-- Poppy, continuing her rant about an acquaintance's child-rearing
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-- Poppy, about one of her friends who hasn't quite mastered the whole potty training thing for neither man nor beast
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-- Mer, on scuba diving
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Me: With a boo-kay of flowers and a heart-shaped box of candy.
TOG: And the cops. For stalking.
-- The one guy on his sick, sick love for Marg Helgenberger
Wait ... what!??
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-- Snidgey as we left the IHSDTA Dance competition I covered this afternoon
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My new favorite word today: Assbag.
But I shall regale you with my tale tomorrow, for I am tired and full of fantastic Mexican food from El Taco Real. My GOD, thas some good eatin'.
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-- Mer
Talked to her a bit ago, and yes, she seems to have calmed down a bit (after calling off sick -- if asked, she's telling her boss she had explosive diarrhea, and ain't no WAY you can teach with that shit, no pun intended). Wouldn't go so far as to say she's completely together yet, but after talking to her some more (when she's not completely outraged which, though funny, is hard), I understand better where she's coming from. When she says that this relationship is the best one she's ever had, she's literally not kidding. (I mean, when Zook is considered a catch? Please.) To put a finer point on it, for example, this is a woman who's used to her former mouthbreathers calling her constantly, and not in the good way. So talk about not knowing what to do when something you wouldn't know if it bit you in the ass just took a huge chunk.
He did call tonight, though she didn't talk to him; she's decided to be a bit, ahem, "unavailable" this weekend, which I don't necessarily think is the best way to handle it, but whatever. He called, and that's the main thing.
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I submit to you a dilemma posed by Mer, who needs relationship advice and has asked me to ask my normal, functioning friends their take, but first, did y'all see American Idol tonight? Did you see the freakshow at the very end, the one with the blonde Pippi Longstocking wig and Dorothy dress? That's the one I interviewed. And how about the one who looked like Tina Turner!?? Saw her live -- or was that a dude!?? Because s/he sure looked like one on stage. And I vaguely remember seeing the Statue of Liberty guy, too, but at that point, I was probably just too bitter at being up at 4:30 a.m. in the rain and cold.
And now, on to our dilemma.
Suppose you've been dating this guy for five weeks, and everything's been going swimmingly, better than any relationship in which you've ever been involved, bar none. You're going to spend the weekend with him like you've been doing for the previous four weeks, but you've promised one of your friends that you'd go out with her at some point over the weekend. Guy says, "Have fun," and you go out with your friend. As you and your friend are wrapping up the evening, you call guy and tell him you're on your way back to his crib to which he replies, "Cool, see you when you get here." But when you get there, you ring his buzzer, and he doesn't answer ... for at least a half hour, and you're standing in the snow and cold. Seething and not a little drunk, you catch a cab back to your own crib.
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-- Mer on eating Greek food with her new boyfriend.
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--Poppy, laughing at my unfortunate evening
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A joke for me this morning:
The monkey replies, "Smokin' a joint, come up and have some."
So the lizard climbs up the tree, sits next to the monkey, and they smoke a few joints.
After a while the lizard says his mouth is 'dry' and he's going to the river to get a drink. The lizard climbs down the tree and staggers over to the river to get a drink of water, but he is so stoned, he leans over too far and falls into the river. A crocodile sees this, swims over to the lizard and helps him to the side. Then he asks the lizard, "What's the matter with you?" The lizard explains to the crocodile that he was sitting up in a tree with a monkey smoking pot, got too stoned and then fell into the river while taking a drink.
The crocodile says he has to check this out, and wanders off into the jungle. He finds the tree where the monkey is sitting finishing up a joint. The crocodile yells up to the monkey and says "Hey!"
The monkey looks down and says:
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This sucks, I'm going to take some Xanax and drool.
-- Mer on online dating
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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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[Tremendous brunettes at the Park West]
For those of you who believe that animals can tell who's cool and who isn't, it seems my boys have picked out my new boyfriend: Snidge's baby bro, who came up with her for the Mike Doughty show this weekend. As it happens usually, Rube is standoffish and glares like an insolent teen at everyone, while the Ween just hides, not to be seen unless running back under the bed after eating or using the can. But with Rlee? Rube was rubbing up against him like they were best pals, while Ween let him touch him. (Ween also nudged Snidge to pet her during the night, but he knows her well enough now.)
It was another stellar visit this weekend. The Snidge family got in about 10-ish Friday night, so what we do? Head to the land of the Hobartians so that Rlee could experience firsthand what Snidge has been telling him about for months. And it didn't fail to disappoint, either, as it never does: The people turning to stare at you as you walk in the bar because you're not indigenous to them thar parts; the near 6-hillbilly brawl out front of Rosie O'Grady's during heavy metal night; the teenagers walking around well after curfew; Benny coming up and calling me his "Irish Rose," also kissing me one too many times. Yep, all there. And he LOVED it. Also, he loved the Vodka and Red Bulls he was tossing back.
After a vile, greasy breakfast at the Flying J in Lake Station, we got back to the crib, where after a mere four hours of rest I was out the door to an early muni meeting. (The message I left on my editor's voicemail: "My mellow has been harshed," followed by something completely unintelligible about that assignment and the second one I was headed to that wouldn't have to be written up for daily unless the retirees started setting the union hall on fire in protest. Luckily, it didn't happen, because I'm getting too old for that shit.) Meanwhile, Snidge and Rlee headed off to Chicago for some tooling around and shopping, so that gave me the perfect opportunity to come home for a four-hour nap. (Don't judge me.) Both showed great restraint with their purchases, except Snidge bought this stuff from Lush that looks like olive drab gelatin, and I was quite disturbed. (Had I known there was going to a trip to Lush, I'd have told her to get me another bar of Buffy the Buttskin Slayer and another Butterball, but that's all right.) I got up, they got back, we all changed clothes and headed back downtown for the show, starting with a lovely dinner at my favorite tapas joint.
If y'all have never been to the Park West for a show, I'd highly recommend it, because it's a great setting, and one that suited my pretend rockstar boyfriend well, because he ROCKED. OUR. SOCKS. (Yes, pheNOMenal, my friend. Thank you for turning Snidgey on to him.) Opened with "Tremendous Brunettes" and stayed tight the whole show. He did this montage of "It's Raining Men" and "Firetruck" that included the riff from "Circles," but he flatly refused to perform it outright, which was cool. It's just too bad that the crowd didn't seem to be into it as much as they should've, because Doughty's got a great stage presence. Stupid trixies. Anyway, one of his encores? Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler."
After we got out of the show, Snidge had a hankering for sushi, so we popped into the sushi joint next door for some tempura and California rolls, which were all right according to them, but not as good as some of the M-Town places. Since I'm not a huge sushi connoisseur, I had no reference point as to what's good or not, but the joint DID play techno music, which was kind of funny. Then it was onward home, but not before searching through the ghetto for a place that Snidge could use the toilet for the 15th time. (We ended up at a McDonald's on the state line where the toilets were in a trailer outside. At that point, she didn't care.)
And with that, notable quotables after the jump: Wait ... what!??
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-- Mer on her first attempt at online
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Her: Yeah, she looks like the good teacher type when she's stumbling around drunk, telling her husband to 'wipe it off so she can suck it.'
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-- Him discussing my panties during dinner at a Mexican restaurant.
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Me: No. There's no earthly reason why assholes have to gape.
-- Me and him discussing the relative merits of this one Web site that I'm SURE he'll mention because he wants me to have that kind of crap coming here.
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"Of course, no one will know until the body starts to smell, and there I'll be, watching all of Rebecca's favorite sitcoms. Then, when they're dragging her off in a straightjacket, she'll say 'Meridith's not going to like this! She'd tell you this is just like Communism!'"
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--Mer on why she can't go the teachers' end-of-the-year party anymore.
Incidentally, she was telling me that their IS in fact a way to make a different number come up on caller ID using a cell phone, because her creepy, girl-beating ex did it to her several times after she got the restraining order on him.
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-- Mer on her upcoming trip to the Balkans, where she will be taking a class in intermediate Serbian at the University of Belgrade Wait ... what!??
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It seems that the wisdom of The Mighty Wad is good and true: A friend of mine (who has asked not to be named for our purposes here) to whom I described some of his techniques has apparently used them on her loaver to excellent success.
Perhaps we can persude the Wad to impart with more of his sekrets ...
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Because THAT won't attract the spammer dicks or anything.
So yeah, pretty provocative title, right!?! Well, tonight was cheap beer night at the Amarillo Roadkill, a Monday-evening tradition the Wad and I are trying to establish with some sort of regularity, and while I've been sworn to secrecy as to the nature of our conversations amid the sanctuary of the Roadkill and authorized to use the above in title only, it's NOT -- I repeat, NOT -- what it looks like. (I mean, for the love of God, people. It's the Wad, fer chrissake.) Rather, think of it as an inside joke that wouldn't be funny to anyone unless you were there at the time. It's a shame, however, that I've been sworn to secrecy, because tonight, the Wad reminded me of why it is I wish he were my real baby brother. Again, I know I'm not being specific, but trust me when I say that he amazed me with his insight, especially when it comes to the SoW. (For those of you not familiar with the Wad lexicon, that would be "Spawn of Wad.")
Anyway, so the latest in Chez Broad other than my fer-real crackhead cousin showing up on my doorstep last week? Notta lotta, but I suppose that's a good one to share, right? Yeah, I get home from a drive, and I'm walking out of the can half-nekkid when my buzzer goes off. I ask who it is, and she announces herself, and I'm like, "Who!?!" because it's like, why the hell would she be at MY crib. So I peek out the front window and sure enough, there she was, looking healthier than the last time I saw her, but still, my crackhead cousin was on my doorstep -- how does one handle that!?! If you're me, you let her up for a couple hours, allow her to fix a couple Jim Beams and Pepsi and hope that the time she spent in jail actually sunk into her head like she swears it has (not to mention check the ring thingy in your can that holds all your precious jewelry to make sure she hasn't horked anything). Of course, if your other cousin is correct, all the stuff the crackhead says about jail fundamentally changing her is a load of crap and she was probably sucking the glass dick in the can during the three or four times she went in there, but you know, you keep hoping she would at least have the sense to not bring that crap into your crib. Besides, it's not like I can prove that she was or wasn't because allegedly, crack doesn't smell.
But what really scares me even moreso than the fact that she may have brought wack crack into the crib is her mad lying skillz; like the Boy Wonder, she's one of those that concocts the exact blend of truth and bullshit to get away with just about anything, except she's MUCH better at it than he is. That's what scares me the most. Good thing I used my head and, save for the family stuff that I thought her dad, my cool uncle, should know, I kept my yap shut about the personal stuff.
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A close friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for our purposes here) was dating this dude, and dude turned out to be BatShitCrazy -- like, as in, she had a law enforcement pal look up the deets on this guy to find that dude had stalking and battery charges all over the Midwest, right!?!? Yeah, so after blowing him off all weekend, he calls her earlier this week to give her the guilt about not wanting anything to do with his sorry ass, and what does he do? The ol' suicide bit, which she didn't buy into, obviously, because this is a conversation she had with another one of her friends about it:
Her pal: You should have said, “man you better get some sleep, too then!”
To which we laaaaaaaaughed and laaaaaaaughed ...
Now, I've had people in my day try to pull that with me -- one a particularly odious little troll who had pretty bad renal disease, the others a close friend from high school and Mother (!) -- and I used to get all freaked out about it; I mean, they say you can't tell when someone's really serious about doing it, so you shouldn't take any chances.
Yeah, well, in my experience*, you CAN tell when someone's not serious about it. Know how? When THEY'RE TRYING TO GUILT YOU INTO TALKING THEM OUT OF IT, that's how. There's a reason people who're grieving suicide victims say they never saw it coming -- because the victim never let on that they were going to do it. If you've got someone flaunting it your face, they got problems, all right, but the will to live ain't one of them. Wait ... what!??
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pb (opie)
I'm just not buying "witty," though. Smartass? You betcha. But "witty" to me implies someone erudite and suave, and last time I checked, I ain't neither of them no how.
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No, seriously. It's for a friend who recently had a good chunk of his leg removed because of diabetes. Although personally, I rather enjoy "Florence."
The hospital staff has been pretty funny. A lot of the time in front of patients and visitors, they refer to "residual limbs." However in the heat of reading treatment plans to each other in hallways, they use "stump" as in "He'll be getting his stump shrinker next week."
WS says he can't lie there groaning on the mat in physical therapy muttering, "Come on, Stumpy" or "Come on, [bleep].]" I guess. I suggested Elvis, but this didn't resonate. He said that a proper name would be fine, though, and yes, he'd want a male's. "Florence would be a move in the wrong direction," he said.
He has brought this up several times, so I hope you'll all pitch in. Third prize is his description of the stump shrinker.
So anyway, you'd think this would be an easy thing for me since I tend to give nicknames to everyone and everything, but alas, since I've established no personal intimacy with said stump, I'm not feeling it. Therefore, I leave it to you to cut my dilemna down to size.
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So, when Wad and I were solving the world's problems last night, we got on to the subject of needing lots of space in order to remain sane. Now, I've made it no secret that despite my charming and bubbly personality, I'm a rather solitary creature at heart; and Wad concurred that a lot of space does a body good. The thing is, we're both only children (yes, I know, but I was raised as one, and as far as I'm concerned, that's the way it's going to stay, boyo), so it got me to thinking: Does being raised as an only child make someone more apt to want to remain solitary? I mean, the one guy is an only child, too, and he's about as big a loner as we come. Then again, Dad was a solitary creature, and he had two sisters.
Any thoughts, y'all?
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Some of y'all might remember that I was having some Southern-fried company this weekend, right? You know, to come up and catch my favorite local band do its thing? Well, I can safely report that a good time was had by all.
Actually no, scratch that: We had a pheNOMenal time. Holy shit, man.
Outside of their stories, I really don't have that much to add. I mean, Wad and I caught up on life in the four or so years we weren't talking, and I got to drink a ton, which I haven't done in a long while. Oh, and can I tell you Bite the Lime was ON FIRE? Too bad we didn't get to STAY for their whole set since a certain Wad got bored. (cough) And the one guy was even there, looking mighty fine -- the girls said so, even!
My only complaint? It seems that everyone took pictures of each others boobs and posted them, but no one took a picture of mine, and mine are the biggest. I feel strangely left out by that. (Of course, there was an abundance of shots of my big ol' ass and gargantuan head, but that's another story. My hair was fantastic, though.)
I too am going to set up a yahoo! album for everyone to see, but I'll close for now with how much fun I had and how much I'm glad everyone came out. Some real bonds were made that night. (Sniff, sniff!)
P.S. For Og's edification: Beer + 3 shots takillya + two weak margaritas + chicken burrito suiza + pancakes and meat = Glad I woke up alone Sunday morning. Whoa.
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I'm sure you are going around telling everyone that you "ended it with me" that I was some "psycho bitch" - sort of like how you say that about Ellen DeGeneres.
Let me be clear on something, twat. I have ended all communication with you. ALL. I'm the one that walked away.
I know how that is important to you - but sorry. I win.
I should have never let you stop me from meeting Amy and Broad. You possessive fuck.
And by the way. You are fat. And I don't mean PH-at.
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Ah yes... your guest blogger Snidget is back - because I could not let the night go by without another rant... especially since I'm about to go out of town.
(sorry in advance to anyone that this might offend.. except you know.. the obvious person... I don't give a shit if he's offended)
Let's see... how shall we start this one out...
How about...
Wait ... what!??<
at first i went "dude. stell'a not STRONG!" and then i remembered you're american and are probably conditioned to american beer aka horse piss (as in - "this stuff has as much alcoholic content as horsepiss!". ;) you and snidge come drink in canada and i'll show you what real (good) beer tastes like. ;)