Eight Random Facts about the Winiferd Woman

Today I bought my own domain for the blog. We have reached a whole new level of classy here at Winiferd in the Burbs. The new domain is http://www.winiferdintheburbs.com/.

To celebrate, I crafted a list of eight fascinating facts about me and my life. I figure this is appropriate, since writing an entire blog about yourself is a tremendous exercise in narcissism, anyways.

1. I'm still sorta shocked that I'm married. When I was younger, I assumed I would grow into an old, cranky spinster maid. With no cats, of course, since I'm allergic to them.

2. The above is why I got a hypoallergenic dog. My boyfriend at the time had dumped me several months prior, and I prepared for my perpetually single existence by renting a small apartment and adopting a tiny dog.

The dog was to be my one true companion during my bitter, lonely, elderly existence... I was twenty-five years old.

3. I began dating Ian two months after adopting Winnie.

4. I experience wildly ridiculous delusions of grandeur whenever someone upsets me: "Oh yeah?! Well just wait until I'm famous."

I have no real dreams of fame. This phenomenon only occurs when I'm pissed off. And then suddenly I'm a very pissed off, very famous person.

You know.

In my head.

5. Ian is two years older than me. Ergo, he believes he is a generation older than me.

When he talks about our generational differences, I point out that one generation equals at least eighteen years. And that a twenty-six year old and a twenty-eight year old are, indeed, from the same generation.

He continues to comment on our generational gap.

Wow! Two generations in one photo! It's historic!

6. When I was single and living in the city, I went bar-hopping with friends one night.

This was during the Great Bedbug Scare of 2010, and I'd been reading way too many news articles about bedbugs.

As we left a bar, a homeless woman appeared, sobbing for money. I handed her a five-dollar bill and she immediately yanked me into a hug. Visions of bedbugs danced in my head.

I raced home, ripped off my clothes, and stuffed them into a plastic sack. I then showered and crawled into bed, where I pulled out my laptop to read more articles about bedbugs.

I never got bedbugs.

7. For a while, I enjoyed handing Winnie to Ian and commanding, "Hold her." Then I would step back and wait to see how long he'd hold the dog.

It would usually take a few minutes for him to realize he was holding the dog for no particular reason, other than my own amusement. I did this several times before he caught on to me.

Here, Ian! Hold this!

Wait. What?

8. Now that Ian and I are married, "New Daddy" doesn't sound right. Ian loved being New Daddy. He never wanted to give up the name.

But I took matters into my own hands and began calling him "Forever Daddy." He's decided he likes his new name.

Please address all fan mail for Ian to his married name, Forever Daddy. His maiden name, New Daddy, is now obsolete.

I love you, Forever Daddy!

Fat Larry's Barbeque

My brother writes a blog in which he reviews barbeque and soul food restaurants in the city: http://memphisque.blogspot.com/

On Monday night both Ian and I felt stressed from work, so I insisted we eat barbeque. Because that's what stressed out people should do, apparently.

Here's my own barbecue review (and obviously you should check out my brother's blog for real reviews).

Fat Larry's is a visually terrifying place: very dark and creeping with portraits of Gothic pigs and stuffed boar heads. Some would call it "kitschy." It has all the marks of an authentic barbeque place:

Ian: "I'm scared."

Laura: "Me too."

I'm allergic to pork and eating it makes me violently ill. I dearly miss pulled pork sandwiches, so I try to replicate the barbeque experience by ordering barbeque chicken.

Usually this merely serves to anger me since pulled pork tastes fifty million times better than chicken. Chicken is the blandest, driest, weakest meat in the world. Chicken is sissy food.

Ian ordered fried chicken tenders with french fries. I wouldn't consider that sissy food. Those chicken tenders had "hypertension" written all over them, so you could argue it took some guts to eat them.

As for my food, our waitress plunked down a platter with a small hen basted in a radioactive red sauce. Fat Larry doesn't "do" sissy food. Fat Larry ensures his baked chicken is a manly feast fit for a man.

I didn't like the smell of the radioactive red sauce, let alone the taste. It tasted, well, manly. Ian sniffed the chicken and proclaimed it an ordinary-smelling chicken.

The barbeque beans were delightful. They reminded me of home... Of a time past... Of better days... Then I realized the beans included chunks of pulled pork. I hadn't eaten that magical food in years.

I slurped the beans down, realizing I would suffer later. The slaw seemed good, probably because it was the only foodstuff that wouldn't destroy me.

By the end of the meal, I still had an entire chicken sitting on my plate. I got a to-go box, but here's something else: our refrigerator is currently broken. And when I say currently, I mean permanently.

Laura: "We can't preserve this chicken. I should just throw it away."

Ian: "No, let's take it. I'll eat it in a dark room when you leave to walk the dog. So I can be alone with my shame."

Laura: "No! I won't let you! You already ate four deep-fried chicken tenders and a basket of fries! You'll hurt yourself!"

Ian: "It's for the greater good."

Ian can't stand to waste food. I knew it would be tough to argue him down.

Upon arriving home, I went to the bedroom for a second and then returned to this gruesome sight:

Laura: "Ian! No! It's not worth it! SAVE YOURSELF."

Ian: "You should have thought of this before you dragged us to a place called Fat Larry's."

Ian continued to rip through the chicken, a man determined to press through the pain.

Laura: "Please stop! I CAN'T WATCH ANYMORE."

After Ian ravaged the chicken, he staggered out to the barn, drunk on excessive poultry. He fed our chicks their dinner, with the smell of chicken still on his hands, to "let them know who's boss."

Then he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

Meanwhile I walked the dog, fighting stomach pains and acid reflux caused by the pulled pork I'd consumed.

Ultimately, our night at Fat Larry's left us feeling ashamed and weirdly drunk. I'm not sure I can recommend this restaurant. I mean, the food is good, but the place itself made us mildly insane.

I suppose it would make for a good restaurant if you were craving a night of feeling disturbed and unsettled. It was like a watching a scary movie, except we were in it.

Tread carefully at Fat Larry's, my darlings.

Laura Denounces Hippie Medicine and Kicks Acid Reflux Ass

Remember when I posted about going the hippie route to combat acid reflux? I was taking two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar every day to fight acid reflux, as directed by internet hippies.

I only lasted three days. First, apple cider vinegar tastes... well, like vinegar. It tastes awful.

Second, the apple cider vinegar didn't do very much. I think it mighta, sorta, kinda worked. Maybe? A little? I figure any relief I felt was due to the placebo effect, so I guess you could call it delusional relief.

I did find a cure for my reflux, eventually. I'm not going to let internet hippies hog all the limelight with their sick, twisted "cure" so I'd like to offer my own internet remedy.

The following are Winiferd in the Burb's official steps to combating acid reflux:

1. Drive to the grocery store, feeling highly acidic and wildly desperate.

2. Buy Prilosec. (Which you totally forgot existed and therefore totally forgot to try).

3. Take Prilosec.

4. Feel relief.

I have now formally renounced all hippie medicine. I was all set to try local honey for my allergies, but I think I'll pass because SERIOUSLY. THIS GODDESS OF THE EARTH CRAP DOESN'T WORK.

Big pharma, I'm sorry I doubted you. I love you, with all your chemicals and poisons and frightening side-effects. Let's be friends forever.

Monday Night Musings: Urine Therapy

Laura: "I read drinking your own urine helps to cure allergies. And sometimes my allergies make me feel desperate enough to try it."

 Ian: "Would you try it? Really?"

Laura: "Eh, I doubt it. Urine therapy makes sense, though. It's the basic principal of immunological therapy. Or homeopathic therapy."

Ian: "People have been doing it since ancient times. It's a really old practice."

Laura: "I bet drinking your own urine prevents cancer."

Ian: "You should start drinking your own pee!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Ian: "Then we can drink each other's pee!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Ian: "Would you do that?"

Laura: "Yes. Because then people will know we love each other."

*Winiferd in the Burbs now qualifies as an educational website. Click here to read some hippie's thoughts on the benefits of drinking your own wee wee.

Our Fabulous Son Spottswood

I tend to resist the feline charms of cats. Mostly because I experience radioactive explosions in my face the second I inhale cat dander.

Ian wishes I didn't ignore the cats, or run away screeching if they sit near me, or chase them manically out of the bedroom every night.

Ian: "I feel bad for Spottswood. He always snuggled with me in the past. I'd wake up in the middle of the night spooning him."

Laura: "That's very cute. But imagine spooning poison ivy. Because that's like me spooning a cat."

Ian: "Ouch."

However, Spottswood's a charming kitty. He's skittish and shy around strangers, but amiable and playful around family and friends.

Spottswood is a sensitive cat. A very sensitive cat. If you catch my drift.

Laura: "Spottswood, you're a beautiful rainbow. You can be whoever you want to be. If you want to date males instead of females, your Daddy and I will support you."

Ian: "Spottswood's not gay."

Laura: "Spottswood, don't ever change. Don't let societal gender expectations affect you."

Ian: "Laura, Spottswood's not gay."

Spottswood doesn't meow; he squeaks. His kitty noises reach ranges that only dolphins and nine year old girls can attain.

Spottswood exhibits occasional bursts of manliness. He holds his own against a hyperactive Winiferd. If Winnie gets too rough, he'll swat with claws, producing doggie squeals.

Bitches need to know their place, you know?

Men, please take this moment to shield your eyes and scroll ahead. If not, I apologize in advance for abusing your sensitive masculinity. 

Every month, Spottswood displays a intense interest in the bathroom wastebasket. 

Dear Laura,

Today we lost. I awoke this morning to find that the bathroom doors had been breached, the waste can knocked over, and in the middle of the living room, wrappers and applicators. Today will go down in infamy in regards to feminine hygiene products.

Love,

Ian

Dear Ian, 

It's times like these I could swear he's straight.

Love,

Laura 

Spottswood enjoys posing daintily for the camera, his head resting angelically on his arm. Please enjoy the following pictures.

 

Spottswood and Harvey in the Burbs

I am allergic to cats. I am deathly allergic to cats. They don't actually make me die, but when I'm exposed to them, I pretty much fall to my knees, begging for a swift and merciful death.

My eyes burn, my nose leaks, and histamines surge through my body, attempting to destroy my white Scottish ass.

So, obviously, Ian has cats.

Woo, boy, has it been fun.

I'm allergic to most things, including dogs. However, Winnie is hypoallergenic, meaning she doesn't shed or provoke allergic reactions.

Laura: "I'm so allergic to your cats. I think I'm going to die."

Ian: "I'm allergic to your dog."

Laura: "That's impossible."

Ian: "I am allergic to your dog."

Laura: "You're allergic to her bullshit."

Over time, I've adjusted to the cats, so they no longer inspire violent allergic reactions. I've swallowed enough cat hair to produce some immunologic therapy. It's like cheap, convenient allergy shots.

Ian: "I should put cat hair in your water."

Laura: "It's the only way..."

Ian has two tuxedo cats, Spottswood and Harvey. Spottswood's a sensitive, wide-eyed, perpetually frightened cat. He's scared of the refrigerator and the washing machine and lumpy blankets and sudden movement.

In the early days, he was scared of Winnie. When Winnie first trotted into Ian's house, Spottswood took one look and fled.

Spottswood tends to hide in the liter box room. In the house, it's accessible by cat door only. Ian affectionately calls it the Doo Doo Room.

The Doo Doo Room also functions as the Panic Room. When I started dating Ian, Spottswood spent the majority of his time in the Panic Room.

He's since grown accustomed to the dog, and the two even sorta play together.

Laura: "Aww, they're playing!"

Ian: "Winnie's just biting his toes."

Laura: "They're playing chase!"

Ian: "He's just running to the Panic Room. Look."

Laura: "They love each other!"

Ian: "Hmm."

Harvey is the dominant cat. He provides a foil for Spottswood. Whereas Spottswood is slender and elegant, Harvey is rotund and awkward.

Laura: "Which one's the smart one and which one's the dumb one?"

Ian: "I don't think there's a smart one or a dumb one. I think there's just a fat one and a skinny one."

Laura: "Oh."

Harvey's a big, fat lumpy thing, but he's charming in a big, fat lumpy way. We joke that he craves cheeseburgers and milkshakes and french fries and other traditional American food.

The first time Winnie walked too close to Harvey, Harvey hooked her face, yielding a puppy-sized bloodbath. Here's my crappy illustration of the traumatic event. (Please note: this is why Ian draws the cartoons).

For months afterwards, Winnie emitted ear-piercing shrieks every time Harvey looked at her. It was a tense situation.

Ian: "We've been invited to a dinner tonight. We'd have to leave the dog alone with the cats."

Laura: "It's cool. Harvey can babysit."

Winnie and Harvey eventually chilled. Now they play outside together. Winnie tears around the yard in circles and Harvey lumbers through the grass.

And Spottswood stares wide-eyed through the glass door, terrified of a world with no Panic Room.

Laura: "I could swear you beat him."

Ian: "I think we neutered him too early."