a letdown. I wouldn't say I wasted two hours of my life on it bad, but seriously, the Grey's Anatomy finale was not all I'd hoped it was. Totally contrived, total pandering. About the best thing that happened was Denny finally died, and they handled it well, and there were some excellent acting moments. But a prom? And the cliffhanger being Meredith having to chose between Derek and Fin? Weak.
Unlike Kalisah, however, I didn't see anything disturbing about Callie's bangs.
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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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and spouted off about this again?
Eeeeeeyeah. Another one of my not finer moments.
This is an open apology to the Moxie women; I was entirely wrong to say they had anything to do with anything. And based on what I know now about shit? They never did. Christ. And no, I'm not trying to curry favor or anything. I'm just saying I was wrong and I'm sorry.
Carry on.
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It's off to audit I go (at 1 p.m.)...
Wish me luck, yo. I'll let y'all know how it goes when it's done
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but then it became not, which is great, because now I'll have plenty of time to work on my Sunday centerpiece due tomorrow as well as my piece for Time Out Chicago, also due tomorrow.
Didn't tell you about that one, did I?
I'm doing a feature on, of all things, the local auto racing track, or where I spent my Saturday night. No, you won't see me wearing a Dick Trickle leather bomber -- a t-shirt, maybe, because "Dick Trickle," heh -- but I say that I do have a new appreciation for the sport now that I understand a bit better how it works. I'd explain it here, but that's kind of the point of my article. I'll post it after it runs. Oh oh oh oh! And Tara's going to be doing a feature on blogs coming up in September, and, as one of the few bloggers existing in NWI, she asked me to do a sidebar for it about why I blog. You know, because NWI is still just that behind on the whole technology thing.
Also, tonight is the night Cousin Crackhead's supposed to go to the station and "clear her name." (yawn) We'll see. Like I keep saying, I hope the detective is savvy enough to catch her, because she's never going to give it up on her own. B-Dubs and I talked about it when I saw him on the 4th, and he of course questioned me as to whether or not I was sure it was her, perhaps I might've been dreaming or something. And that's a perfectly valid point. It doesn't apply because I was wide awake when it all went down, but a valid point nonetheless.
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Yet another reason why I should never have children: There are four boys playing basketball in the cul-de-sac, one of them a wee one of about three or four. One of the older ones either knocked him down or wouldn't let have the ball or whatever, so now, the little kid is wailing as if someone's beating him with a 2x4, and I'm like, "I'd LIKE to be the person beating him with the 2x4, because shut the hell UP already! Christ. I mean, if the little siren-like wails aren't bringing your momma out to you, get your ass off the grass and GO. TO. HER. How hard IS that!?!"
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because I just got off the phone with a boy named Turtle, and ohmiGOD, the CUTENESS. For anyone who's ever heard his momma talk, y'all know how cute that is. But coming from a 5 year-old, and an articulate one at that!?! Holy shit. He told me he's taking care of Newbie now and that tomorrow morning, he has karate and that he's really good. And since I know his momma's going to raise him right. I think I could wait the, oh, 14, 15 years it's going to take for him to cook. Because guys dating older broads is the in thing, after all.
S'anyway, back to the thing I posted about blog rules the other night: Zoot also talked about people she knows are reading her but don't tell her. You know, because she can't figure it out or anything. I get some of that, too. (I especially love the ones who come to me through anonymizer; it's like, "Dude, what do you think I'm going to do to you if I know who you are? Come to your house and shit on your porch? Although there are some people (cocks eyebrown and scratches chin mischievously) ...") Seriously, though, like Zoot, I have stats, and I may not know who all of y'all are by looking at you, but I can sure figure it out, so why not just lemeno you're there? It'll make you look a lot less creepy and weird.
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Why oh why is it that every time Daily Candy sends me a link to a Web site with pretty shoes, all the shoes are out of my price range right now?
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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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Here's the part of the job that annoys me: I've got two major stories I'm working on -- one a Biz centerpiece for Sunday and the other a Lifestyle centerpiece for next Sunday -- and yesterday, it was all calls, all afternoon, and I was getting everything I needed. Today? Zippo. So now, I'm chained to my desk waiting for people to call. Not that I had anything major to do today, but what'll inevitably happen is I'll start decompressing, and THAT'S when people will start calling, and I'll be all, like, "Why did I call you again?" thus looking like a retard.
Although, I suppose now would be a good time as any to get me a club chalupa ... aiyeeee yee yeee!
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What's up with people not letting me sleep in? I have to be at the Proescuting Attorney's office in Crown Point tomorrow at 10 ayem because a group of people are protesting the PA's continuing to pursue the death penalty for a cop killer. Yeah, that doesn't sound early, except it was SUPPOSED to start at 11. Weh ...
Other than that, can I tell you how moist the new MT is making me? No? I can appreciate that, then. But speaking of moist, I suppose I should've told y'all that the title of yesterday's post is actually the title of a skin flick Wad and I laughed about when we stopped by the porno store during our travels Saturday night.
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So yesterday brought the end to a case that I had been following for the past year, year and half, and while I wish it had ended differently, I can totally understand and appreciate why they settled.
Y'all recall me bitching about the Town of Schererville, right? Well, among all the other crap, a former employee -- the only woman in the Public Works department -- sued it in the fed for sexual harassment and discrimination. Sounds like a stereotype, right? Yeah, except the woman had NINE YEARS OF EVIDENCE against these bastards -- signed depositions, pictures, journals, you name it. And then after the suit was filed, the town fired her. (Yes, Indiana is an at-will state, but the reasons they cited for her firing were dubious at best.) Anyway, so as the parties were waiting for summary judgment, they attempted to settle, with the town lowballing so bad, it was cute; I mean, they fuckin' fired her after systematically harassing her for nine years, and they're going start the bidding at $20K!??! Please. All she ever wanted was her job back and for them to leave her the hell alone.
Well, last week, the offer reached $85K just as she and her husband won summary judgment on most counts, but then the town said at the pretrial yesterday that it would file a motion saying if she won any less than $85K from the jury, she would be responsible for paying the town's court prep costs -- and the judge said he would grant it. He also told them at the hearing that while he was sure they had a case and was perfectly ready to hear it, they were taking a tremendous gamble; he's heard cases that he was SURE would come back with a just award that came back with a big fat nothing. Long story short, they decided to settle, which in the big picture, I don't blame them. But I SO wanted her to bring those assholes to their KNEES, because they're a shitty bunch who've been abusing the town and the taxpayers for years. Not that this decision doesn't, necessarily, because it's the second time in two years that the town has had to settle a wrongful dismissal case against an employee, and the attorney fees the taxpayers are still paying, and going to pay, are astronomical. But me, I'm all about the humiliation factor -- especially since it was the fucking town attorney who was behind the majority of the decisions in handling both cases. The guy's a nimrod.
Which brings me to why I'm pissed: After calling the attorney who would've TRIED the case and being told that she was referring all inquiries to the town attorney (she's the attorney for the liability insurance), I called Nimrod, and he said the town would be issuing a release "shortly" after first playing dumb as to what I was asking about (jackass), and then asking me how I heard about it already (keeping in mind there's NO GAG ON IT, so the parties could scream it from the rooftops). Well, that release never came to the office, and it sure didn't come to my e-mail, so my story probably looks one-sided, which doesn't bother me since I know what went down, and he's just being a jerk. But a "release" means the town issued it to the competition, too, depriving me of my "scoop." THAT irritates me.
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Still not feeling like rehashing the latest Mother debacle from last night other than to tell y'all that according to the silly git, the reason both my families act the way they do is MY fault. (If y'all can figure THAT one out? Please, share with the class, because I, I ... gah.) But to cheer myself up I decided to do a little shoe shopping, because I need a pair of cool new sandals for the summer. So far, I like these, but I'm also enjoying these and these.
Plus, I heard "Squeezebox" by The Who on my way home tonight, and how can that song not make you smile?
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Going over my last week of entries, I noticed I was kind of crabby, as in, like, a real killjoy, so sorry about that; I'm not usually that negative.
Oh, wait. I kinda am sometimes, but I hide it pretty well. No need for despair, however: I've already told Kaffy and Tara (who, incidentally, is GETTING MARRIED MAY 1st, so send your congrats to her. Oh, and she and her man have just bought a big crib, too) that if I ever reach the bitter proportions of either the bio-fam or Mother to please, PLEASE kill me until I'm so dead, I can't be resurrected to be killed again.
In the meantime, the weather was GOR-jus today, so I broke the windows wide open and napped this afternoon before going to Greta's niece's birthday party, where Greta, her sister and I barbecued a buttload of burgers and soaked in the air. THAT was totally cool, even if they didn't let me put my super-special seasoning on the burgers (they're fussy eaters, remember). Should've gotten my bike out to ride.
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Well, Greta and I got my tax shit together for Friday. Other than that? Notta lotta going on up in here.
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Ever have one of those days when you curl your eyelashes with the curler and they're, like, perfect -- not all bent and weird -- but you can't sleep with mascara on, and even if you did, if wouldn't matter because you'd end up looking like Lon Cheney when you woke up, anyway? Hate when that happens.
Not a lot to report up in Chez Broad. I'm nervous about a story I wrote today about an issue that involves a lot of numbers; one of the copy editors buzzed me with questions that made it clear that either a) I didn't write the story clear enough in the first place, or b) someone screwed around with it before she saw it. Either way, it was reconstructed, and that scares me. Otherwise, Easter was pretty cool -- ate a ton -- and I'll be spending a good portion of my week getting my stuff ready for the accountant on Friday (yes, on April Fool's aGAIN). And yes, it's likely that I'll owe -- as a free-lancer, I don't pay during the year -- but with this site, my other site and a new car, I may get to not owe a ton. Gee, I guess that means the car was good for something after all ... Of course, if I don't get butt-raped in taxes, I DO plan on getting me some new skin ... Christina, you game?
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I'm going to bed, yo.
Oh, btw, I'm getting rid of pings, because those stupid-jerk spammer dicks won't leave me alone. If I get a particularly good meme, just link me.
That is all.
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Would someone like to tell me when in the HELL a Snickers bar ended up being 94 CENTS with tax!? That just ain't right. Good thing I don't jones for candy bars often, although this month, I just might. (You know, the whole weird craving thing we women of menstruating age get when it becomes that time. Must. have. CANDY. Or rye bread smothered in Ragu. Hey, hormones ain't pretty.)
Speaking of pretty, Cousin Nancy is going to the prom, so I've been enlisted to take her dress hunting this weekend, which is cool, because Nancy and I have a good thing going when it comes to picking out her clothes: She doesn't pick out slutty things, and I don't pick out dorky things. It works. I was a bit concerned when she started talking about getting something in lime green -- her first date wanted a lime green tux with a top hat and shit like a big tool -- but now that she's going with her new boyfriend (huzzah! And he doesn't seem to be an asshat), I think she'll stick with something a little less Britney. (Yeah, if y'all haven't read the interview in Details yet, please do, especially if you're a fan of hillbillies.)
And speaking of hillbillies (I know, transitions suck), part of my VD was spent at a local jeweler watching young, withchild couples in love getting married. (Region rats will know what I'm talking about, and yes, it's as cheesy as you think.) The other part? At the courthouse watching couples get marriage licenses. Woo.
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Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks our fair country is run by the biggest frat rat in the world, as evidenced by this lovely Gawker piece today: Lookit I will have you know, however, that I, at my advanced age, DO know what "The Big Shocker" is. (Thanks, Kate!)
Speaking of age, is it wrong for me to have thoroughly enjoyed last night's Paul McCartney halftime gig when I previously thought the whole set-up was a sellout? Because I really dug it, moreso than any of the other crap put during Super Bowl halftimes.
Oh, and thanks to the always excellent EWK, I now have the black lowlights I was talking about, but you can't really see them, so we're probably going to add more. They may pop more once I wash my hair, so I'll post a pic.
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Now that Snidge is safely tucked away at an undisclosed location for the weekend, I'm confident in letting y'all know that she seems to have gotten over the drama into which she got sucked (and not in a good way). Not that she -- or anyone, for that matter -- won't be welcome any time she -- or anyone -- needs to vent but can't do it at their own crib because of the neighbors. I'm just saying all's good in the 'hood for now. In fact, y'all can catch me over at her crib at some point this weekend, because she's having guests fill in while she's boogieoogieoogie-ing her way through her mini vaykay.
In the meantime, you know how I was bitching about this douchenozzle the other day? Following is the deal:
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Grabbing a shaker full of cayenne pepper that has been used once in almost six years to find little tiny grubs under the cap.
Anyone have any idea how THAT happens!?!? (shudders)
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Covered a meeting last night and didn't get to see "Who's Your Daddy?", and I'm not seeing that anyone else did. (You bet I would've watched it. Are you kidding me!?!?) But why do I get the feeling that all the men TJ had to choose from were all successful doctors, lawyers, businessmen? And really, what fun is that? Now, if that were ME on the show, we'd have at least one candidate who's a 300-pound, marginally employed dope smoker, and with my version of getting potential sperm donors, we'd have at least two or three rotten-livered alcoholics and some dude who shot his paw. And how could THAT not be more titillating or, at the very least, more painful to watch since that seems to be more of what reality shows go for!?!? Seriously. The drama of finding out the dude who sired you is a two-bit loser who doesn't want to know they have another kid floating around? And -- and! -- the idea that the dude or I could walk away $100K richer for it? Emo porn at its finest. Where do I sign up!?!?
Meanwhile, out of meds again, but at least the paperwork is in this time as opposed to last time.
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Did y'all know that in order to record mp3s on a CD and have them play on an outlet other than your computer, all you need is a CD-R, and then you can use any CD burning program without having to buy their special package? I'm sure I did, too, at some point, but between then and now, I've wasted several of my pretty blue CD-RWs trying to record Mer's birthday present, a collection of old favorites from our youth as well as some Romani folk tunes I found and tunes of which I'm particularly fond, like "Ciao!" by Lush and the Cristina version of "Is That All There Is?". Her birthday's in July, and she was here in August.
(flips hand at shoulder, making retard yeti noises)
Today was one of those days spent either at the computer or in front of the tube just chilling with the rest of the wine I didn't polish off last night (yeah, I know -- guess I just wasn't in the mood). Found out Cousin Nancy ended up in a fight with Loser Sid's new scumbag last night but that Nancy righteously beat her ass. Hey, if the bitch -- who, by the way, is over 18 and therefore could get tried as an adult -- was stupid enough to throw the first punch (which, according to Nancy, she did, and I'm inclined to believe Nancy's telling the truth based on what transpired earlier in the week), she deserves what she gets. That's not to condone violence, but I'd never tell anyone to take a dive, either ... unless they were going to get a shitload of money to do so, of course.
Anyway, tomorrow is Hair Party Day, where the Emperor Warrior Kendar, Ms. Kaffy and I sit around and giggle while EWK makes us pretty. I saw this really cute bobbed style on a hairdresser at Mother's shop when we stopped in to get her some hairspray Friday, so I'm thinking I might try to grow the mop out a bit. Now, since I've been known to stick paper clips in my hair when it gets too heavy, the chances of me getting through a month are probably slim-to-none, but I'm up for something different. We'll see.
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Amazing thing, the human female body. This morning, I woke up still ready to tear the heads off small woodland creatures and chew them, and now with the onset of menses, I'm perfectly calm and looking forward to drinking myself stupid with coworkers tonight. But I'll tell you what: If menopause is going to be ANYTHING like the last few days? Dude. I'm going to be a bitch.
Not that I'm completely over a comment that was left for me yesterday questioning my empathy toward Southeast Asia these days; now, I'm just more scratching my head that someone could be so retarded. I mean, if you think I stand for something you don't like, then it's your option not to read me. But I don't want to hear it, either, especially on your first comment here ever and even more if I don't know you or read you, which I don't and won't now. Dumbass.
You know, something tells me my commenter also has magnets on their car ...
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How do you know if your liver hurts? Because man! that was a lot of vino last night. But remarkably, I'm not hangin' this morning, because the wonders of water have once again not ceased to amaze me. I did feel an ache in my upper left back, though.
So, I just got me one of them flickr accounts, and I'm going to show you some pictures from yesterday, including the ones where I was really, really smashed on cabernet. That is, when I figure out how to post the damn pictures to it.
Oh! One more thing: Congrats to my homies Tara and Sean, who're one step closer to matrimonial hell with the receipt of Tara's one-carat sapphire and diamond engagement ring this morning! Woo! Sean's become a man! And I KNOW Tara's not going to make me wear a stupid ugly dress, either. Right? RIGHT!?!?! And that she's not going to wear panty hose with open-toed shoes if that's what she gets!?!? (Arms crossed, cocks eyebrow and taps foot.) Because you KNOW I'll call you out on that.
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So, did anyone happen to catch that raise Ms. Kaffy got? That would be 17 percent, bitches. While you're congratulating her, flip her the bird o' jealousy, too. I mean, sheeeeee-it.
Oh, and for those who were actively wondering, no, I'm NOT the first contestant on Fox's new reality nightmare, "Who's Your Daddy?" although I must admit I laughed out loud when I heard the premise. Wait ... why am I laughing? I should be suing for freakin' royalties.
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The Snidge is back where she belongs, tired but no worse for the wear. So, my fears of axe murders and Headcase's fears of little Snidge pieces spread out all over Lake Michigan are unfounded, and we can all just breathe in ... breathe out. Yes, that's better.
Oh! Speaking of good mental health, finally picked up my meds today. Of course, I picked up only half of them because the PAP hasn't processed my form yet and I had to BUY them at $65.89 for 15, but I can deal. Starting to feel better, too; this morning was a little too close to being out of control, closest I've been to it in awhile -- real hyper and jittery, and not being able to settle down without serious effort. But I was amazingly productive, which is unusual when I'm on warp speed. When it used to happen on a regular basis (like, 97 percent of my life), I just spun around in figurative circles and never left the house.
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Ok, I know I've made this complaint before, but it bears repeating, especially on the eve of a formal event that I'm covering tomorrow night: Why can't I find a freakin' pair of pants that doesn't make me look like a Goddamned sausage!?!? I'm covering the event, which means I don't have to whip out either of my floor-lengths (which is good, because I'm reasonably sure I'd look like a sausage in them, too), but all I have is my black dress pants, which I can wear with the new chocolate brown sweater with the bling on it, but why should I have to when Old Navy has a pair of brown pants pin-striped with pink that would match the majority of the bling perfectly!?! Because Old Navy doesn't make pants for women with short legs and big asses, that's why. Crap. Hopefully tonight when I go out for my industrial strength support thing-y later, I'll maybe find something that's not low-waisted.
Meanwhile, it's been kind of a fucked-up week story-wise -- not as in I haven't been working, but as in, I've been chasing a whole bunch of shite and have gotten off my blog-reading sked (with the exception of Mac), so if y'all haven't noticed me creepin' round your doorstep, that's why. I'll make with the catch-up on Sunday. I can tell you that I think things with me and BFKAS are going to come to a head and possibly soon, but more on that later.
[UPDATE: WE HAVE PANTS, EVERYONE! Ralph Lauren is my new, pretend, mega-rich-mega-older boyfriend, because he makes brown, flowy pants that I'm going to totally rock tomorrow, especially after Crazy Aunt hems them to not be mega long. And -- and! -- they were on sale ($38, marked down from $95 (!) ). And you ready for the best part? I won't have to wear the generic support garment thingy that I bought; I'll get to wear my Spanx Power Panty, which is, like, the best. thing. EVER. for holding in the flub. Now if my hair will just not succumb to the freakin' rain and humidity ... And yes, Ogger, I'll make sure to get a shot of me looking like a girl. You haven't even seen my new specs yet, but chances are, I won't be wearing them tomorrow.]
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I'll catch up with y'all later.
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[Kaffy update: She called tonight -- Except for a kidney infection that just kinda came out of nowhere, her Dad's still doing better, and she and her boner-popping cat will start the long journey home tomorrow morning. Now, back to our regularly scheduled bitching.]
Ever since I started with the brain candy, I've read all these horror stories about the withdrawal: Allegedly, the headache you get is supposed to make your brain feel like it's sloshing about in your skull. I haven't reached that point yet, but I am getting these little pangs every so often. I sure wish my PAP meds (that's Patient Assistant Program -- you know, as in free meds for the poor because otherwise? I'd be paying about $120 a month for them) would get here already. No, I'm not ready to jump off a building or anything; in fact, I'm not even exceptionally agitated like I was the last time I didn't have them. I just want them to get here before it gets to where I'm buggin' out.
Speaking of bugging out, I've got another good story in the hopper. It'll be out on Friday, and of course, I'll post it.
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are you kidding me? They were all thick and long and side-swept and now they're all short and choppy and way above her eyebrows. Which is a totally acceptable bang choice, but I just really liked they way they were.