The most fucked-up thing to me about the tsunami disaster? For some reason, don't ask me what, I've always equated tsunamis with hurricanes and ominous, horrifying skies. So I'm watching shots of it last night on Nightline, and everything's sunny and happy and whoa! Holy shit! That's a gi-normous wave! Eating the coast! In the sunshine! That ain't right.

So, my day turned out less crappy as it trudged on yesterday: I did talk to my one editor later and everything seems to be all right, and another editor was kind enough to let me include the two stories I worked on yesterday in my woefully pathetic requisition for this pay period so I won't starve. After all, it's a slow time of year. (Digression: Star Jonesreynolds just told Jessica Simpson that her voice is "on point." I'm not sure why I want to stick a fork in my ear more -- because she said "Your voice is ON POINT" or the fact that she's lying and blowing sunshine up Simpson's ass because I can't STAND her mush-mouthed voice. Shudder). The other stuff? Well, lemme tell you a story:

What a shitty day, man -- first I get my ass handed to me by one of my editors (not that it wasn't uncalled for, exactly, but what unnerves me is she hasn't called me back after I apologized), and then Greta calls me to tell me that she's pretty sure she's losing her job tomorrow. And that's not all, but I'm in the midst of two stories, so I'll let y'all in on the rest later.

The only things that have saved this day are the fact that I'm just about to polish off my Hickory Farms Cajun Beef Stick and the following, which I wrote about a certain official who keeps doing really bad things in the town of Schererville:

What, I write about the strip club, and all I got is two separate commenters? Was it not pervy enough for y'all? What? WHAT!?!?

Yesterday totally sucked ass; I had a run-in with this batshitcrazy administrator of this transportation department I sometimes cover, and it just threw me into somewhat of a funk today. I mean, seriously, this guy's nuts. And even though my editor was satisfied with my story once I turned it in, it's like, I don't need to be putting up with that kind of abuse. And he wasn't even yelling; he was all menacing and all Hannibal Lector-like. Just sucked. And then, my cool story from yesterday, the PIO for the governmental agency involved called me and said the executive director was misquoted. Well, as we know, that's never a good thing, but the PIO returned my call at the end of the day, and it wasn't a misquote. Instead, the E.D. says she moved the worker involved, not that the worker requested the move. Well, that's not how she said it yesterday when I interviewed her, but I'm not going to quibble over it. And it's a good story, nevertheless. Lookit:

fackin' high-speed Internet around here!?!?! GAAAAAAH! I swear to God, my town has to be the most ass-backwards place in the universe. I mean, yeah, we can get it -- through Comcast, which'll cost me fuckin' $67.95. Now, if I had their cable, I could have it for $52.95, but the two wouldn't be bundled. Oh, no. So, that would be an extra $110 a month. As I got my set up now with my white-trash dialup, I pay $69 for my phone bill (unlimited long distance and local toll included), $9.95 for my white-trash dial-up and another $9.95 (I think -- I paid it outright) for my Callwave. Oh, and another $39.99 for my cell phone. It ain't right.

So, Shark Tale, waaaaaaay cute. Very funny. Of course, we spent the hour drive back listening to Ashlee Simpson and Michelle Branch (Greta's, NOT MINE), but honestly, they weren't completely intolerable to listen to, especially Michelle Branch. Nice harmonies. But I've discovered something about Ashlee, Michelle and their ilk that's quite troublesome to me: Whereas R&B singers have the ubbawubba factor, the pop princess set has this thing I'll call the Yayay! factor. I mean, I'm not sure if it's their annunciation or what the hell it is (Natalie, can you help a sister out?), but it sounds like they're adding "Yay!" to the ends of every word, and it's. annoying. But I'll tell you what: I'll take Ashlee over her mush-mouthed sister any day.

Me? I got Anything But the Girl's Amplified Heart in my car right now, so THERE.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, we need to welcome Johnnie Walker of Nite Owl and Brandie over at Second Time Around to the 'hood. Both have spectacular designs, might I add.

You know, this whole big boobs thing is not all it's cracked up to be. I mean, (in the whiniest voice ever) why won't the straps on this thing stay where they're supposed to stay!?!!?? Waaaaaaaaaah ...

I did have something I wanted to talk about that surprisingly had nothing to do with my fucked-up family for once, but I'm pissed now, so I don't feel like talking about it. Long day chasing down steelworkers with Mother in the car. 'Nuff said. Perhaps tomorrow.

Don't you just hate it when you finally get things like this out of your head, and then one of your smartass friends LEAVES IT IN YOUR COMMENTS, ONLY TO REINFECT YOU!?!?!?! And then you want to beat your head against the desk until you bleed!?!?!?

One day, when you LEAST expect it, you'll pay for this, Dixon Hill. By God, you will.

Ok, since she's been up to her eyeballs in absolutely dreadful teaching-degree crapola, here's the scoop on our friend Kaffy: Kaffy is waiting for the tests result to see if she is still cancer-free. As y'all may or may not know from reading her, Kaffy was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, what, about three years ago now. She's been cancer-free since then, but each year for five years after the surgery, she has to endure a full body scan, complete with a radioactive cocktail, to make super-special sure. Now usually, the doctors make her go off her thyroid meds altogether, which turns into a Kafkaesque nightmare wherein our heroine loses most of her brain functioning, and that's on top of having to eat basically lettuce for, like, six to eight weeks. (You know the novel Flowers for Algernon? There you go.) Although usually pretty funny, her losing brain function starts to suck about the fifth week. But this time, her doctor allowed a different, miniscule-y less accurate test in which she only had to go on a low-iodine diet.

Long story short, we're waiting for the test results, and how am I supposed to write good things about the test being negative if THEY WON'T CALL AND TELL US!?!?! Dammit.

I hab a code again, everyone, and although Tara says she started her 3-day flavored Z-Pak long before she and I hung out Saturday, I'm still blaming her, because I told her I would. In print. (Loveyoumeanit! ;)

Family drama after the jump, since Kaffy, Tara and Greta got their updates live:

Got an e-mail from my former bosslady today telling me that the massive amounts of beer and Mexican food we consumed last night while bar-hopping like a couple of 20 year-olds? Not a great idea the day before work filled with meetings and lunches and stuff. Like she had to tell me; I slept in two-hour increments the whole night, and I'm quite sure my stomach is trying to crawl through my esophagus to get out for some damn air. So what am I doing to make it stop? Drinking a Pepsi. Thaaaaaat's good.

She and I went to the Cubs game yesterday (they won! Woo!), and then we went to, in order, Bernie's, Cubby Bear, Bar Louie, Heaven on 7, Twisted Spoke and El Jardin, eating and drinking our way through just about each one of them. It was a beautiful thing, especially since Sunday, I had this horrendous craving to drink. Seriously, I don't think I've ever had an urge to drink as mad as that. I didn't, which is probably a good thing given my current state of mind, but still, man. Yikes. It was about as bad as any horniness I experience.

THAT just conjured an image I really didn't need. (Hint: Me and a bottle, and not in the normal way. Iccccccch.)

Like partners who get sympathetic symptoms for whatever their SOs are enduring (i.e. sympathethic pregnancy or, in my pal Laura's husband's case, sympathetic pica, aka the urge to drink Windex), so it must go with we of the blog, because now? the crazies are kicking my ass. While I'm not in crisis like the others (and they're getting only good thoughts and love from this way, so I'm not trying to diminish their struggles here), sometimes, to paraphrase the one guy, having a broken leg is no better than being paraplegic.

However, I WILL be finishing up a story today that will serve as a great prequel to my other big story, which makes me giggle. Oh, and my sister got the letter on the 25th, and no word yet. Kaffy thinks she'll attempt another ambush. Great. Whatever.

Anybody know how I can get my new shower curtain to not smell like ass? It's really kinda killing the vibe of a clean can. Yuk.

My thanks goes out to these two turkeys who, along with a host of others who I can't remember off the top of my head right now, let their insomnia of the last couple weeks filter from the east and west coasts and into the Midwest, because now? I've got it. Of course, my office is now clean (although that was earlier and with Greta's help), as is my bathtub, in preparation for Mer's arrival Saturday. Still, I'd much rather be sleeping, because then, I wouldn't necessarily be thinking about how the one guy's apparently mad at me.

Five days now, and my throat is NOT any better; the whole back of it feels like there's a big ol' lump of unpleasant, and it hurts no matter what I put down. Think it's time for some medical-grade intervention up in here.

But in other news, do you know what my wonderful hairstylist, the Emperor Warrior Kendar, did for me yesterday? It was hair party time, and I told him that although I loved what he did last time, it'll be much better for my January look so could he put a few highlights back in for now? So what he does: He doesn't put your average, everyday highlights in. Oh no. Through about 10 foils and a color that can only be described as burnt orange, it now looks like my hair naturally faded to the color it is in front. I don't know how the fuck he does it, but it's incredible. Thank you, dahling.

P.S. Oh yeah, Chris over at Rude Cactus talked me into popping my guestblogging cherry and drop him a post, since all the cool kids were doing it. So I did. Lookit.

Man, I better not find out that Beth was sharing her death all the way from Dal-US, because I've slept for shit all night, I'm up at 5-fucking-a.m., and she'll find it most amusing because she's one of those early-riser people. Whimper.

But stuff that does NOT blow cow balls (yeah, yeah -- cows don't have balls, I know)? Chelle. Not only because she's hooked up with me, but she does all the really fun stuff, like features and movie reviews. And? Her site design's all about Hugh Jackman. Mmmmmmmmmm ... Hugh Jackman ...(slobber)

And if you haven't already read it, you must go read this diatribe by Kaffy. Do YOU know the Stripper Dance? Because I do. Now.

Here's what the CDC says about West Nile: Lookit. My fever was 100.0 when I took it about a half hour ago, and I've already popped some Tylenol and called my doc's office, of which the awesome cool nurse Cassie said that there is in fact another virus going around as well. She said not to panic, but keep an eye on it, and if the headache gets extra bad or the fever gets crazy higher, get thee ass to help immediately.

Oh, well. I s'pose as long as it's not a brain tumor ...

Why, oh why must I ache so? I'm not running a fever, and yet every joint is screaming for mercy (or good drugs, of which I have neither).

Is there some new hellvirus going around that nobody told me about?

You know how I was all geeked up about seeing Perry Farrell and then finding out he was going to answer my questions? Well, I get around to doing the article I promised the magazine I used to work for on it, and guess what? Lollapalooza 2004? CANCELLED AS OF THIS MORNING, to which my former boss says, "Wow. That's just wacky."

I'm pretty sure we'll just take a new angle, but ... crap. And that was, like, the pinnacle of my career.

Have you heard what those marketing bastards at Ford came up with now!?!? The "Focus and a Dell" commercial, only they 1) changed the co-pimp on it, and 2) rerecorded the jingle to sound more like "Hey Ya!" You know, because that'll make it LESS ANNOYING.

In the immortal words of Sideshow Bob as he shuddered each time he stepped on the rakes, "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuh."