mel has been doing some work, so between that and my broadband taking a crap after the landlords moved out, I've been out of commission. Problem should be solved by tomorrow.

So.

Yep yep, that's right, me mackin' with a dude in public. But before y'all get titillated and shit, there's a story behind it -- a sickeningly sweet, darling story, but a story nonetheless.

It was Mer's last night before returning to NYC, and after we'd semi-recovered from Tuesday night's terrible, horrible nightmare (which I'll share the whole visit shortly, once I get it sorted out in my head), we decided we were going to Johnny's Tap, the only real, true tavern in the town where we spent our formative years; it's like, we've been alive 36 years and we'd never gone to the place. So we go, and it's pretty much like we imagined it -- a bunch of guys (and one skanky broad) sitting around the bar after a long day of work -- except it was really, really tidy, even the bathrooms. We sit down and order a couple beers, and this guy comes up to us to ask if we had any particular preference for what he was going to play in the jukebox. I looked at him, and I said "[name redacted since we didn't talk about the blog]." He looked at me, and it took him a couple seconds before he said, "[Broad]," and I was like, "How the hell are you!??" We hugged, and I reintroduced him to Mer, who he didn't remember because she'd left the summer before high school. So we sat there and rapped about the people we all knew, and he said another couple guys we had in common hang out there, too (one I only knew by sight, and the other I was in love with in 8th grade). Then the one I didn't know walked in and joined us, and can I just say he's pretty hot. Reminds me of Nic Cage in a way. But before he got there, the first guy brought up what our connection was: I was the first girl he ever kissed, standing by our bikes behind the town library.

After a couple hours of rapping and (dare I say) the boys flirting with us, Nic Cage said he needed to get going, and Mer was starving, so we all bid farewell, but not before I said, "We have to get a picture of [redacted] and I to commemorate the occasion, because this is too funny." Behold:

Since I couldn't possibly make it up on a good day, y'all want to hear the latest about DtR!?? Of COURSE you do.

My assignment yesterday was to cover this one fire department that was giving a little boy a whole bunch of gifts to lift his spirits after he'd been bitten by a dog, so I'm sitting there with the chief and his crew getting backround on the sitch when I asked the little boy's name. The chief said "so and so." I thought, "Huh. That's DtR's last name, and we're in the area where DtR lived," so I asked what street they live on. The chief said, "such and such," so I asked if the boy's mother's name is Whosit and, well, whaddya know!?? I was like, holy shit, I haven't seen these people since DtR and I broke up 15 years ago, how weird is THIS going to be, right?

Not one bit, oddly enough. The little boy, who's a little doll, went out to talk to the firemen, and I walked up to Whosit and said "Fucking Whosit," and she squealed and was like, "OhmiGOD! How ARE you!?? Blahblahblahblahblah!" And so after the firemen left, she, her husband and I shot the breeze for awhile. Hope y'all are sitting down, because here's the big news: DtR's married again. Got himself a youngin' this time -- she's 23 to his going-to-be-39 -- and, according to Whosit, may have been divorced about an hour before he got remarried again. Also, while she loves her brother, he's a lying sack.

No. Get out. Imagine my sur-prise. (yawn)

So I told her before I left that mark my words, he's going to read my story, and I'm going to have an e-mail sitting in my box by time I get out of bed.

So the Gay Games Opening ceremony last night:

Well, the opening ceremonies, anyway -- B-Dubs just talked me into going with him and The Baby. The after-party is all them, however, as 1) I'm not gay, and 2) I'm not young and in possession of the stamina needed to stay out until 6 a.m. dancing to techno anymore. And in order to avoid a repeat of last time, we have a plan so that I'll get to take my leave.

So to the wonderful people who're going to Ogmeet this evening, I extend my regrets but promise that I'll be around for the October hookup no matter what. Promise.

Got 'em up about a month and a half ago in an antiques store when I went down to Lowell and my assignment got rained out: Lookit. Best part? They're vintage Ray-Bans. Even better? Got 'em for $8 freakin' bucks, man! Tara's Sean laughed at me when I wore them to my boss' 4th party, but I think they're cool. And the pic is me (natch) with The Baby being retarded at Pride. So far, it's the only one where I think we look even remotely alike. As usual, no making fun of my ginormous head and 25 chins.

So tonight's assignment had me at court awaiting the ruling of this guy who amassed 278 charges of animal neglect -- they weren't ALL animal neglect; many of them were code violations, but still -- and I ended up aiding and abetting two bonafide tweakers that amazingly enough aren't related to me. You might be wondering how the hell I ended up doing that. Well, allow me to start by saying that although I realize a courtroom is not the best place to see society's finest, this particular courtroom was, like, whoa with the dregs. And because the courtroom is so small, about 50 of them were standing outside waiting to be called in. I was talking to another completely cracked-out broad who of course has this juicy story to tell me about how the law won't give her back her kids (I'm guessing it's ultimately because she's a crackhead, but I got only bits and pieces of the story since she's now slightly agoraphobic after her car accident and needed some Xanax real bad) when these two other women kept coming in and out of the courtroom looking for a phone. I lent them mine. The story went that they needed to go back to the one's dad's house to cash a check at a bar for the fine the one was going to have to pay for whatever her charge was, which I kinda wondered about since the judge usually gives people between 30 and 60 days to come up with the scratch, but whatever. So the one asked me if I would take her to the old man's house so the other one wouldn't get nailed for failure to appear, and since I had at least an hour to kill before I'd get to talk to who I needed, I said all right.

So the whole car ride, the woman, who was way skinny, yapyapyapYAPPED nonstop about this, that and the other between thanking me profusely and saying my name over and over so she wouldn't forget it. Among the things she told me: She's bipolar, and that's why she can't pass the test to get her license; her friend back at the courtroom just got diagnosed with breast cancer after being hospitalized with an infection for having the wrong false teeth given to her (wha? Yeah, that's what I thought.); and that her friend's dad is a former city mucky-muck who had a stroke and that she and the daughter are taking care of him. Anyway, we get to the old man's crib, a shithole flophouse above the ol' family store complete with all kinds of detritus, and the woman has him write a check for $100, but then chides him for writing it out of an account that has his and his other daughter's name on it. Half-naked and a whole lot disoriented, the poor bastard writes then another check while telling me of how he used to be a city mucky-muck. I then take her to a bar to cash the check, and then back to the courthouse, where she met back up the daughter. When I told them I couldn't give them a ride, they walked off across the street and suckered some other guy. This was after she told me mucky-muck's daughter was too weak to walk from the wrong false teeth infection or the cancer or whatever.

And so I thought to myself, are all drug addicts the same? Do they all clamor desperately for attention, good or bad? Because these two were no different than Crackhead.

Or even if it does just sorta, we wear it because it's cool. Below, the newest edition to my concert shirt collection (and no laughing at my gigantic head):

Anyone who's ever read Og's blog knows that traveling west off the I-80/94 into Illinois is hell on earth, right? I'm here to tell you that homie ain't lying. Christ on a crutch, man. Any plans you may have of going to Iowa in the near future? Scrap 'em now or get there through Michigan or Minnesota or whatever, because going that far out of the way will probably get you there sooner than I-80 will.

That nightmare, of course, meant that I caught only about two songs of our intrepid heroes' set, but what I heard -- "Life in the Fast Lane" and a U2 song my muddled brain can't remember at the moment -- done did us proud. As I told Lenny last night (Lenny being the sole original member left of BtL), he's finally got a group together that reigns him in and is serious about playing music and not just the whole rockstar aspect. Good stuff. The guys also made sure I had access to the VIP area since I didn't get a VIP bracelet which, love them.

Steely Dan, meanwhile, played none of their new stuff, only the best of the best: They started with "Bhodisattva" then right into "Time Out of Mind," my favoritist Steely Dan song EVER. I was in heaven. Michael McDonald was even good, though he did only his well-know stuff from the Doobies. Eh. And dude's got some white, white hair. But I got the cutest concert shirt; just hope it fits.

Got an e-mail from my pal Lenny about 20 minutes ago telling me that my favorite cover band is not only playing The New World Music Theatre/Tweeter Center/First Midwest Ampitheater Saturday night, but who're they opening up for*!?? That's right:

Steely Dan!


My head just exploded.

I was sitting here in the office where the view's obstructed from the giant plum tree the landlords have yet to prune this summer, and there's this gurgling noise like it's raining, but I couldn't see anything, and then when I went into my room to see if I could hear it there, I couldn't. So, I was like nah, it's not raining, but then I looked out the window and saw that the streets are wet and there are puddles with raindrops. Strange. It's gotta be raining.

Except it's not raining:

In about six hours, I'm going to be sitting in the United Center watching the goddess of all things pseudosacreligious with BFKAS and B-Dubs. My baby sister went last night and said she was freakin' phenomenal, but I just can't seem to get myself psyched up. For 135 bones, this better be good.

Because I'm still waiting for my scrub and hand cream, and I ordered it a month ago. Hellooooooo, people.

So other than having to drop $150 on two new tires because my alignment ate the others, notta lotta is still going on up in Chez Broad, except I? am wearing my new green cargo pants that I couldn't get into two months ago when I bought them, huzzah. Haven't really done anything in particular to make that happen one way or another, but I'll take what I can get, thankyew. And they're not even stretchy pants.

Because how is it that I did NOT know that one of my pretend celebrity boyfriends, John Mayer, dated Jennifer Love Hewitt?

Why do I always look like such a tard when I take pictures of myself?

Tonight, as a follow-up to my American Idol story from last year, I was forcedassigned to watch the finale and then talk to some of the people I interviewed for it to get their reactions on the winner, and wouldn't you know that the one bitch I was able to get a hold of who told me she'd be home watching it conveniently wasn't home, therefore making me suffer through that crap.

(Based on her iciness when I talked to her this afternoon, though, I'm not entirely surprised. She probably thought my story last year was going to be all about HER and it wasn't. But it's not like the paper cared about Idol that much, anyway -- not when there's murder and mayhem afoot -- so joke's on you, beeyotch.)

Yeah, so Poppy called it that Taylor "thank-God-they-put-tight-pants-on-him-tonight-so-he-couldn't-jump-
around-like-Snidge's-nefew-doing-his-poop-dance" Hicks would be the next sucker, based on the fact that the winners so far have been 1) a lithesome brunette, 2) an overweight black male, 3) an illiterate black woman and 4) a blonde who pretended to be a pop star but who really is a country star, and that with all the money the AI people have invested in the show and its hype it would have to be staged, but c'mon, people! He BLEW! Couldn't sing a note all damn night. Not even Toni Braxton could help him out, but then again, she sounded like ass, too. And I would've completely loved the Clay Aiken segment, were it not for ol' Clay sidling around like this one gay theater major I used to hang with in college when he was trying to channel Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Longer hair becomes ol' Gay ... I mean, Clay.* But Prince is now dead to me.

Anyway, when it's not ass-humid out and my hair isn't all frizzed up, remind me to post a picture of my awesome new haircut. Picture a cross between Louise Brooks and Emo Phillips, and you're close.

Over at Greta's waiting for a load of laundry to dry (gotta have some fresh towels on hand for my grrrl upon her arrival tomorrow, after all), but when I was trolling around MySpace earlier (I know, I know, I said MySpace is for the young, but that doesn't mean I can't look. It could be research. You don't know) I totally came across a couple of guys with whom I went to high school way back in the day. Now, I know them as Goran and Dejan, two of the hottest and most popular guys in school, but y'all might know them as indie band extraordinaire THE GUFS!

I KNOW! How could I forget that!??

Well, it's easy when they're too cool for NWI and play places like The Double Door and Milwaukee Summerfest instead of McCool's and Rosie's, but even though Dejan and I were in college together, it's not like we were super super close or anything, so you know, you lose track of people and whatnot.

So anyway, I thought for fun I'd add Dejan to my buddy list to see if he might remember me, and whaddya know? He totally does! And -- AND -- he still has a review I wrote about The Gufs from, like, '92 when they played at the Elbo Room! That was the night I picked up this John Cusack lookalike (with Larry, my date, standing right there); "London Calling" was playing in the background, and I was wearing a black mock turtle and put black eyeliner only on the top lid for dramatic effect. How fucking funny. Of course, thinking about how twee and unrefined my writing was back then, I'm kind of weirded out that he still has it, but still. I'm going to have to look in my old portfolio, because I'm sure I still have it in there.

Jooools, you must pick up on this band as well as Goran's solo efforts! I'll bet you would love them.

It's the Grey's Anatomy season finale, and I WILL NOT ANSWER. So don't even think about it.

Yeah yeah, I know I've gotten out of the blogging groove. It's not intentional, exactly -- part of it is boredom, sort of, and another small part has to do with what The Universe sent me today:

The new machines apparently don't interface well with the old machines, so all the totals need to be hand-tallied is the word coming out of the guvmint center. And all I can think to myself is, "Y'all couldn't have tested this shit BEFORE THE PRIMARY, MAYBE!?? Just a thought." Dumbasses. So now, the paper will have to spend another entire issue devoted to results, which is, like, whatever.

All I covered tonight was school board stuff, which was fine because it was my last official story on the one school board I covered with regularity. And since I refuse tono longer cover them, I feel no compunction in saying that today was a sad, sad day in Highland, because the town just reelected the man who was in no small part responsible for running the district into the ground. No small wonder since he spent the last 3 1/2 years bad-mouthing all the efforts of the current board, of course, but that's how they roll over there. This is not to say that the current board was puppies and sunshine; it handled things very badly, especially in the beginning of its tenure -- the proverbial bulls in a china shop, if you will. And I'll be the first to admit that bought into the hype put forth by the old guard. But then I saw the financials of the board on which the guy who was reelected sat -- the shoddy record-keeping, the allowing the assistant superintendent to take off for ISBA business that just happened to coincide with her daughter's college basketball games, the way he and his former board members fought so hard for LIFETIME INSURANCE BENEFITS from the school town for elected positions that they don't even pay into, the insane attorney fees with an attorney that didn't have a contract with the school board -- and I learned real quick that thpugh the new board might not be the most charismatic and touchy-feely, it had a lot of cleaning up to do. And anyways, I'm sure the old guard would've been crabby, too, if every one of THEIR meetings turned into an ugly spectacle like they made the the current board's for 3 1/2 years. Point is, I will continue to tell all my friends with school-age kidlets that they need to get the hell out of dodge before the kidlets get to middle school.

[And as a sidenote to Mr. Jackass Attorney who accused me of impartiality when covering the board debates and most likely the board as a whole over the last 3 1/2 years a couple weeks ago, I have this to say: Contrary to popular belief, reporters unequivocally do have opinions about the things they cover; if they say they don't, they're lying, myself included. The true craft of being a reporter, however, is to be able to report the facts no matter how infuriating, nauseating and offensive those facts may be to you, and I will be happy to sit down with you to go over every single story I've ever written on the School Board and compare them to every single minute of meeting tape to show you just how impartial I was. Name the date and time, and I'll be there, though I don't expect you really would because I know you were just lashing out after I asked you if you were bankrolling the one candidate. But the offer stands, my friend.]

Anyway.

My 'hood is now infested with stupid people who yell and scream like morons all the time. Most of the time, it's celebratory yelling and screaming, but I expect the "You done me wrong, Cletus, and now I'm going to throw the toaster at yew" yelling and screaming to commence at any time.

You know how I've talked about music making me all weepy, especially depending on the time of the month!?? Apparently, it happens at art unveilings, too. I was at the Lubeznik Center for Art in Michigan City earlier covering the unveiling of the new South Shore Poster, of which I happen to have a small collection, and when the blanket came off, I literally gasped and started tearing up. I know, right? What a goon. Anyway, it's entitled "Power," and it's an Art Deco depiction of these guys hand-powering a turbine at the MC generating station done in blues, purples and pinks. Just breathtaking, especially if you're a closet gearhead who kinda gets turned on by big industrial equipment. AND it'll work in my bedroom, which has yet to be decorated after eight years of living here. Just got to make sure I flatten out my copy where les chats can't sit-walk-otherwise destroy it.

Have any of y'all been watching Nashville Star? Did you know that a Region Rat, Nicole Jamrose, has cracked the Top 4? She flew in for a charity concert at her former high school tonight, and I covered it.

Now, I'm not a country fan by any stretch, but this girl!?? Is the shit, man. She got the looks, the talent, AND even though she may be in your typical NWI bar band, Nick Danger, she doesn't pick the usual covers, instead opting for Lucinda Williams and Susan Tedeschi, which can I say thank GOD!?? And I know her husband; I've chatted with him about cop stuff because he's a County Mountie.

Anyway, because I threw my ol' press pass on, I got pretty much unfettered access to the floor, and here are my pics. If she makes it, then you could say you saw her balancing on the cusp of greatness here first.

Wow, so there really were no takers to my posting my inanimate wang collection. Huh. Am I losing my street cred, here? Because jeez, if inanimate wangs can't get y'all back, I don't know what can.

How about this:

Picked up my thank-you gift for watching the animals from Poppy and her husband earlier. One of the gifts was a t-shirt from the famous Senor Frog's. The other you'll find pictured below.

to fill up my fucking gas tank. That ain't right.

Poppy and her hub are on vay-kay in Cancun, so I've been babysitting her menagerie, including the ferrets, Stushdon and Shnockies (I think, or that might be the other ferret she had). And I gotta tell you, if they didn't reek to high heaven, ferrets are a pretty good time. I let them run around in their room, and they chirped and wiggled and tussled and tried to get in the leg of my yoga pants. Good times on a Friday night.

Their one dog, on the other hand, hasn't been as easy. He's an old guy with bad hips, and once you let him out, it's a crapshoot whether you'll be able to get him back up the stairs. Last night was one of those nights, and after about 45 minutes, I decided I'd leave him on the stoop between the upstair and downstairs, thinking he'd be so exhausted he'd just hang out there for the night. He didn't, of course, so Hub's mom called me in a panic this morning because she in all her 100-pound soaking wet glory couldn't get him upstairs to go outside. We eventually got him up and out, but I left him in the house tonight when I went over there. If Hub's mom doesn't hate me for this morning, I'm sure she will if she walks in to a house full of dog crap.

But you know what I noticed last night? Even though I yelled at the poor bastard once thinking that might startle him into moving, my patience never waivered into DefCon territory. I'd kinda like to attribute that to Dad, because as we all know, Dad had to be a patient man lest he ended up burying Mother in the backyard, and we also know that I tend to have a rotten temper when I want to. Maybe it's something he left me when he went. Or maybe it's the drugs.

one day, you watch a tow truck dump off a white, later-model Monte Carlo on the street between your apartment building and the one next door, and it just sits there for weeks on end with no one doing anything about it, so you call code enforcement to tag the motherfucker because you're sure as hell not going to let your 'hood turn into the place where people leave their cars to die; it cheapens up where you live, and code enforcement got right on it when you called them last year about the burned out car left on the other street. And then you do a joyful pee-pee dance when a big ol' tow truck -- possibly the repo man -- comes out on a Sunday night to retrieve the dead car, and you think, "I wonder how they knew to come get it!??"

Sometimes, it takes so little.

No, no -- no such luck. (Shut-up, you.) But I did do something almost as exciting: The Popster and I jumped on our bikes today and rode about four miles. (By the way, did I mention she's going on 11 weeks knocked up? She sure is. Much too soon to know what the sex is, but we do know that it's no longer an embryo and is instead a fetus, which of course I've knicknamed Cletus because c'mon.) So anyway, yeah, got on the ol' bike and rode, and actually really loved it. I mean, the weather was just phenomenal today, and instead of riding around in the industrial complex that surrounds my crib, we rode the trail, and that was nice. And I felt really good doing it, too -- not too much sweating, had good clip going ... plus, I left my bike in her garage, so now I can just go to her crib and get it whenever I want to ride instead of having to haul it down my stairs and going through heavy traffic to get where I want to go. Who knew exercise could be so invigorating!?

Of course, now that I've found my groove, it'll become ass cold and rainy again.

A year ago this coming Sunday, I talked about seeing my ex-boyfriend from college and how I was kind of all freaked out about it, right? Hadn't seen him in 12 years, figured he'd be at the event with his bitchy wife, etc.

Yeah, saw him today at a different event for his not-for-profit. He looks exactly the same, if a little heavier and quite a bit more bald. (Then again, the last time he saw ME, I was 45 pounds lighter with vibrant red hair. In fact, he hasn't seen me as a brunette since before college, since I started dating him the summer before I started, and even then, I was more blonde than brunette. Yikes.) But we talked for, like, 45 minutes before I had to split to make deadline, catching up on shit and whatnot. Turns out that on top of his stepson, he has two kids of his own, which is really funny since kids were never part of his plan. But his little girl is gorgeous, blonde hair and blue eyes with a little Dutchboy cut -- just darling. And his little brother who I loved so much is now 24 (!) and working in PR for a Chicago real estate firm. I was like, "So that means I can conceivably run into him at a bar!?? Man, that ain't right." And he offered me condolences about Dad, naturally, but what was really wild is when I filled him in about the bio-fam, he remembered the guy who pretended to be my biological father back in college. (Haven't told y'all about that one, have I? Remind me to later.) And then, in probably the best moment of the conversation, we were talking about how his little brother who I love so much was never much of a partyer in high school, but that his own weakness was girls and oh, what he didn't do for girls -- not for them, but for himself. Having been the casualty of this weakness, I smiled and nodded, "Yeah, yeah." There was totally no rancor to it or anything; it was just a really sweet moment, one that I never imagined would've happened since our final breakup took about a year. Anyway, we talked about keeping in touch, maybe getting together for lunch when we have the time.

There was something oddly comforting about talking to him. Not in like a "get back together" kind of way, but like talking to someone you haven't talked to in years and picking up like it was yesterday. And what was really cool was seeing him so Dad-like about his kids. I'm still smiling about it, actually.

Whooooooooooa ooooo-oooo/whoooooaaa-ooo-ooooo!

Your earworm for today. Y'all can thank me later.

So yeah, dinner with my little (alleged) sister was a pretty damn good time. She's cute, funny and definitely has a mind of her own, so we got that in common. Plus, she's loud just like me, and if there were anything in this world that would serve as an identifier, it would be that. (Ok, not really. But still ...)

She also has a past that would make the toughest survivor cringe in sympathy/horror, and that unfortunately has left her very closed up while opened like a festering sore to the rest of the world all at the same time. If I in my two-parent white-bread childhood world thought my other sibs had it bad when they were growing up, I can at least take comfort in the fact that they didn't have it nearly as bad as Baby Girl did. Think, among other things, a multitude of stepdads (and a mother who isn't quite over the whole married thing yet after all this time), a sperm donor who gave up his parental rights so she could be adopted by one of the stepdads, drugs, a real live mohawk and multiple piercings, a failed marriage and her own daughter's death before the age of 20 (!), then a complete life turnaround by the age of 25 and you have the REAL A Million Little Pieces right there. In fact, a great story about the sperm donor: She was 17 and after having last seen him when she was 12, she gets shipped out west to visit him for what was supposed to be a three-week trip, right? Can't remember what day into the trip it was, but he takes her to Old Country Buffet for dinner, which is fine until he starts putting nine, 10 little bowls of condiments on the table and six glasses of milk, then proceeds to eat seven or eight plates of food BY HIMSELF and yells at her in the restaurant that her eating two plates of food "isn't getting his money's worth." And then there was the crackhead that showed up at his door at 3 a.m. and him being all like, "Uh, I TOLD you he doesn't live here anymore (wink, wink)," and the pot smell wafting from his room that really wasn't pot, according to him. Yeah, it took her four days of that before she was like, "I'm out."

No, she has not gotten herself into therapy toot sweet after all this, and that worries me, because underneath the bravado, her terror is palpable. But she seems to dig me; she says we have to be the same because we're both extreme smartasses.

Got a call from Tara this morning: Her dad's colon cancer came back after 11 years. No word on how advanced it is yet, because the doctors still need to do all the tests and shit.

Good thoughts, por favor; prayers are good, too, if you're so inclined.

My (possible) baby sister and I are meeting for Mexican tonight at 5-ish, 5:30-ish.

Details at 11, or something.

For those of you who aren't quite clear on the concept of how blogging works, let me explain something to you: I pay money each month to maintain this site. I also pay money to have it designed, and I pay for the domain name. Therefore, since I'm putting all this money into it, I get to talk about whatever I want. This is the way it is, and it's not changing.

Woo woo! Have a plum one for me!

[Rock Scissor Paper image, yada yada yada]

It's been my weekend to hear about stupid boys and how they suck sometimes, starting with Mer's new ex-love.

Yup, that's right, Mer and the normal boyfriend are no more. Wanna know why? Because he dumped her. Why did he dump her? Because he said she was too insecure and clingy and he came to realize that even though he wants a family, he's not sure she's what he wants, but hey! he really likes hanging out with her and can they work out a compromise? Oh yeah, and she's too passionate about issues that she shouldn't care about, like, oh, colonization in Northern Ireland or the plight of the Slovenian gypsies and other oppressed Balkan people, for example. HE, in the meantime, is a self-proclaimed liberal and passionate about the issues too, you know, such as LITTERING (I'm not making it up y'all -- that's what she said). But yeah, he still wants to see her because they have FUN. Mmm-hmmm. I'll bet. Well, Mer, with the pride befitting a Leo and half and much, MUCH to her credit, tore a couple strips off the poor bastard and fed them to him without the benefit of cooking them first.

While all that was going on, Poppy rings in and tells me her brother and SIL are pregnant. Which is cool, she's happy for them and so on and so forth. But she and her husband are also trying to get pregnant, and she feels like little brother beat her to the punch, unintentional though it was since he doesn't know there were punches in the first place. So she was telling her hubby how she felt, and he was all like "God, I can't believe you're competing with your family." And it's like, Dude, that's not even it. I mean, people CAN be happy for other people while feeling sad for themselves. They're mutually exclusive -- what's so hard to understand about that?

Oh, and one last thing: I've been reading at a couple different sites that there's a site out there where the author is giving out her own awards and that it's turned rather snarky. What I want to know is, why is it that the bloggers who're bitchy like that are the ones that can't either punctuate or spell for crap? Seriously.

There's this dude who covers for the competition one of the munis I've now been covering regularly for the past few weeks, and can I just tell you about the pants this guy wears? He has a pair of brown polys and a pair of what can only be described as blood-red polys that have been washed many times since the '70s, when he no doubt bought them. And these pants are so tight, you can see his underbundies in them -- and they're NOT boxers, and I doubt they're tighty whiteys. I'm guessing they're colored briefs, and that scares me. A lot. Because he's, like, in his late 40s, and no homie should be wearing colored briefs, but especially in his late 40s. (shudders)

So, how many of you have been wondering what's been going on with the immediate members of my bio-fam lately? Anyone? It's been ... not unpleasant. In fact, it's been downright cordial. Tenuous, certainly, but cordial. And are you ready for this? I even got a birthday e-mail from the woman formerly referred to as ****. (Continuing to call her that wouldn't be in the spirit of reconcilliation, I reckon so I guess I'm going to have to come up with a less-negative pseudonym.) It was belated, but I still got one, which is, like, HUGE. Seriously. And I can't say I'm not unpleased by this turn of events, but y'all knew that already, didn't you?

There's no doubt that some of you are downright puzzled dubious freaked the fuck outconcerned about this turn of events, and you're not the only one; more than once has it crossed my mind that there's an ulterior motive to this change of heart. But I'm tired now. However, you know what y'all didn't do for me for my birthday? You didn't put yourselves on the map. Go do it.

I've discovered the reason why my face looks so ginormous in pictures: As I was brushing my teeth this morning before getting Snidgey off to O'Hare, I noticed this crease when I stretched my mouth to get the back molars. It's not a dimple -- I already have those -- but maybe a smile line or worse, a weak spot in the fat of my face that collapses each time I smile. Whatever it is, it better not be permanent once I decide to actively lose weight, because then, any effort I make will be for naught because my face would still look massive.

The rest of the weekend was just as cool as Friday night, except for the dance contest, which Snidgey obviously has yet to forgive me for. We stopped at a little boutique in Schererville prior to that nightmare, and she bought a lovely plum cami while I purchased a completely uncharacteristic (but totally cute, I love it) sweater and a t-shirt with a sequined lollipop and the word "blow" embroidered on it. Then we met up with KleptoCat (her nom de blog has changed yet again) for Thai food and made an appearance at the Overdue show, where Snidgey got to meet my pals from November's Doom and basically drive all the men kray-zee.

Speaking of which, whey does this not surprise me in the least?

I just watched a police officer sit across from my building for about 5 minutes, which wouldn't be disturbing except that when I came back from the vet with Rube, there was a silver Malibu sitting in the same spot. It's prolly nothing, but with the latest crap coming from the Crackhead camp these days, the paranoia's running a bit rampant, I must admit.

So, when the vet walks in with a 300-pound vet tech equipped with gloves and a towel, would that give y'all pause? Yeah, that's how it went down with Rube's appointment this morning. See the last time we were there, he BIT the vet, and I guess that was marked on his chart. Heh. Anyway, it turns out that the explosive diarrhea he's been having for the last month or so is apparently a direct result of the food I switched him to, so we need to go back to the old stuff. The doc said it could also be IBS -- which in cats is often a precursor to intestinal cancer -- but since Rube is relatively young and not showing signs of being sick, it's likely not. Oh, and there's the matter of giving him an antibiotic once every day for the next two weeks, though; thank God it's a liquid, because that might be marginally easier than shooting him a pill.

The best part of the appointment: When the woman vet tech tried to force Rube out of his carrier by tipping it forward, and he planted his front paws firmly against the lip of opening. My boy's a smart one, make no mistake. In fact, I was quite sure that had I left him alone in the carrier for any length of time, he'd have gotten himself out of it. Oh yes, he would. As it was, he was working on the lock as we were driving there.

[UPDATE: Okaaaaaaay ... A third officer was just here about an hour ago, but he parked down the street for about 10 minutes before pulling away. Curiouser and curiouser ...]

Is it entirely too cynical of me to think that, as I watched this group of kids at a school board meeting defend a program that's undergone big funding cuts, that they were just dorks looking for a place to belong*!?? Or am I merely observing the fact that of all people under the age, say, 18, one-millionth of a percent of them aren't completely socially retarded!??

Watched Comedy Central's roast of Jeff Foxworthy last night, and to whom should I be introduced but this hunk of man meat. So just to make sure I wasn't seeing things, I've been watching "The Blue Collar Comedy Tour Rides Again" off and on all day, and yep, it's official: Ron White is my new pretend celebrity boyfriend. He can make me go fetch him a Makers n' Coke anytime, I'll tell yew what. DAYum.

[UPDATE: Actually, my man drinks scotch, so perhaps I could fetch him a nice Glen Fiddich or Johnny Walker Blue Label and water. Dreeeeeaaaamy.]

Looked at my stats today, and I see that someone has looked up he of the overfed mop-top eight times in the last how many days since Jan. 1. Once again, it begs the question:


Why!??


What could you possibly want to know about him!?? Because then whoever's doing it comes here and never asks any questions. It's still creeping me out, man.

Got to cover our esteemed guvner's visit to NWI tonight at the Horseshoe Casino and got a fantastic story out of it that my fabulous chum Chris will no doubt post at his crib (ahem) and then pimp it out at the Indiana Blog Review as the answer to the $64 million question: Will Hammond, Cabela's get STIF* from Mitch!??

Unless something tragically fabulous or fabulously tragic happens, I'm checking out for Christmas/first day of Hanukah etc. etc. Wishing all y'all the happiest holidays ever.

Take care.

P.S. Stop by Headcase's and give her a little love; she could use some.

Before I launch into today's invective, how 'bout that Nip/Tuck season finale!?? Did I call it, or did I call it!?? I think I called it. Didn't see the whole Quentin/Kit thing coming until her explanation to Christian and Sean at the end, but still, quite the finale, a la Silence of the Lambs, n'est-ce pas? Also, nice touch of Kit being the Carver at the sorority house. Didn't catch that? Of COURSE she was; the "Carver card" wasn't as precise, and if the Carver was wearing a strap-on when s/he was raping them, it wouldn't HAVE to be Quentin doing the raping since we found out he doesn't have a weiner of his own.

Anyway.

It would figure that of all times to get the cold of death that seems to be making its way through brochial systems everywhere in NWI lately, I'd get it before the holidays. Top that with being being menstrual, and you've got one bitchy Broad -- so bitchy, in fact, that not only did I keep dramatically moving around to different seats during Purdue Cal's commencement tonight, I stared down a couple who decided to PLAY THE VIDEO THEY JUST SHOT OF THE COMMENCEMENT DURING THE COMMENCEMENT ITSELF(!). The dead fish eye. I swear, when did graduations in NWI become places for people to act like total degenerates!?? Seriously. I don't ever remember my high school OR college graduations being total free-for-alls like that. It was absolutely horrifying. One mother was completely embarassed by her sons' outburst when they called her name, because the audience laughed at them for acting the fools; the one kid looked like he was having a seizure, for God's sake. Oh, and THEN there was the shitstain who replied "Probably 'Death to Americans!'" when his wife asked rhetorically what the Arabic people in the audience shouted as their relatives walked across. C'mon, people. Where's the freakin' decorum!?? Or the better question might be, why the hell didn't I just go early and talk to the graduates BEFORE the ceremony, so I wouldn't have to deal the common folk!?? Note to self for next time ... except it was just so. cold. outside.

That's another thing: How is it that 5, 10 degrees doesn't feel all that bonechilling to me, but get to 22 degrees and I'm complaining like a little bitch!?? Ask Kaffy -- I was doing the same thing last week when she, EWK and I got together for our Christmas exchange. It was, like, 21 or 22, and I was freezing, yet yesterday, I was walking around with my leather jacket wide open and no scarf. It's ridiculous.

So then, I get done covering the commencement, and I figured I stop at the local Weenie Hut to grab a chili weenie and a bowl of soup, for which I'd been dying all day but wouldn't go out to get because, well, see above, and wouldn't you know, the Weenie Hut was closed. At 8:30 p.m. When it's supposed to be open until 9.

Clearly, it was not my day to catch a break.

I guess it's not all bad, though. I mean, it looks like we got Rube's diarrhea problem under control. Oh, and Snidgey's back safely from Germany.

So I get an e-mail forward from one of my pals, and as I'm looking through the gigantor e-mail list from which the e-mail originated (as I'm sure everyone does), and I find an adress with the name of the former attorney I was crazy about. I thought to myself, "No WAY! Seriously!??" And after a little research, well, whaddya know!? It IS the former attorney I was crazy about!

Here's the dilemma: I'd really like to e-mail him and say "Hey, what's up!?" -- not in a sexual way or anything, just hey! because he was someone I really did like. It's like I said, though: We broke up on pretty bad terms (aka he was a jerk, so I went all crazy pussy on him), so I'm wondering if he'd think I was a total stalker weirdo if I just e-mailed him out of the blue. I mean, all of this was, like, seven years ago, so could he still be freaked out about it? What do y'all think? Should I do it?

Working on a big magazine piece for one of our sister pubs, so I may be out of pocket until tomorrow -- 1,200 words on NWI for the south Chicago business community. Yeah, I know -- good luck on encapsulating THAT one, right? Sheesh. I may check in later, though, just to give my brain a rest.

Lemme ask y'all something: Say if you were, like, flossing your teeth and you came across something that looked like a blister of some sort on your upper gum, but it didn't hurt even after you popped it; it only bled and pussed a little. Now, say that this blister thingy was kind of large, like maybe as big as the tip of your finger, but not the whole tip (which, let's face it, on a surface area the size of your gums can look rather intimidating). Would you immediately run to the Innernet, look up oral cancer and then totally freak out and, after calling the dentist and leaving a somewhat alarming message on his voicemail, call one of your best friends at 11:22 p.m. crying a little at the suspicion that you may have oral cancer!?? Or, say if YOU didn't, would you think the person that DID is a total wacko hyphochondriac!??

You would?

Oh. Because that was totally me last night.

No, no, don't feel bad about calling me a nutcase; I've been known get a little histrionic about my perceived maladies, after all, like the time I decided, after reading a Woman's Day article, that I had vulvar cancer; that was seven years ago. And there was the time after I got my wisdom teeth out that the sockets felt really weird and I described it as what necrotizing fasciitis might feel like. (TOG still brings that up every so often, as if I said I HAD necrotizing fasciitis, which I never did. I don't think.) Or before I got my wisdom teeth out, how I quizzed the oral surgeon about the possiblities of dying while under twilight sedation. (SERIOUSLY rare, and annoying to ask the surgeon. Feel free to use it if you like.) Of course, mock me if you must, but had I not decided I had vulvar cancer? I would have never gotten to the gynie to find out I was in the carcinoma in situ stage of cervical cancer. And had I not gone to the dentist today, I wouldn't have found out a tooth on which I had a pulp treatment when I was 10 has gotten infected and I now need a root canal, so see!?? ...

Oh. Wait. I could've probably done without that last bit of info, because do you know how exPENSIVE it's going to be!?? Shit. So much for getting caught up with my bills ...

In other news, I would like us all to bow our heads in a moment of silence for my lost virginity, which got lost 20 years ago today at around 1-ish, 2-ish in the afternoon. Do you beLIEVE that shit!??

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.**

Nip/Tuck, y'all. Flabby Abby the masochist!?? If I had smiley icons, there would be one of stunned adorning this entry. Ho.lee. SHIT. Plus, there was a lot of fuckin' goin on, and that of course is never wrong.

I have more thoughts on Flabby Abby appropos to my state of mind the past couple of days, but I'm tired right now, and I got three stories tomorrow. I'll catch up when I'm done.

I came back from my assignment tonight and saw that my TV, which I left on A&E, appeared to be dead -- on, but just a black screen. (Yes, yes, I leave my TV on all day and night. You know, in case the boys need to watch it while I'm gone or asleep and shit.) Now, I know my TV, a 19' Admiral my folks bought me from Montgomery Ward eight years ago, has a bad tube (read: everything is red), but I was like, "God, not now, when I just got out from under my soul-crushing debt -- and certainly not when I'm into Nip/Tuck so hot and heavy." I flipped channels, but all my VHF channels are fine. And I know my bill's paid and current, so I called cable to see if something's up.

Long story short? I'm getting channels I'm not supposed to be getting with just plain ol' basic. Many, MANY more. The CSR didn't know how it was happening, that I just must be lucky. Ain't THAT some shit!? Of course now, one of two things is going to happen: The channels are either going to all go away and I'm going to be pissed without my Nip/Tuck, or they're going to start charging me for my good fortune, which I'll be pissed about because it's THEIR fuck-up, not mine. But hey! it's good while it lasts, right? Anything to stick it to Corporate America. And they're back on now, too.

Got to see the Northwest Indiana Symphony Chorus perform Handel's Messiah at St. Michael's Church in Schererville today, and here's something I don't get: How is it that one of the most beautiful oratorios ever written sung in a church didn't move me, but Griffith High School's band playing the opening sequence to "The Incredibles" had me in tears (and no, they didn't suck)!? I mean, hell, last week, the Lake Central Choralettes singing "The National Anthem" hit me in the chest, but Messiah? Nothing.

Power pop is where its at musically these days, and he highly recommends Morningwood, which you can buy off iTunes or catch here at their myspace gig. The lead singer kind of reminds me of the lead singer for Lush on the one tune and a little bit of Romeo Void on the other (when she talks -- you know, like on "Never Say Never.") I'm digging it -- very NYC hipster. I expect we'll hear them on The O.C. soon.

Waldorf red cake and South Park.

Gobble gobble to all, yo.

Took Mother to the circus today -- not as an outing, but because I was covering it, although with as much as she enjoyed it, youda thunk it was her idea. Still, as much as I hate the idea of animals in captivity, etc., etc., I totally dug it. I mean, people, I was standing five feet away from TWO REAL LIVE ELEPHANTS. Do you have any idea how beautiful elephants are? Oh my God, they're amazing. And I know there've been bad things said about George Cardin and the way he treats his animals and all that, but all the ones I saw looked perfectly healthy and well taken care of. As he put it, "You can't buy an elephant for less than $180,000 these days, so if I'm going to make that kind of investment, do you really think I'm going to mistreat it even if I hated it, which I don't? No. That's like putting a Rolls Royce Corniche in the mud and leaving it there."

Ok, not the most sensitive way to look at it, but I can hang. Besides, THEY WERE ELEPHANTS! AND I WAS STANDING FIVE FEET AWAY FROM THEM! The photog from the competition was all like, "You need to get out more," but I was like, "Yeah, I know you think you're funny, but ..." Then there were these Russian chicks calling themselves "The Golden Divas doing human pyramid stuff. I told the photog that even though you wouldn't know it to look at me, I looked like those chicks in my bathing suit. My t1ts are as big, anyway.

So, does anyone know how to create a page in MT 3.16 that tells commenters they're being moderated? The other day, I decided to add to my Blacklist a common comment left by spammer dicks, effectively cutting off 191 of them but also all my commenters while I was at it. I then went back and changed the setting on that phrase to "moderate," and now everyone can comment again upon my approval. It's just that when you DO comment, you get this error about choosing a moderate template. I'd be greatly apperciative.

Found out yesterday that the best part of the ball happened just as I was making the mad dash to my car.

Each year, the chamber gives out "of the Year" awards to cops, paramedics and firefighters, and the dude who took over the Lake County Convention and Visitors Bureau, Speros Batistatos, was chosen to hand out the firefighter awards, right? Well, I'm told by several people that as ol' Speros took the stage to annouce the recipients, he scolded attendees who were still browsing at the silent auction table to sit down and that "wasn't going to tell (them) again"; after all, these men deserved everyones' full attention. That's right: He got up on stage with a microphone and scolded grown men and women to sit down. Needless to say, the grown-ups didn't take too kindly to being scolded at an event for which they paid $100 per couple.

Sorry, no photographic evidence of my looking like a girl last night, particularly because of the following:

1. My hair, which is in this awful 'tweener stage of I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-with-it-so-
I'm-kind-of-growing-it-out-except-now-it's-reminding-me-of-why-I-don't do-that-ever, looked like shit by time I remembered the camera. I mean, one side of it was holding kind of while the other completely fell. (Yeah, I know everyone thinks my hair looks the same at all times, but trust me, there's little that can be done right now. My mousse is too weak to give it any body, but my other goo is too heavy to hold it up, and then it ends up all gummy and gluey and not shiny unless I add some of this to it, but doing that wipes out any hold I might've has with the other stuff, and it's just pandemonium.) and,
2. My suit, though nice, is too long in the arms and pants, so since I didn't have time to have it altered, I looked like I was swimming in a sea of black. Also, the jacket, besides being too long in the arms, seems really overwhelming even though it fits nice in the shoulders. Not sure if it needs darts in the sides or something, but there's something just not right.

The good news is, I found two gorgeous antique pins at the antique show I covered in Crown Point today. Now if only someone can tell me where the hell to pin them, because they look dumb on the lapel.

Of course the ball didn't disappoint in the matters of fashion atrocities; it IS NWI, after all. Lessee ... it took merely walking up to the reg desk to see the poor sap who bought into the "Yeah-you-can-wear-it-again" bridesmaid ensemble (and in burgundy, too. I don't think it gets more cliche than that). There was also "bought-in-the-prom-dress-section-on-clearance," a vibrant melon strapless confection with a silver glitter-covered sweetheart bodice and a long shawl to match -- she even had the updo to match! -- and one we don't see often, the "interesting-Asian-dress-that-ol'-girl-built-like-a-brick-shithouse -really-shouldn't-think-about-pulling-off." One woman showed up in cream wool pants and a smart pink sweater set, while her husband was wearing tux. And don't EVEN get me started on the scads of women who still think it's Ok to wear hose with open-toe shoes. Fer chrissake, ladies, do you REALLY think wearing fabric not more than 1/10th of a millimeter thick IS GOING TO KEEP YOU WARM IN NWI!?? Seriously.

Dang, what is UP with all the spam I'm getting!?? Do you know that one of them used MY OWN WEB ADDRESS, so when I went to de-spam, it was added to the MT spammer jerk clearinghouse!?? Bastards. I guess after the holidays, I'm going to have to ditch the bitch and make the switch to EE after all.

In the story I wrote yesterday, the speaker (Rudy Lopez, a pal o'mine) made the comment, "They think that just because the candidate's name ends in -ez, every rice and bean eater is going to come out and vote for them." I asked Rudy if I could quote him on that, and he said "Yeah." So I wonder why the copy desk cut out that part?*

Tonight is the Merrillville Town Ball, and once again I get to cover it for an hour before I have to split to make deadline. This year's ensemble? A black suit I bought last night when Tara and I had a total girls' night of shopping and eating out. I'll post pics.

Speaking of shopping, how wrong is it that I don't completely hate Britney's "Fantasy" perfume? It smells just like cotton candy.

that I can't get enough of the gyros I'm having for lunch and am fighting off the urge to rub it all over my naked bod? Just curious.

So at the airport meeting this morning, one of the board members says to me as I went to see what was left in the Dunkin' Donuts box they always supply for the meetings, "Hey, you don't need that!" in a kidding-yet-not-really voice, right? So I stopped for a minute and then sweetly said back, "So what're you trying to say, there, (smug jackass who I hated back in college)?" thinking that would shut his cakehole. It didn't: "Just trying to keep everyone healthy, here." And then -- THEN -- fucker has the nerve to say to me, "Oh, so you did take something." Yeah, I took the jelly one, assface.

Wtf, old man? Could you BE any ruder? Sheesh.

You know who's not rude and totally cool and wonderful? Shelly at 45th Optical in Munster. Know why? Because the minute we decided the bitchin' new frames I got last year were totally hot, she took them off the shelves so no one else could copy me. She does that for clients SHE LIKES, you know. How awesome is THAT? So yeah, 45th Optical in Munster for your optometric needs, yo. You might not get my badass frames, but you'll get something just as cool.

Anyone familiar with comedian Louis CK? I was over at Tara and Sean's Saturday night, and we watched him on one of their 16 HBO channels. He does this whole bit about how guys can't masturbate in their own homes after they get married, but women get to make this big production of it, which I was kind of like, "Um ... noooo, I don't think I've ever made a big production of my masturbatory proclivities." But the visual was priceless, especially the one of him hiding behind the water boiler in the basement to toss one off. His deadpan delivery reminds me much of our good friend Opie ... or maybe it's that both of them have red hair. Still, good stuff., that.

There's some dude walking around the cul-de-sac with what looks like a manilla folder packed with stuff. Wonder what his story is, but not so much that I'll answer the door if he comes a-ringing; ol' girl's gotta take a nap.

See, the thing about my job is, I don't make a whole lot of money doing it. But my perks can't be beat, and one of those perks, besides working in my jammies and talking to rockstars, is free lunches at swanky places. So when I go to cover a luncheon, I can expect at the very least some sort of fancy chicken thing with veggies and dessert, and if I'm REAL lucky, I get beef medallions or beef tenderloin like I did the other night.

Not today, though. In the spirit of healthy eating, all that was provided were ham and turkey sandwiches, fruit and some sort of soup that scared me when I looked at it. (It was the color of chicken broth, yet it was cloudy and sort of thick, and I couldn't see anything resembling vegetables or meat. For all I know, it could've been chicken-flavored Cream of Wheat.)

Sigh.

The real gyp? The models who were showing off their fantastic weight losses got meatballs in red sauce and veggies and dip in THEIR quarters.

And now, for my rendition of "The Walk of Shame":

Here are my choices for tonight: Telling y'all about how Mother not respecting any boundaries I set directly correlates with a decision I made today, or going back to my favorite watering hole at the behest of its owner to partake in revelery at the White Sox' imminent win.

Much to my surprise -- and even more to my delight -- there's really no contest. Nighty-night, y'all.

[UPDATE: Now that they've won, shaddap, you.]

Here are my choices for tonight: Telling y'all about how Mother not respecting any boundaries I set directly correlates with a decision I made today, or going back to my favorite watering hole at the behest of its owner to partake in revelery at the White Sox' imminent win.

Much to my surprise -- and even more to my delight -- there's really no contest. Nighty-night, y'all.

[UPDATE: Now that they've won, shaddap, you.]

Anyone catch Nip/Tuck last night!?? I'm STILL trippin'.

Any ideas as to who the Carver is? Could it be Sean? Or is it the anesthesiologist? I thought it might be her at first, but then she wasn't there during the search of Christian's crib, so I don't know why she's be all pissed off at Kit.

Thoughts, anyone?

Check this out: There's this new blog devoted to Hoosiers and their politics, etc. -- Lookit. Our new pal Chris had a link to it, so I checked it out and and found that there was plenty of stuff from all over the state of Indiana, but aside from Chris and as per usual, not a dogdamn thing about NWI. So I wrote them and said, "Y'all need more voices from NWI -- how about me!??" And lo! The Trib god (read: the very lovely guy who runs the Trib who also happens to be an ex-reporter himself) looked up the Broad and said, "She is awesome!" and has included me. And -- and! -- he excerpted a portion of my entry about the Mike Doughty show! Must say I'm excited about that, especially since in light of the new redesign that I'm going to be getting in a couple weeks ... (Yes, we're embarking on aNOTHER redesign, but this time Reese is going to do it, and she's not a retard.)

The funny part, though? My entry carried a language advisory of sorts. Think that means I should talk less like a trucker?

Just got off the horn with Sammy, who shaved an hour off her time running the Chicago Marathon today. Save for the hallucinations starting before mile 11 and the need for five million ice packs, she's pleased with her performance. Of course, when asked if she was going to do it again, she said she wouldn't commit one way or the other, so my guess? She hasn't quite gotten it out of her system and will continue to make me look like fat slob for many more years to come, but what're you going to do.

I, meanwhile, survived the Republican convention in Merrillville yesterday. It wasn't a voting caucus; it was more like an all-day strategy meeting teaching the NWI Republicans how to get their message out in the state's only Democrat stronghold. Not sure if it's going to help all that much right now, but I guess they need to start somewhere. Got to talk to the Secretary of State, though; Todd and I graduated high school together. We didn't know each other back in the day, but that's because he was popular and I wasn't. (I know, can you believe it?) Anyway. So we got to talking about Patty and her bullshit, and he kind of chuckled. It was aaaallll over the Indianapolis news, he said. He also said that if y'all knew Patty, you'd know where it came from, because Patty? YOOGE Bible beater. YOOOOOGE. In fact, she resigned some of her duties as head of the health and finance committee so she could spend more time doing church stuff.

What, you're not shocked?

Confession time, although I think it's abundantly clear by nature of my location: I'm a closet gearhead. Not in an "I love cars" kind of way, and not that I'm engineering-inclined in any way, shape or form. But living 10 minutes from three different steel mills and one good-sized refinery kinda has a hand in cultivating one's taste for massive, rusty structures with fire coming out of them -- like last year when I got to watch the blast furnaces get blown up. That was some seriously cool shit.

So today, on a day when I didn't have my camera (and I bought a bigger purse last week, so I really have no excuse not to have it with me at all times), my first assignment of the day was watching a water tower extension, wherein a group of union welders blowtorched off the sphere, or head, of the water tower, lifted it up 70 feet off the ground by three giNORmous cranes and left it hanging there in mid air while another crane hoisted a new 35-foot section onto the tower's base. Lemme tell you, driving along and looking up to see this giant white bulbous thing suspended in mid air was rather disturbing. If it were the Cal City water tower, it would've been totally worse.

Know what's also disconcerting? That Amalah is now the proud ownerparent of this particular
babalah. Would you get a load of the size of that guy? If you've ever seen Amalah, you know what I'm saying. He's HUGE! But perfect. Go wish them lots of joy and love.

Hey, everybody! Guess who landed in jail on a prior felony theft warrant after she was busted driving on a suspended license with a dude carrying a nonpermitted gun stolen from Texas!?? Anyone?

Awwww, c'mon now. This is easy!

Yeah. Crazy Aunt called me tonight with the news. Imagine my surprise (yawn). So I called the detective to let him know what's what. We'll see if anything happens.

So tonight before covering a muni meeting, the Gary Bureau editor called and asked if I wanted to cover the NAACP's annual dinner, with Dick Gregory as its keynote speaker. Well, the editor gave me the wrong time for the event -- he said it started at 6 when it really started at 7 -- so I didn't get to hear his speech. I did accost him while he was heading to the can "to go pee" (his words), though, and he made some interesting points about landowners in the states hit by the hurricane. Whoever they are, how're they going to prove they own the land when all the paperwork and/or computer archives have been effectively destroyed? And because of that, who's to say that the gubmintbig business isn't going to go on a massive land grab? Not that I necessarily think something like that is going to happen, but it certainly could, and I guess it wouldn't surprise me if it did. Anyway, about the time we ended our chat, the group was singing the Black National Anthem, and so we stood arm-in-arm and swayed as they sang.

I stood arm-in-arm with a major celebrity. How you like me now?

Then I ran into this idiot on my way out of the casino. He was going in to gamble because apparently, he's gotten off the sauce again.

Lessee, what, if anything, is there to tell y'all about what's going on up in Chez Broad lately? I mean, since I haven't written a real post in eleventy billion years?

Well.

Hmph.

Seriously, there's notta lotta going on these days. I was excited to find a pair of jeans AND a pair of pants that actually fit at Old Navy today (necessities, not splurges, believe me) ... got my hair cut and redyed on Saturday ... found that I have F/X in my cable package and can now watch Nip/Tuck when it isn't directly competing with Boston Legal -- oooo! ooooo! Did y'all see my actor boyfriend on The View this morning? You know, when he was talking about how a man needs to find out what his woman needs in the sack and then set the mood for her? Yum yum yum.

See? Nothing really going on.

Once again, I'm going to ride on my homegirl's coattails for her stellar job of describing the Saturday main event. But since I promised photographic evidence, here t'is:

or at least as clean as it's going to be with me doing all the cleaning by myself today for the imminent arrival of der Snidgen. You might recall, this is Bus demolition weekend, so some of the gang be representin' at the Speedway tomorrow night, followed by the afterparty at JB's granparents' cottage in the dunes. Pictures will be forthcoming*.

At my meeting tonight, I was talking to one of my sources, a guy that I see once every couple months, if that. And as we were talking, he says

but I need to jump in the shower, lest I fall victim to freakin' tetanus from walking in puddles near port-o-cans.

Very, VERY long day.

Well, WE just had some excitement up here in Chez Broad: I got back from a wedding shower for the second next-door neighbor girl (ohmigod I'm old) where the take-home treat was these fantastic cookies in a plastic box tied with burlap and raffia, right? So I untie the raffia and let the Rube play with it, dropping it on the ground for a split second when it occurs to me that shit! You're not supposed to put any kind of string on the ground for cats because of this. Fuck!

So first thing I do after yanking* the offending raffia string out of Rube's mouth is call the 24-hour vet, where the perfectly lovely nurse tells me that I need to get him to ingest a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide to make him barf. Oh, and that it'd probably be better if I brought him in so they can inject him with it, but it costs $75 for the office visit and whatever the treatment is, and you have to pay it up front. Well, hell, I was just excited to have $45 bucks to last me through payday, so that's not going to work, what else you got? She tells me -- nicely -- that I'd need to administer it myself. Ok, but I didn't have a dropper, so I call Poppy, who's a regular St. Francis of Assisi has many animals of her own.

Now, you know that e-mail that's gone around about what happens when you give a cat a pill? Eeeeeeyeah. Rube screamed, hissed, spit and growled as if we were eviscerating him without benefit of anesthesia, and it didn't help that he HATES Poppy as it is. Haaaaates her. Always has. Anyway, after about 20 minutes of chasing him to where we could shut doors and get him cornered, Poppy, cornering him in front of my bedroom door with a towel, finally got in him a full dose, after which he took off for under the kitchen sink, where I'm assuming he barfed, but I'm not sure because there was still an awful lot of indignant growling.

Poppy took off, so I thought then would be a good time to call the bride-to-be's mother to find out just exactly how long the raffia string was. (Of COURSE you'd think that calling her beforehand would be the first logical step. Shutup.) Long story short, the raffia was used to tie the burlap in place, and the string I yanked from his mouth? Was likely the whole thing intact.

I just felt a little lick on my foot from under the desk, so I'm assuming we're all good again. But I'm telling you, NEVER underestimate the power of a 15-pound cat, because that little fucker even swatted the dropper right out of my hand. And his brother eventually came out from under the bed, but not without looking around like he'd just survived the battle of My Lai.

It has come to my attention that I've been, ahem, slacking in the original content department. So while I'm thinking about things with which to regale y'all, lemme tell you about my friend Sammy, who's done lost her mind again.

See, Sammy is a perfectly lovely lady; she led my first expedition to the great mecca, in fact. We've been to Vegas together, spent many nights drunk and lamenting the state of the new biz, talked about stupid boys -- you know, everything that good girlfriends do.

But a couple years ago, Sammy made a pact with a devil, that devil being her friend Andy, who talked her into running the Chicago Marathon. From January to race time, Sammy trained, eschewing the levels of beer and crap-food consumption we'd all come to enjoy in those days while she was here. And oh! The running! There were talks of running 2, 8, 12 miles at a stretch! I thought she was nuts and told her so each time we hung out. I mean, there was no question that she WOULD complete the marathon -- which she did, and in the time she was supposed to -- but WHY? When there's beer to drink and pizzas with extra meat to consume!?!

Well, long story short, despite any protest by me, Sammy's running the damn marathon again -- only this time, it's personal.

See, her extended family has been beaten by the cancer stick, so she's decided to raise funds for research. Now, I personally think there has to be an easier way to do this -- bake sale? candy bars? -- but she clearly doesn't share my view. So, since she's so adamant about running this damn thing, I'm putting a button over there on my side bar so you can slip her a few bills if you got 'em.

I mean, at the very least, perhaps we can raise enough money to convince her to stop making the rest of us look like chubby slobs.

You know how I said I was going to have EWK shock me by doing something way different with my hair? Behold: The color I was born with.

Not only did the women judging the "Pretty as a Picture" pie baking contest this morning NOT let me talk directly to the judges, but they DIDN'T LET ME HAVE ANY PIE. AND they were mean.

I was promised pie, yo.

Did I tell y'all that Cousin Nancy and her boyfriend had been crashing at Chez Broad since Tuesday night? Yeah, some huge drama involving her boyfriend's brother going to jail for stealing Nancy's wallet and a whole bunch of other stuff, and the boyfriend's mother got all pissed off at Nancy for having him put in jail, so she kicked them out, so on and so forth. Anyway, so they were here, and I have to say, they were perfectly lovely guests. And the new boyfriend is totally in love with Nancy and treats her like a queen, but I must admit that I'm a little concerned that Nancy, who has inherited her mother's temper to the letter, may end up stomping him into submission. More importanttly, though, I just want the two of them to get their heads out of their asses and a) finish school (Nancy) and b) get the hell out of dodge, because neither has a real stable homelife, and they need to get somewhere away from all the crap.

Last night and today have been a bit introspective for me since talking to Poppy last night, who called to tell me her ex-boyfriend of, like, 10 years ago died from diabetes-related complications; he was 35.

Before I get into it, though, lemme just tell you how AWEsome Bus demolition is: FREAKing. And the buses weren't even the best part; the best part is the TRAILER demolition, where the drivers hitch various items, such as campers, boats, motorcycles or effigies, to their cars and race around the track until they start smashing into each other. It's fucking great. And is if THAT weren't awesome enough, try viewing it with JB and his bunch of drunk, rowdy, Chicago-Irish knuckleheads (who, btw, were freaking HOT ... SNIDGE). In fact, for the race in September, a bunch of JB's Bellwood Firemen friends are getting a bus together, and he and I are going to try to talk our publisher into letting the Post sponsor it and then put slogans like "Pastrick for Prez in 2008" and "Stiglich Knew" on it. For that race, we're DEFINITELY going back to JB & Fam's cottage for the afterparty. ("We got 75 cases of BEER, man!") Oh, WE'LL help you drink it, all right ...

And now, back to our regular whining ...

Is there nothing more gratifying than seeing your ex-boyfriend from college -- the boyfriend who cheated on you constantly yet freaked the hell out whenever you got a li'l sum'in on the side; the one who gave you crabs and never told you but accused you of giving him a recurring STD -- all squinty and bloated and driving a navy blue minivan? I don't think there is. I rather enjoyed it, in fact.

Ok, since I haven't made it much of a secret anymore (plus the fact that Crackhead's mom/my aunt already knows and is all for it), here's the deal: The detective called me Wednesday to let me know that he had talked to my uncle, who proceeded to tell him that just that morning, six squads surrounded and searched his crib looking for Crackhead. Why? Because she has a warrant out on her for skipping court -- quite possibly Fed, because she was supposed to be a federal witness against a doctor-cum-candy man who was dishing out the Xanies, Vikes and Somas like Charlie. But whatever, my uncle told the detective that it has been nothing but sheer hell for him and his family since Crackhead started on this shit and that he's had enough. So Saturday night when he goes to pick her up from the airport? It's do not pass go, do not collect $200 for ol' Crackhead; he's taking her straight to the pokey and turning her in. And I have no doubt that he'll do it, too. He still contends that he saw her around the time that I called them that night and is going to make a statement to that effect, but the detective thinks that he's more than likely just confused about the time.

At any rate, the detective is going to pay her a little visit when she's settled in the pokey and approach her with the "Ok, look, you're already in here, why don't you just get it out in the open and make life easier for yourself?" tack. I mean, at this point, I just want to hear her say she did it, fuck everything else. The likelihood of that is slim to none, but you know, her ass is going to be in JAIL, so it could happen.

In the meantime, guess where I'm going tonight? No idea? I be doin' the bus demolition at the Sppedway tonight. Pictures at 11 (or whenever I get back.)

[NOTE TO OGGER: Ze tire, it is done.]

Spent time at casa del Wad this eve, where we scarfed down Lincoln's carryout (a local chain that has the best sandwich-y type grub, and for cheap cheap cheap), drank beer and then trekked to the video game place for games that could possibly eliminate SoW's Godzilla obsession and Target for plants (for HIM, not me), then came back to scarf down Oreos and watch "Eddie Izzard: Dressed to Kill," of which I NEVER get tired. My God, the facial expressions! I was laughing hysterically, and Wad was like, "What is your problem?" Then he passed out asleep and I came home. The end.

As we were traipsing through Target looking at plants (and wireless phone connectors for me -- $60, man! The hell?), I filled him in on the rest of the great TOG debacle.

Hope you and yours -- as well as all Londoners -- are safe and sound.

to buy a new purse when rent is due in a week? Probably not? Well, would it help y'all to know that I got it off eBay for, like, a little less than half retail? And that it's blue like Snidgey's!?! (She lives 700 miles away, so that doesn't count!)

Still not convinced?

Ok, would telling you that that the Louis fake I'm using right now is sooo two years ago, and everyone in NWI has it or something like it make the new bag more palletablepalatable?

No?

(sigh) Tough crowd.

Oh yeah, the part about where I have a date with the IRS to get audited.

(!)

Yup, y'all read that right -- got my notice Saturday night as she and I barely made it into the crib before passing out, so exhausted were we from dropping a pantsload of cash in Trixieville all afternoon. And I know I should probably be more concerned than I am, but I have an accountant, so no sense in getting my panties in a twist.

Wait, who said that?

In the meantime, the rest of the weekend was stellar; the chickies and me did serious damage, including $83 worth of damage in the Endo-Exo Apothecary on this, this and this; another $80-something on a brown beaded halter and earrings at Arden B, and then $30-something on stuff from Lush, including Buffy the Butt Skin Slayer, which is the best exfoliant EVER, and the Butterball Bath Bomb Mademoiselle Pants is so in love with. With all that exfoliatin' going on, maybe now my self-tanning efforst won't be such an exercise in futility.

So then, we caught the second Peacemakers show at HoB, and if we thought Roger was awesome Friday night, he was ON. FIRE. Saturday night. He was so on fire, we almost turned her into a true rock n' roll believer (But alas, she made Winston listen to show tunes on the way back to his crib.) The only thing that would've made the show better? Stools on which to plant our poor, tired asses.

Then Sunday, Snidgey took off with Newbie, EWK's dog, and according to her, she's made fast friends with Trusty and the feline sisters. Now, let's see if I can keep the crib in its current condition long enough for Snidgey to return for the 4th ...

In the meantime, I know y'all have been dying to hear about DtR, so here goes: We met for coffee, he gave me $200 and ... it wasn't horrible. I mean, I don't forsee myself ever getting involved with him romantically (aside from the fact that he's married, just ... no, and we'll leave it at that), and that in fact was the best part about it: knowing things worked out the way they should have, and those things did NOT involve me being with him. Will we be friends? Well, I guess we'll see after we talk about the "IT."

but it's going to have to wait until tomorrow, because I'm one. beat. Broad. (But not in a physically abusive way, promise.)

Sweet dreams, yo.

That's when the deal goes down, yo. He's not going to be able to give me all the cash at one time -- which I guess I wouldn't have expected him to, although that could've been a really extra-SWEET weekend, boy -- but what he's planning on giving will be just fine for downtown shopping at all the right places.

Yes, I know some of y'all are worried that I'm walking into a complete nightmare; don't think that hasn't been on my mind, too. Therefore, I'm posting this e-mail I sent to him last night as my thoughts to the world on the subject:

Take a good gander, because this? Rarely ever happens.

Ever since the Great Weight Gain of Doom(tm), I'm not a fan of posting pictures of myself. But this one, taken at Tara and Sean's crib before the wedding, I kind of dig. I do really need to get some Crest strips, though, because my Pepsi habit's starting to catch up again. Or maybe it was the slut red lipstick.

[THIS JUST IN: Dangdiggity has a Prison Name generator over at her crib. My prison name? Ball Sucker. (Shut up, you.) But that's Ok, because the one guy's prison name would be Ugly Skank Bitch Twat. (And you can still shut up at any time.)]

Greetings, people who find me through googling him or however it is you get here --

When I do my stat check each day, rarely am I surprised by what I find people looking up; "big boobs," "my boobs hurt," "vinyl smell" or "skull fucking" are usually among the biggest draws. You know, nothing out of the ordinary here in Chez Broad, really.

But then there'll be months when visitors come looking for he of the over-gelled mop-top, and I have to tell you, y'all are FREAKING. ME. OUT. I mean, who are you that you are inquiring of the wonders that are Mr. Zakula? Seriously. Are you trying to do a background check because you want to date him? Or are you members of the illustrious committee trying to find recorded dirt? (If so, stop by and say 'Hi," yo! I'm sure I don't have anything you don't already know, but it's not like you don't know me, right!? Be social!) What IS it!?!? I need to know so I can, like, relax.

Something else you can do to ease my melon: See that banner down there about the silver jewelry? Click on it so I can get a wee referral fee. That is all.

[CLARIFICATION: When I said go click on the banner, what I really meant was, "Go buy something from them, because they've got some really cool stuff, and then I can get my wee referral fee."]

Haven't had a lot to say the past couple days, what with getting up before 9 a.m., like, three days in a row and shit. Yeah, I know, I'm a candyass, but I'm not used to getting up that early, and three days of it? Holy shit. I was in walking coma yesterday as I covered a conference on NWI becoming the world's TDL hub. I'm still yawning just thinking about it. Oh, and I saw both Princess Diaries flicks, too, over at Greta's the other night -- the first one I dug, but the second sucked.

So after his whining and calling me a cocksucker (in the best possible way, of course), the Wad and I are drinking this fine eve. Perhaps he'll bring beer here, in which case Ima gonna have to do a quick clean of the crib, or else we'll hit a local watering hole. Tomorrow, however, is Tara's wedding, and I'm the designated photog for the day, so getting too smashed is prolly not a good idea. Or else I need to drink LOTS OF WATER.