, also known as Chemo Phil and Bat Boy. Harsh? I didn't make up those names, although I have no argument with them. I could go further and suggest that he looks like he has HIV or that he was recently liberated from a concentration camp...

Clearly, Mr. Stacey freaks me out. I appreciate his variety of hats, but they don't really do much to help his appearance in my opinion. This past Tuesday, the hat de jour brought this image to mind:

[Quick rant: Jeers to the F'ing American Idol site, that made me scroll through 139 of the 168 pictures posted from last week's performances in order to obtain Mr. Stacey's image. Ever heard of thumbnails, Asshats??? Haley's legs were nowhere near good enough to justify that. And I won't even mention Lakisha's teef.]

So, the question begs: what does Mr. Stacey want more of?

Please, Sir, may I have some more...

HAIR?
VOTES?
HATS?
T CELLS?

Additional suggestions welcome.

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Win Some, Lose Some

Going in to the Final Four weekend of the NCAA men's and women's tournaments, I can honestly say I suck at picking college hoops. One more time, just for clarity: I SUCK at picking college hoops. Actually, I'm still alive in a couple of men's brackets... but it was the women I was really interested in.

Ah, well. This was really my first year of sincere appreciation of college basketball, so I can accept my suckiness with aplomb. It helps that I'm drafting two fantasy baseball teams this weekend, of course.

Oh, and there's this:

I never claimed to be particularly knowledgable of celebrity doings, either. I'm not. But even *I* know Lindsay Lohan is an Attention Ho unlike any other. Skanky bitch did me proud. ;p

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Accessorizing

My version of coordinating accessories goes something like this: If I'm wearing earth tones, I'll wear gold jewelry and put my hair in either a brown clip or band. If I'm wearing black/gray/blue, I'll wear silver jewelry and a black hair clip/band. Simple. Low-maintenance, even. Well, I also coordinate the color of my eye liner, but that's not the point.

For years, I was the only one in the house that even owned hair accessories. That, of course, has changed with Suzanne's longer locks. I generally keep my hair accoutrements nicely snuggled together in a tray in the guest room, where I do my hair. Now that we "share" such implements, however...

W: Do you know why I can't find any of my brown bands and have to get a new one almost every time I need one?

S: No. I picked up a whole bunch of bands yesterday and put them... places. [waves hand about]

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Power Oops

Know what happens when one accidentally hits the metal sawhorse braces while using a circular saw on plywood?

(Hint: it makes a really horrid noise. The kind of noise that makes your teeth hurt.)

Yes, yes, that's right. It bends the teeth of the saw blade.

Obviously, we persevered. What kind of power tool dykes would we be if we didn't have extra blades on hand?

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Crowded House

Behold, someone's artistic rendering of how the bodies in the bed were arranged last night. The clear indication is that yours truly is a bed hog.

I don't know why my Dudley Dawg was given a beaver tail [giggle] or a deformed head.

For those of you who've met Suzanne, you'll surely recognize that images are not drawn to scale. I've never slept with a midget.

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For the Record

I'm well-acquainted with the mess associated with drywall work. Drywall dust gets everywhere.

I learned today there is something far, far worse, however: the black, dense, silty, kinda-like-printer-toner residue from the gaping chimney pipe where a former oil furnace once vented.

By itself, it's nasty. In a laundry room, where disconnecting the washer inevitably led to a little water on the floor, it's a nightmare. And that was before I tackled washing the walls and such.

I may very well have nightmares tonight. Nightmares of the world being overcome, one sooty black shoeprint at a time.

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Sometimes Bad is Bad

I get a lot of unsolicited feedback, both joking and judgmental, about my love affair with salt. Mmm, salt. Crystalline nectar of the Gods. In case this is news to you, I adore salt. I apply it liberally and frequently to a multitude of foods.


Yes, I'm aware that, like most addictions, this is not healthy. To date, however, my blood pressure is fine. When and if that should change, I suppose I'll have to consider cutting back. (I actually have an experience in salt deprivation, but that's another story for another time...)

Those that know me well have long since abandoned efforts to reform me. A delightful few have even gone so far as to bestow salt-oriented gifts: fancy french sea salt crystals, an engraved salt shaker, The Book of Salt, a salt-and-garlic grinder, a beautiful chunk of salt crystal from Salt Lake City... Yes, my friends, salt equals love in the WenWhit Lexicon. (Suzanne's devotion is evidenced in her tolerance of the three additional salt shakers I keep strategically located near my habitual berths throughout the house.)

The bottom line: salt is good.Except when it isn't.

I'm not referring to my health. I'm talking about this:

That's what my beloved little Baja looks like after a few days of commuting post-snow-salting. I KNOW the salt and sand is necessary, but trust me folks, it's a necessary evil. You Yanks know what I'm talking about. The salt so liberally spread on the roadways to defeat snow and ice makes one HELL of a mess.

In case you were wondering, my car is black.

Or it was.

Competitions Abound

March is a fun time for my not-so-inner sports dyke. This year, I'm competing in a couple of March Madness brackets (only one for $$, damn it), a Women's Tournament Challenge (how cool is that?), and even a celebrity league and bracket (c'mon, Lohan, be the little drama queen I KNOW you are).

It's also time to get serious about preparation for the fantasy baseball leagues I'm playing. First, though, I need to make my top 5 picks for the second annual American Idol pool at work. I sucked big time last year, but I'd still take Katharine McPhee and Chris Daughtry over Taylor Hicks.

Maybe it's a good thing that the Washington Post's Beer Madness bracket is only something I can see, rather than play.

Ah, spring is in the air.

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Snapshot

Nod to OCB for the link.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Surprisingly, I think this one is more "me" than most of the silly quizzes and surveys I've done.

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Hermit at Heart

On the phone with the Missus, stuck in traffic:

Wen: Traffic sucks. I'm going to be late... again.
Suz: [insert kind words of sympathy] So... you'd be pleased to know I turned down a dinner invitation tonight from our neighbor?
Wen: Oh HELL yes. Thank you.
Suz: [pause] But I gave him a "maybe" for tomorrow night.
Wen: [much swearing and bitching]
Suz: C'mon, it'll be fun. We'll go out, eat some good food...
Wen: I'm fine with going out to eat. Let's go. You and me.
Suz: [whine] He invited us to dinner.
Wen: [more cursing]
Suz: You sound like such a curmudgeon.
Wen: I FEEL like a curmudgeon, damnit.
Suz: Then do it for me.

And that's the bottom line. Of course I'll go. And I won't even bitch about it anymore much more. It's a small enough thing to do to bring her a little happiness.

I don't know why I feel so curmudgeonly about socialization. Our neighbor is very nice, easy enough to talk to, and a decent friend. It's not about him. Or Suz. It's certainly not an aversion to eating! It's me wanting to play hermit. I'd make a damned fine hermit, I would.

And yes, Zanne, I will almost certainly employ the same vehicle de extroversion that worked so effectively in Connecticut. Fortunately, I don't expect cameras to be present to document my state this time around. :)

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I Can't Resist

I know, it's nasty. I'm simply powerless to resist the affection, however.



Yeah, it's a mutual love thing.

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Because Knowledge is Good

If you view politics with an eye toward individual policies and stances rather than taking a "straight" Republican or Democratic line, The National Journal has published it's review of 2006 congressional voting.

"The ratings rank lawmakers on how they vote relative to each other on a conservative-to-liberal scale in both the Senate and the House. The scores are based on the members' votes in three areas: economic issues, social issues, and foreign policy."

It's an interesting read, even if you DO vote a straight party ticket.

Nearly Northern 'Necks

In case any of you proud Southerners were wondering, Maryland (where I work) is indeed below the Mason-Dixon line. Still, the area I frequent is fairly urban. SUVs, rather than trucks, dominate the roads.

This here feller in my office parking lot apparently got tired of the dirty, frozen piles of slush that are the plowed remains of the snow that f'd up our return flight from Connecticut on Sunday.

Or maybe he just wanted to have some fun. :)

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