Mer hasn't even touched down yet, and already Mother is making this a giant headache for me. Sigh.

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Ain't nothing like using the anticipated hope of looking good as revenge while pedaling one's bike; I did the trail part Poppy and I did before she left on vay-kay today, and I didn't stop once to take a breather or rest my legs. I won't be able to walk tomorrow, but I'll have done my body good at least. (I've been reading Pop's copy of that book by the Oprah doctor, and it says you need to put in an hour of exercise a week to keep healthy; anything above and beyond is really superfluous and possibly harmful, to which I'm like, "See!?? Bet y'all with your six pack abs feel like a buncha suckers now.")

Did I mention that I'm going to the Madonna concert June 15? No? B-Dubs got tickets ... for BFKAS, himself and me, plus two other people. (SC can't go because she'll be on vay-kay with her fam.) Yep, I'm going to see Madonna with the bio-fam -- ain't THAT some shit? No, I'm not the hugest Madonna fan in the world. In fact, even when I did like her 20 years ago, I absolutely hated some of her songs ("La Isla Bonita" and "Cherish," anyone? Ew.) Love her or hate her, though, she IS a legend, and I guess for that alone it'll be fun to see.

The problem is, I told Mother about it, and she's already gotten it into her head that because I'm going with them to ONE THING, I've become one of them and have forgotten who raised me, etc. etc. etc., never mind that I got to hear yet aGAIN the story about how she went to meet BFKAS shortly after I first met her, but Dad didn't want to go. (In the interest of proving how either I must have nerves of steel or my drugs are devil good, I should really start a chart mapping out how many times I hear these things over the course of a month just to show I'm not kidding.) You know, it's like what I suspect about how SC feels about me and my relationship with them: Just because I may have some sort of thing with these people, whatever it is will NEVER be the same as what I have with my family or what SC has with the bio-fam, so what's the problem? I mean, anyone who's in my inner circle knows that I'm about as inclusive as they come -- my friends are your friends, we're all one big, happy family and all that rot. In fact, I used to imagine my wedding at Marquette Park's Bath House (when I thought I actually wanted a wedding) as one where real fam and bio-fam alike were there celebrating the day with me, but yet I've got Mother who thinks I'm going to get stolen away by those people and SC who (I think) thinks I have designs on stealing her family away. I don't get it. And it's not like I can reassure anyone of my intentions, because they're going to think what they're going to think, and I've long ago given up the notion that I have any sort of sway when Mother gets a bat in her belfry. It's like a dog with a bone, man.

In other news, the Monte Carlo showed up the other day, running perfectly as far as I could tell. The apartment building the offender lives in, however, now has a crib up for rent, so I wonder if this means Homie had to put all his money into getting his car out of hock. That'll learn ya to leave your shit unattended on the street, though, won't it, motherfucker!??

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and due to a fuck-up with Medicare Part D, Mother can't take her Prozac until Sunday.

Pray she doesn't end up underneath my car, please.

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If I have to hear about 1) the rash Mother got under her boobs from using Tide with fragrance; 2) the rising cost of her medication/NIPSCO/everything on God's green earth, or 3) how black people moved into her building and ohmiGOD, how is she going to ever use the washer and dryer again one more Goddamned time, I swear I'm going to throw myself onto 80/94. Fortunately, she did not regale me with these inanities during my birthday dinner this evening, but give it a day or so, and I'm sure she'll be back to it. And I will kill something. Hard.

The ol' birthday was pretty low-key -- thanks to all y'all who remembered to wish me one. Not quite sure how I'm feeling about the ass-end of 35 (aka 36), but I don't feel any older or anything like that. There are just some ages for me that feel more right than others, and any age with a 6 in it usually doesn't make the cut, even though 16 was all right for whatever reason. Anyway, got an iTunes cert from Tara, which I will use happily iff'n iTunes will ever let me log in and use it, and some cash toward a new shower curtain from Mother, which I'm still trying to find one I actually like. (You know, from last year.) Should've thought to look on eBay first, because I've found several I could live with, and all for under the $75 that it would cost me to buy the Lilly Pulitzer I fell in love with: Lookit. I'm also itching to get a new bag, and it's looking like it's going to be either a red Balenciaga or a gold Botkier -- also off eBay, of course.

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Before CA called and woke me up this morning, I was dreaming that Mother was a heroin addict, and that I took off running down the street to escape her and addictness, but some scary men on bikes started to chase me, so I ran to the neighbors, and they staged an intervention of sorts, I think.

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Today was one of those days that went from 0-60 in, like, 10 minutes, which sounds like it would be oh-so-slow but really wasn't, because in my biz, that usually signifies that the shit has hit the fan and plans have changed. But then when they did -- in this case, I got a third story -- it all stopped and dragged ass. So basically, I spent the whole day discombobulated, and tomorrow's not going to be much better.

So after all this discombobulation, Mother calls to tell me about the wake she went to yesterday for this former neighbor of hers who used to take care of my grandpa when he got ill. Not surprisingly, she was on warp speed -- what can I say, funerals excite her -- but this time, it wasn't necessarily because of the funeral itself; seems that Mother got a taste of her own medicine at the hands of one of my aunts. Lemme break it all down: The aunt, the wife of Mother's oldest brother, was talking to this priest who used to reside at the church to which this woman belonged. Mother walked up to join them, and I guess said aunt decided to introduce Mother as "the sister-in-law who doesn't go to church." Now, if you've garnered anything from my rants about Mother, you know that that was the absolute LOWEST insult that could've been thrown at her outside of claiming she wasn't a virgin on her wedding night. (She was. BeLIEVE me, she was.) "I belonged to St. Tom's for 32 years and I want to register at St. Mary's but it's not like I can just get there just like thatya-da-ta-ya-da-ta-ya-da-ta ... " she rattled on the phone. But did she say that to her sister-in-law? Of course not. She hung her head in shame, and the priest put his hand on her shoulder to console her in her minute of crippling embarassment. Sure it was incredibly rude; this particular aunt caught the ass-end of my ire right before Dad's funeral, in fact, for saying something about how Mother needed to get his class ring and any other valuables Dad might've had on him so the funeral people won't steal them -- you know, because a) the funeral people would have use for Dad's college ring and b) Mother and I are complete idiots who wouldn't have thought to do that*. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy it when Mother gets to try on MY shoes when it happens. Anyway, to her credit, apparently she snapped out of it and gave a eulogy of sorts for the woman.

Meanwhile, I'm back to feeling all philosophical and weirded out by the TOG exchange, especially after watching Nip/Tuck last night. I mean, for as much shit as I allow him to get away with, I can't EVER fathom being turned on by such degradation. Guess I got THAT going for me.**

Wait ... what!??

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(she says, dropping to her knees like in those cell phone commercials, then beating her head on the floor.)

Tell me something: Why is it that I can't have just ONE DAY where I have no responsibilities other than what I want to do -- which, in this case, was just sitting around the house doing nothing but drinking Pepsi and watching TV after a morning story and a nice lunch with Poppy!?? I was in for the night when I finally decided to answer Mother's seventh call of the day; she called to tell me that she needed pills picked up. (Before anyone jumps on my shit gets the wrong idea, it's a medication that she didn't absolutely, 100 percent need until Sunday, and believe me, I know aaaaaall about her meds and what she needs immediately and what she doesn't.) Oops, I forgot, along with the appointment I made at Marathon to have them look at my tire, which got really low on Thanksgiving, but Ok, I'll get them, I said, to which she promptly starts going on about how she's soooo worried about my tire and how I need to get that looked at before winter sets in, wonkwonkwonkwonk, then asks if I would then pick her up a pack of Orbit gum along with her meds because she doesn't want my aunt to complain about her breath tomorrow when they go out for lunch. (I almost said "Obit." How's THAT for a Freudian slip!?). Well, I got caught up in AMW -- again, she doesn't need these pills until tomorrow -- so as I'm picking them up, I get my eighth call of the day. I call her back:

I get there, and she tells me to grab the last piece of pumpkin pie. As I'm putting whipped cream on it, she hands me her checkbook to write out her rent check -- you know, the one THAT ISN'T DUE FOR ANOTHER WEEK, because it must be done RIGHT NOW. Sigh. Where's a pen? I ask, and then she's all like, "I don't know what I did to you." I tell her, "Nothing," but she gets all whipped-puppy like. Ok, yeah, I DID say that she should call in the pills today; I just didn't sweat it because she said she had one to take in the morning and wouldn't need it until Sunday.

Just one lousy day to myself, is all I ask. Is that so wrong?

And THEN there's TOG, who gets all pissy with me because, as we were having a little saucy talk over e-mail, I kid that he's talking to some hot chick online. (CONTEXT: Without getting into details -- shutUP, you -- I was asking what he was doing home when he COULD be with me, unless he was talking to some hot chick online.) The correct (and funny) response to that would be "The only hot chick I'm talking to is you," regardless of whether I was or wasn't, or to just not say anything at all. But no, he gets all, "See? You gotta kill the mood," and I'm all, "Um ... wasn't trying to ..." and then he tells me he's going to bed because he's falling asleep. Oooooo-kay, then. Fine time to tell me that's a sore spot; that'll REALLY encourage me to indulge in saucy talk the next time, but whatever.

Stupid boys and their periods ...

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Mother just called for the 5th time today. This call, she wanted to know if I'd made reservations for Thanksgiving yet. Because she's only reminded every conversation we've had since this weekend.

Seriously, wanna trade?

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Today, I have to take Mother to the 50th wedding anniversary for her cousin, who she had a huge fight with last year with the cousin telling her she hated her and hopes she dies, etc. Mother was invited to this shindig because she stood up to their wedding 50 years ago. (In cousin's defense, she was in the process of quitting smoking after 60 some years, so she may not have been in her right mind. Nevertheless, the fight was unprovoked by Mother, and I can appreciate that Mother is a little apprehensive about going.)

Anyway, here's a sample of what I have waiting for me when I pick her up:

Pray for me, everyone.

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was the notion to toss her out of the car by the end of the day yesterday.

See, I HAD the chance to go with Poppy to see the Bears play, but Mother had been DYING to go to Chicago to look for a new purse. Originally, we were supposed to go to Heinous Mark-up for this endeavor, but I talked her out of that by telling her she wouldn't get out of there without spending at least $250, and we all know how freaked out about money she is. So what does she do? She goes and buys a Francesco Biasia for $278. It's her money, so whatever, and it IS a really nice bag. And most of the day was all right, because she was excited to go and in a fairly decent mood, plus I got to pop into Lush and grab me another Buffy and Butterball. But still, after awhile, it was like, "All right, I've seen you HOW MANY DAYS THIS WEEK? You're on my nerves -- especially since it never fails that you manage to somehow bring up Dad's death or Uncle Joe's death in some way, shape or form." Yes, everyone, she's grieving. She's been grieving for FOUR FREAKING YEARS NOW. She will NEVER STOP GRIEVING, of that I can be sure. YOU try it and see how much of it you can stand. Besides, I've never been to a Bears game, and that would've been interesting, especially if we'd have run into TOG.

Speaking of, I haven't talked about him lately, because there hasn't been anything to tell. I haven't seen him since he popped in a couple months ago. Not sure why; he doesn't usually stay a stranger this long. I would hate to think that the last thing he ever said to me was, "Have fun with your bike," though.

Meanwhile, true to NWI form, the weather has fallen straight into the shitter, raining all day and windy, windy, windy. The forecast for tomorrow? About the same. Welcome to fall.

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Got word the other day that a friend of mine's close relative with cancer has relapsed. Not identifying the friend because they don't want identifiers put out on the Interbunny, so don't ask -- just send good thoughts out into the ether.

Of course, I'm now deeper into that time, especially since Mother and I got into a YOOGE fight tonight that made me want to throw her out of the damn car. (I didn't. But I wanted to, even more than mostother times. Trust me.)

Wait ... what!??

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So, the die is cast, and the appointment of doom has been set for 1 p.m. July 19. She asked if I wanted 8:30 a.m., and I was like, "Oh, honey that'd be waaaaaaaaay to early to deal." Surprisingly, she had a sense of humor about it. Now, my accountant is going to go through my files and see what we need, and then at some point we're going to meet and do a "mini-audit" so I know what to expect. But again, I'm really not that freaked out about it. I mean, I usually never have a reason to go rooting around in the files once my taxes are done for the year, so other than a few things, I don't think it's going to be a mad dash for anything. Laugh if you want, but having Greta organize my shit for me is the best thing I ever do for myself. Seriously, girl should pimp that shit out as a business.

Meanwhile, not much is going on here in Chez Broad, other than catching up on sleep. Tuesday was a big nightmare on several fronts, among them Mother hunting me down at the paper to make sure I remembered that I had to take her to pick up her eyebrow pencil. (!) Lemme tell you, nothing like feeling like you've got a noosetether tied to your neck. I mean, good Christ, I had people at the crib last weekend, and the woman had no food in her house so I had to send Snidgey to run errands for her. It's like, when do I get to have a little peace and quiet, huh!?!? A life? Shit. And so what does she do when I go off because of frustration? Pulls out the ol' "When I'm gone/I wish I were dead" drama, to which I tell her then why not just do it already? I'm sure I've told y'all that before, so don't be all freaked out or anything, but seriously, what are you supposed to say to that? Yeah, I KNOW she's depressed. Yeah, I KNOW she probably needs a change in medication. Yeah, I KNOW she needs to spend more time with her psychiatrist than just a 15-minute med check every three months. I KNOW she should be in a widow support group. I KNOW all that. But I can do only so much before she has to take some of the responsibility, and she won't.

I know she needs me, and it's not that I don't want to help, because I do, but boundaries, people!

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It's 4:49 a.m., and I just got off the phone with Mother, of all people, because I was pissed and needed to vent. Why? Because my crackhead cousin broke into my crib and stole my purse. While I was in the crib.

I'll let y'all ponder that for a moment.

Wait ... what!??

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If you want details, Ogger may feel so inclined to share them, since he and the lovely Mrs. got to hear it all. But I have to get up a 5:30 ayem and may not be around to tell fill y'all in, and I sure as hell don't feel like going over it now.

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How horrible a person am I that when Mother calls all hysterical about little TIMMY, all I feel is annoyed?

I mean, there's certainly reason for concern: The doctors finally diagnosed him with p-monia last week, but somehow, the idiot doctor on call Saturday released him, even though he had big diarrhea and couldn't hold anything down with all the mucous packed in his lungs. Well, he's back in as of yesterday, but his electrolytes are all kinds of screwed up and he's lost weight from dehydration. So yeah, it's a pretty serious situation; still, I'm not convinced he's going to die or anything so drastic.

But drama queen that she is, every time she talks to my cousin, who's naturally upset and worn out by the whole thing, Mother calls me up all crying and tearing at her breast I'm sure, and it just. wears. on. my. NERVES. It's like, Ok, I get it that you're upset, but crying and getting all fucked up around my cousin probably isn't what SHE needs right now. Or maybe I'm just a bitter ol' unfeeling hag, but God! I just don't get it.

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How horrible is it of me to NOT want to pick up Mother, even though she's buying dinner? I mean, I've spent the last, oh, I don't know, THREE DAYS with her in some fashion, and I REALLY kind of hate spending that much time with anyone unless I'm either fucking them or really, REALLY want to. I'm going to do it, of course, because I'm feeling rather martyr-ish and need to eat, but still, I'd just really kind of like to get my bike out and go for a ride.

Speaking of fucking, I left a message for the one guy today, something I very rarely do. It was even pleasant-sounding, which apparently also rarely happens. (I've been told by many that I sound bitchy even when I'm not intending to, which is a buzzkill, I guess.) Been dreaming about him quite a bit lately, which may be signifying a disturbance in the force of some sort. Chances are I won't hear from him right away -- unless, of course, he's seeing someone else. He's generally been good about letting me know that, if for nothing else than to allow me to keep my dignity. Heh.

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