E! Channel’s been playing The Craft for the last few weeks, and I gotta say, I really dig that movie. To me, it’s a smarter, better version of Heathers, and I’m sure my angsty-cool card has been revoked for saying that, but seriously! Fairuza Balk BURIES Christian Slater in terms of over-the-top nutjobs. Just LOOK at her. Anyone who can have cockroaches crawling out her jacket arms? Is badass. Plus, she was hot in it, and all the other performances were nicely low-key for such a campy flick.

Those of you who still blog, do y’all still get spammed in your comments every so often? For as long as I can remember, I’ve been closing out my comments after 48 hours or so, but somehow they figure out how to get through and leave their droppings, or else the comment expire I put on expires or something, I don’t know. But anyway, I got a shit-ton of spam last week on entries I hadn’t thought about in forever, so I took a peek down Memory Lane as I zapped the spam. And as I was doing this, a particular entry grabbed my attention pdq:

That particular entry was about the e-mail the one guy sent me after Cat and I showed up at a party to which we were all invited; problem was, since the party was thrown by HIS friends (and God forbid I have anything to do with HIS friends because, well, they were HIS friends first), he was unhappy, and that was his response when I called him out on it (read: asked him nicely, like a sucker, why he was so rude to me at the party, because he not only didn’t talk to me the whole night, but he stayed directly across from me AT ALL TIMES, as if I smelled). Now normally, TOG doesn’t exist in any meaningful way for me anymore, but seeing that hed made my blood run cold.

But what REALLY kicked in the flop sweat was I wrote after it: I said I admired that he was able to protect his widdle feelings from my harshness (!) and that I would rather he be an asshole to me than ignore me, more or less. Just so I’m crystal here, let me break that down: I said in so many words that I was Ok with this guy treating me like shit—well, maybe not OK ok, but clearly Ok enough to not kick his stupid ass to the curb.

For all my bravada, that right there was—and still is in many ways—me. That scares me.

My issues with anxiety and depression aren’t exactly a secret to y’all, so it was about two weeks after my birthday that I fell into a sinkhole I haven’t experienced since after Dad died. Not sure if my meds stopped working or other external factors played into it, but it was bad enough that my peeps were begging me to get thy flat ass to the brain garage for a tune-up. The episode lasted a good month, month and a half, but for the moment I’m stable, in no small part because I’ve consciously started paying attention to and embracing the nurturing relationships I have and eschewing the ones that aren’t. The endeavor has and hasn’t been easy, but it is what it is, and I’m all right—horrified by what I’ve allowed myself to endure, but getting better.

In other news, Mother turned 75 this week. Do you believe that shit?

A couple funny stories for you that several of you have probably already heard, but you’ll live because to all youse who complain I never come here anymore, I’m writing for the second time this quarter, so ZIP IT and LIKE IT.

STORY NO. 1

A dear friend of mine has a young teenage daughter who, for whatever reason, thinks I’m pretty cool, so the last time I visited I told her I would friend her on Facebook, (Why kids that age find me cool still baffles me—and many do, believe it or not—but all right, I’ll take it.) Now, those of you who’re fb friends with me know that I can be kind of an a-hole with the swearing and the ranting and the so on and so forth, so I promised her parents that I would make sure to lock down my wall and any photos of vulgar t-shirts I might have cached in my photos because, you know, she’s smart, but she’s still a little young to really appreciate the humor in a “Fuck Me I’m Fat” shirt. Or maybe not, but still, that’s not something I or her folks want to find out right now. So I promise her folks she would be on super-sekret lockdown, and that’s exactly what I did ... except I didn’t get it locked down before she saw the pictures from my 40th.

You guys knew I turned 40 since the last time we talked, right? I did, and it was GRAND affair surrounded by my crew, with a limo, all the G-ball I could consume, a riotous performance by the boys and me in a sparkly sequined number and stilettos. Ten hours of nothing but drunken idiocy and mayhem—all of which was seen by the young lady in question because the next time I was over there, she proceeded to tell me how wasted I looked. (You would too if you’d spent 10 hours straight drinking and cavorting.) Well, me looking ridden-hard-put-away-wet isn’t exactly the image I want to convey to the young, but Ok, she’s seen me have a beer or two with the folks, and it was my birthday and I was having fun ... whatever. It’s cool, and her parents weren’t upset by it.

Anyway, so a few weeks go by, and the young lady and I are IM’ing on fb as we do from time to time. I think we were talking about how she was reading The Lovely Bones when all of a sudden, she asks me,

“Beated with ... wha ...!???” I thought to myself, wondering what the hell she was talking about; I didn’t get a chance to look at her clarification before I realized exACTly what she was talking about: the giant flesh-colored, double-headed DONG with which Cheeks delivered my birthday spankings.

Yeah ... see, whenever the boys perform a birthday thing, it’s Cheeks singing “Private Dancer” and giving whoever is the poor birthday-having bastard a lap dance. Well, since Cheeks is evil and knows my aversion to said dong (guys, he does really gross things with it involving tortillas and butt sweat), he and the boys decided to make the lap dance extra-embarrassing and went ahead and beat me with the dong in front of the whole bar. And it was all caught on camera. (Fucker BRUISED me with the damn thing, too, but I digress.)

After I got past the “Shit. Shit! SHIT!” running through my head, I determined there were two ways I could go with what was before me: I could either turn it into a great teaching moment and possibly give her an advantage over her friends in the ol’ sex knowledge department, or I could lie, lie, LIE and save us both a lot of embarrassment as well as the wrath of her parents, who would probably not allow me near her ever again if they knew I taught her about double-headed dongs. Though I’m sure y’all wish I’d have gone with the former—if for nothing else than to imagine me squirming trying to explain the concept of rubber appendages to a child who likely just learned about her period from the nuns—I’m a chicken. As far as she knows, Cheeks is a very strange man who thought it would be funny to deliver my spanking with a baguette ... a rather skinny, PINK baguette, but a baguette nonetheless.

(So y’all don’t think I’m a comPLETE dork, I told her she needs to wait until college before she sticks something she swipes from a dude down her shirt for him to retrieve. Because I’m cool like that.)

STORY NO. 2

Also at my 40th Birthday Party of Total Iniquity and Ill Repute(TM), G/BF thought it would be amusing to have Cheeks taunt and tantalize me with a Butterfly which, for those of you unfamiliar, is a “personal pleasure device” that’s supPOSED to look like a butterfly but to me looks more like an alien and NOTHING like anything I would want near my ladyflower. Said device was promptly packaged and tossed in the backseat of my car what, six weeks or so ago?

Fast-forward again to last Friday, when Li’l Kate and I got to see each other for the first time in 10 years. She couldn’t secure a rental to head down here from her training in the city, so I of course went to pick her up; since I spent most of the day screwing around, I didn’t get to shower before going to get her, and I painted quite the picture with my hair in a half-ass pony, no makeup and grungy sweatshirt I may or may not have worn all week. In other words, I wasn’t looking particularly ... feminine, if you will. Or clean.

I pull up in front of the building, and Li’l Kate comes out the door, her boss in tow because he wanted to go over a few more things with her on the elevator ride down. She comes over to the passenger side while I tell her boss to throw her suitcase in the backseat, to which he says



“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said, not thinking anything of it. But then we then arrive at the crib, where Li’l Kate pulls out her suitcase. And what should come FLYING OUT OF THE BACKSEAT WITH IT?

Li’l Kate and I stare at the little black box lying there on the ground for a second before she bursts out laughing and says, “Is THAT what he was talking about?”

“Shit, I forgot that was back there ... he’s not going to know what it is, though.”

“Uh, there’s a HALF-NAKED WOMAN ON IT.”

“Oh ... well, still.”

Still haven’t found out what Li’l Kate told the coworker who asked her, “So what happened when you left Friday?” Monday morning.

Talking to a friend and former colleague the other day, and she asks me if I’m still keeping up with ye old blog. I told her, “Well, I’m not NOT keeping up with it, but yeah, my last entry was in September,” and she was all, “You should at least let people know you’re not dead.” It’s always kinda been my thought that bringing attention to the fact that you’re not blogging is kind of trying to BRING ATTENTION to the fact that you’re not blogging, as in “Look at ME, everyone! Don’t you MISS ME when I’m not around!?” as if all y’all do is sit around to hang off my every word. But since she made the point:

No, everyone, I’m not dead.

So 2009 ended on an Ok note considering that Pimp’s alternator croaked in the lefthand turn lane of a major intersection during rush hour; interestingly enough, it was this final straw that snapped me out of what’s had to have been the most terrible, horrible, emotional no-good week I’ve been in months, kinda like “Yeah, this is the blood-clot cherry on a shit sundae, so I might as well just lighten up because the crying hasn’t helped!” There were mitigating factors to this terrible, horrible, emotional no-good week—like the reason I was home for NYE instead of out seeing the boys, for example—but there’s no need to hash, and some of it I can’t talk about here, anyway, because I promised. Anyway, I’m feeling better now, although the week made for some creative suicide ideation techniques!*

Hopefully this year will get me going and writing here again, but in the meantime I hope y’all are well, the holidays were full of love and laughter and that your aspirations for this year are fulfilled. N’ shit.

Yes, but if I may go on record here and point out that how the hell was I supposed to know G/BF was setting her son’s voicemail when I thought Buddy over on ”All Over the Map“ got Farrah Fawcett’s cancer wrong!?? (He didn’t, btw.) And anyway, if I heard someone yelling “RECTAL CANCER!” on voicemail, I would it hilarious. I may be the only one, but I’m Ok with that.

So it goes without saying that life is a shit-ton better when I’m not dying of some flesh-eating virus’ cousin or whatever. The Cat & Co. visit over Memorial Day was a great time—spent a lot of time in the city learning ... stuff, like at the Field Museum, for instance: We were walking through the Animals of Africa and Antarctica and whatever when we came upon a walrus skeleton. I don’t know if y’all have ever SEEN a walrus skeleton, but as I was looking at it I notice there’s a rather large bone situated between its legs, and not like a tail. I pondered this for a moment before I whispered to Cat “Cat, are you seeing what I’m seeing here?” to which she was all, “Yeeeeeah, I see it.” So we pondered it a bit longer before sharing our findings with Mr. Rags (her ex-husband with whom she’s reconciled, huzzah!) out of earshot of T-man, who’s at that age where anything scat-related is the greatest thing ever. Well, later at dinner (and I gotta interject here for a moment that for those of you who love Emilio’s Tapas: It was good, but I still think Arco is way better. Too bad it was CLOSED the Sunday we were there for whatever reason, forcing us to almost have to eat at a REALLY expensive little Japanese joint that looked good based on the recommendation of the two gay gentlemen we interrupted at dinner and California Rolls she and I scarfed down to use the bathroom), Cat whipped out the old Crackberry to look up whether walruses have ... bones in their bones. Sure enough, ALL animals have weiner bones except for, like, four of them, of which man is included. So as Cat’s sharing this information, T looks at us and said, “I know what you guys are talking about,” and we were all “No, you don’t,” when he looks at Cat and points at his unit. I of course started cracking up while Mr. Rags had to explain that we don’t point at that in public. Anyway, Mr. Rags isn’t convinced that Cat and I actually left the museum to go shoe shopping while he and T went to see the museum’s Pirate thingy; he thinks we just stood there marveling at the walrus bone.

[Fun fact: Did you know walrus bones can get up to at least 4 feet long and that one time, one that size went up for auction with a starting price of $16K? Tons of people bidded on the thing because it’s an oddity and why wouldn’t you want a walrus weiner bone in your collection? True story.]

There are other stories to tell from that weekend—like the yentas sitting behind us at the Cubs game and another scatological exchange with the BoyofWad, but I think my favorite parts had to do with T and me; it got to the point where all we had to do was look at each other, and we’d just start laughing for no reason, thereby proving once again that I’m nothing if not 12. That’s one groovy little kid, though.

Now, things have taken a somewhat contemplative turn up in these here parts—a turn that has me itching for trouble. And it IS a full moon this weekend ...

Did any of y’all hear something about a cat being tossed out of a baseball game by its tail? One of my dearest friends/old editors has been yakking about it on FB, and I of course am all horrified at the thought. No, I don’t want a youtube link if it exists; I just want confirmation so I can prolong my outrage accurately.

Witnessed a near ass-whooping tonight at one of the bars a town over, and it was AAAAAAAALLLL Cheeks’ fault. I was at home catching up with Kaffy and CatRags and getting my underwear in the wash when Girlie (who sometimes wants to be known by her handpicked superhero name, Bitch Fantastic, from here on out) rings in to let me know she and one of her pals are out at said bar, get my ass over there. Threw on some clothes and arrived to Cheeks without the rest of The Unit (and here I COULD make several scatological “That’s like A without B”—what the hell’s that device called?—thingies, but they would be WRONG, WRONG WRONG. Also, Cheeks has informed me he’s now reading along with the class). So I’m sitting there with the gals drinking my Dog Style and trying to come up with our obnoxious request for the evening because it’s my new goal in life to think of the most pedantic, awful song requests for them to perform ("Hell is for Children” was particularly inspired, I think, and has been my favorite so far), and a crowd starts gathering at the door. Upon further examination, we notice that the big hairy bouncer at the front is squeezing the neck of some douchebag like he’s going to pop his head like a zit while others are trying to separate others and we don’t know what the hell’s going on when suddenly, Cheeks yells “GO FUCK YOURSELF, CONVICT!” then starts singing “Why Can’t Weeeeee Be Friends?” which we thought was hilarious and perfectly appropriate. There was one chick who clearly didn’t, however, because SHE RUSHED THE STAGE AND TOOK A SWIPE AT HIM WITH HER NAILS. Now, all we saw was her bounding up to the stage, and we were like, “Whoa, holy shit!” but we didn’t think she actually made contact with his flesh.

So the story is, this chick was trying to put in a request or talk to him while he was in the middle of a conversation, and he was all “Hold up, give me a sec,” so she wigs out and tells her douchebag friends to tell him what-for, only instead of reaching HIM, they went up to aNOTHER table of douchebags, who got all puffy, and then fighting ensued and so on and so forth. I just hope they weren’t waiting for him in the parking lot.

Oh, and since everyone’s been asking, no, I have NOT given up my reporting career as perhaps my FBing has led y’all to believe. I HAVE been picking up shifts at the restaurant, though, since Girlie/Bitch Fantastic has been a little shorthanded and, you know, it’s the LEAST I can do n’ shit since I essentially live there, anyway. And I have to say, it doesn’t suck. I mean, I think I’ve talked about how I waitressed for a little bit in college and how God-awful it was and how even worse *I*was at it, but this is actually fairly cool. I just need to get the hang of it a little better, so no, I do NOT have a set shift and no, I will NOT tell you when I’m there. At least let me get a little better at it before you come in and try to make me lose my shit, huh?

First I get, “EnterTAIN ME!” then I get “Oh, OH! You go a whole MONTH without blogging, and now you want to do it aGAIN!?? WhatEVER!” The hell. A broad can’t get a break over here.

Show of hands: How many of y’all are having problems with your significant others? I swear, all my girls’ relationships are imploding, and it makes me really, REALLY glad I’m single. Like today, we were at the restaurant, and one of them was talking about how now that she’s asked her husband for a divorce, he’s now all up her butt and—oh God—CRYING all the time. Another one doesn’t have the crying (much), but hers is waiting on her hand-and-foot when all she really wants is for him to pay some of the damn bills. And yeah yeah yeah, I know emotions make me itch and all, but I was, like, horrified, because when I think about the usual complaints, it’s always women jawing about how their men are too involved in work and whatever. But a guy clinging would be SO much worse to me, I can’t even TELL you. Seriously, how do you get “I need to do everything short of wiping my woman’s ass” from “She’s asked me to start contributing to the household”!?? That doesn’t even make sense. But yeah, so, being able to never change out my jammies and loving my cats doesn’t sound quite so bad now, does it? (Not that it ever did to ME, but ...)

Hey, remember my skin flute? It’s on loan to The Unit boys since Holy Saturday. I don’t think they’re going to do anything completely disgusting to it, but I know it brought them great joy, hence the “Thank you, Easter Bunny!” reference. Cheeks took to it quite nicely, in fact. On another note, they played the HELL out of “Honky Tonk Woman”; these guys are really good, but I was FLOORED by how good that was.

Because I may have just inadvertently given one a death sentence, and I need to find her a home.

I was heading to my dye job this afternoon when, in somewhat of a déjà-vu* moment, I heard loud mewing coming from the bushes. So I psssssspsssspssssssssed, and a pretty little brown and cream calico – one that looked suspiciously like one of my other downstairs neighbor’s kittens that she got in the fall – ran out of the bushes and gave me tummy. She wasn’t malnourished, but her lower back was all ragged and full of dander. She kept following me to my car and crisscrossing my legs as I walked, and I was just heartbroken and outraged because I thought I saw this kitten out a week or so ago, and if this was Pixie, I was going to have to hurt a bitch because I TOLD this heifer that I would look in on the kittens since she’s not home a lot, and now she’s just kicking one OUT THE HOUSE!?? Aw HELL NAW.  But I had to make my appointment, so thinking it’s no-kill, I called Animal Control to come get her, right? Well, I just found out from Girlie that my town’s animal control is NOT necessarily no-kill, so now I’m even MORE heartbroken than I already was. She’s really pretty and very friendly; if anyone’s interested, hit me up. I would take her in a HEARTBEAT iff’n I didn’t think the boys would go ape.

Now for a complete digression, does anyone else think Taylor Swift looks like a stuck-up ferret? Discuss.

Here’s another digression: Suppose you were chatting with a gentleman you fancy, smiling and generally being cute (or as cute as someone like you can be), and when you said something makes you excited, the gentleman pulls back your jacket to, ahem, GAUGE said excitement. Would you consider that getting hit on or playful banter? Whatever it was, it got ME all tingly – so tingly that I completely blocked out that AFTER we got done talking with my gentleman crush, I slid on a patch of ice and fell flat on my ass.

[UPDATE 2/18: Got a call from the animal control lady—she didn’t get the kitten, and when I called for her in the bushes a minute ago, I heard her, so she’s still here, and I can now get her someplace safe.]

if Michael Phelps can get his Wheaties revoked for hitting a bong, punk-ass bitch Chris Brown better lose his endorsement for hitting a girl. Who’s with me!??

Ah, to be young and little and thinking it’s a good idea to wear summer clothes when it’s ass-cold out: Saturday night, Girlie and I turned up at Flat Rock to catch The Unit, a hilarious cover band partial to taking requests from the crowd (including “It’s Raining Men,” which I requested), when this little longhaired girl and her douchey Pete Wentz boyfriend with a horrendous underbite—clearly impervious to both the music style and the cold based on the pot smell coming off her—took off her corduroy jacket and started flailing her arms and swaying in that Dead/Phish way. Poor thing was wearing a halter dress not unlike one I bought from the Guinness Flagh some 11 years ago—same color except longer and with a red bra underneath. Ever the asshole and to Girlie’s amusement, I started grooving with her, but when I stopped she came up and yelled, “You can’t stop when you’re free!” (snerk—I know, right?), to which I replied, “That’s true. Now go put some clothes on, Hippie Girl!” but by then she’d grooved out of earshot. Other funny things from that night include the drug dealer who bought us a round after watching his stuff when he went out to make a sale and the girls who were doing the equivalent of pole dancing without the pole: Girlie calls that their “vaguely entertaining, yet completely useless skill set.” I just wish I was still that limber, IF I ever was.

Brian Vander Ark played the last of his month-long series at Schuba’s last night, and as much as I’ve seen him the past year (five, six times, I think), last night was probably the best yet. He played with a group of musicians he’s befriended over the past year or two, and they were really good, though much as I dig folk, it was a bit too mellow after two Stellas and I retired to the bar, where some kind soul threw some Clash into the jukebox.  But he opened up with my first favorite song of his, “Then We Fell,” about a couple who contemplates leaving the U.S. after 9/11, and ended with my second favorite, “Someone Like You” because I kept requesting it when he took requests. I just wish he didn’t have to play “The Freshmen” every. time. I see him. I know it’s everyone’s favorite, but it’s not like you don’t hear it enough on any adult-contemporary station. Why you gotta ruin MY show-going experience!??

Forgot to mention this in my vignette dump of last week, but I grabbed lunch with my college boyfriend a couple weeks ago. Nothing big—we ran to Subway—but as we were yapping, I kinda got the impression he still thinks of me as I was in college (read: TRAINWRECK). So I shared my thoughts with Poppy, who reminded me that to someone who’s married, MOST things single people do look exciting even if they’re really not, and it’s not anything personal; and most people are who they are by time they’re 17-ish anyways, so if you’re a little dramatic like I was (snerk), that doesn’t usually go away. He kinda said the same thing when I told him I think he still thinks I’m a trainwreck the other day, and that there are some ways in which I haven’t changed. That’s true; my penchant for attracting crazy remains unabated.

The other thing I forgot to mention: I covered the grand opening of a casino hotel last week, but do you know I turned down the invite to stay overnight and get the royal treatment because I thought it would be improper, yet I could’ve because it in no way biased my coverage!?? Dumbass. Actually, you know why this bums me out so? Not because I could’ve gotten a massage or hobknobbed at swanky cocktail party. Nay nay. I’m bummed because I wasn’t among the first to ever sleep on one of them cushy hotel beds, thereby NOT leaving my DNA for the blacklights to pick up during an investigation.

that would be because I’m once again on an eating frenzy where nothing resembling food is safe. It’s like, you know, I’m nearing menopause, fer chrissake; you’d think this shit would ease up after awhile. Gad.
How ‘bout a vignette dump? Haven’t done one of those in a while ...

-- You in the band! You ain’t security: Managed to get in the middle of a bar fight Saturday night when the little brother of a friend started getting shoved around by some dumbass drunk. First I tried to grab him, and then I got between the two of them when the shoving started. I was feeling a little feisty, you see, and since I wasn’t going to get to let off steam in other ways, you gotta do what you gotta. Girlie just kind of rolled her eyes.

-- Oh, but there WILL be trout slapping tonight, Ladies: Yeah, see, when the “friend card” is played on one, one really needs to think long and hard about whether the (in theory) long and hard is worth it. But that’s all I’m going say about that, so take from it what you will.

-- Still getting acclimated to the new computer. Turns out all the hassle last week? Was over a dead ethernet cord, which wad DID point out was most likely the cause and Emperor Warrior Kendar told me how to check. There might also have been a complete overlooking of the little satellite icon at the front of the computer, too, but that wasn’t the problem. VISTA, though! You really CAN’T do anything without it asking you whether you want to or not, which yeah, is kinda good for those of us who know just enough about computers to do a lot of damage but sure is annoying when you DO know what you need to do. Cumbersome. But I’m really digging being able to stretch out on the couch and do my stuff; I just need to get a wireless router.

-- Watched the Inauguration today at Bang Bang, and the ladies and I were kinda disturbed by the color of Michelle’s suit. Over there, it looked like chartreuse, which I thought was a really odd choice considering she rocks yellow, but upon further inspection it was really a pretty golden yellow. I wasn’t having the green shoes she wore with it, though.

-- Speaking of the Inauguration, I have to say I’m pretty appalled by all the star fucking going on. Yes, celebrities identify liberal, but come on! When have they ever taken such an interest?

-- So my check is once again late, and in keeping with my feisty mood, I’m sure I didn’t make any friends when I got a little testy about it. 

Awesome, awesome AWESOME!

Know what else is awesome? Two words: TOOL. ACADEMY. Earlier I fell asleep to “Celebrity Rehab House of Allegedly Sober People” and woke up to this bit of magnificence. People, you must watch it. I know Girlie will fight me to the end on adding it to the Crap TV lineup, but I don’t care. This is spectacular television, and I’ll endure it myself if I must.

One other thing: I’m now coming to you from my new Christmas laptop, of which I seem to finally have fully operational. Remind me to tell you what a nightmare it was trying to get it there. I will say this, though: Vista is an asspain, fer real.

Four forty-two. That’s what time I got home this morning.

No, no. I wasn’t partying up with my crew or getting my junk crunked or anything one would normally assume would be going on at 4:42 ayem. Nope, I was driving home from Area 2, District 5 after sitting there for FIVE HOURS. For nothing in which *I* was involved.

Let’s back the train up, here: 10:30, right as Chelsea starts her monologue. I’m on the can after watching Nip/Tuck (whoa, this season’s going to be fucked UP, people!) when I hear voices (or A voice, as it turns out) in the hallway followed by hysterical knocking. I yell “Hold up! Hold up!” and finish my business, thinking the building’s on fire and how the hell am I going to round up the boys to get them out. The building wasn’t on fire, though; it was my downstairs neighbor, and a cop just called her and said he has her boyfriend, can she come and pick up his truck so it doesn’t get impounded? They’re at the corner of such and such ... on Chicago’s East side. And she doesn’t know how to get there, can I please, PLEASE come with her!??

Now, you might remember such situations as the Sweetest Day debacle that would be reason enough for me not to venture out of the crib where these two are concerned. You might also remember that I’m a big sap. And anyways, she was going to take the long way to get there, and I at least know how to get there quicker.

So the ride there was listening to her manically flit from one topic to the next, but the gist was the cop didn’t tell her why they had him and that she’d talked to him an hour earlier, and he’d said he was sleeping. (I, in the meantime, had decided it wasn’t a cop that called her but an “associate” who was going to pop a cap in her head as soon as she got out of the car, but I digress.) We get to the intersection, and sure enough, there’s his truck and an unidentified cop car behind it. She parks, throws her emergency lights on and then tells me to follow them to the station, but doesn’t tell me how to turn her emergencies off, so there I was driving like an idiot in a 2009 Camry with emergencies, blowing stops and shit just so I can keep up because it’s been waaaaaay long since I sowed oats on the East side. (Yeah, I was hardcore back in the day. What!?) Our destination: 111th and Cottage Grove, also known as Area 2, the place where telephone books are never wasted.

I think I told y’all once the lesson I learned about the penal system and how it’s not supposed to be like Momma’s house in order to keep criminals from coming back, right? I can tell you with utmost authority that Calumet Station? Not so much with the amenities. Thankfully, it didn’t smell like urine a la the old Gary HQ, but man! Imagine taupe and burnt sienna colored floor tile that’s kinda coming up in spots but not really, gray walls, block glass surrounding stairwells with primary yellow painted railings and brown gates separating the lobby and the rest of the facility, then take away any joy or hope you’ve ever had in your life and throw four homeless people sleeping outside, and there you go. Oh, and let’s not forget this art ... thing suspended between the two buildings that looks like a big chunk of ceiling tile held by 100 little wires and any manner of sketchy hooligans wandering in and out, especially the one woman who kept railing at the “pussy-ass po-lice” for arresting her brother or cousin or whoever—THAT was fun to decipher.

We’re there about an hour when the other arresting cop comes out and tells her his prints have come back fine and that whatever it was he was doing (and I do know, but for privacy reasons I’ll keep it to myself) wasn’t serious enough for the cop to pursue it but that the boyfriend WAS arrested and would be released at, oh, 3 a.m. “Well, hell, (neighbor), why don’t we just go home and he can call you when he’s done? We’re not that far from here for you to come back.” She told me I could take her car home, but like yeah, I’m going to leave her in the middle of the ‘hood by herself all geeked up on adrenaline and suspicion. That’s never a good combo for ANYONE. At that point, she says let’s take his truck and get something to drink.

And that’s when she started the recon.

We’re sitting there in the parking lot, she with her coffee and Red Bull (and for those like T who know my neighbor, they know that’s a baaaaad combination) and I with my Sierra Mist Cranberry, going through his immaculate vehicle looking for evidence. This, I had mixed feelings on. I mean, I’m no stranger to the recon and am pretty darn good at it—please—but. It’s all about what you’re going to do with the info once you have it, and I knew she was going to do exactly what she did—call the woman—and really, when the relationship is as bad as theirs, there’s really no point in getting all up in the other woman’s biz; let the other one deal with his stupid ass, right? Turns out, though, that that woman isn’t the woman he’s cheating with; it’s ANOTHER one. (FABulous!) Anyway, whoever it is doesn’t matter because now she knows, and hallelujah! she wants to leave him there—except we CAN’T, because she can’t just leave his keys at the front desk for him, say the officers.

SIGH.

So, we go back out to the truck for awhile before coming back in at 2:55 because he was supposed to be let go at 3, remember, and I’m starting to reek because the temp in truck was like 80 and who knows how hot it was in the station, and I was wearing sweats that should never leave the crib, clean or not. 34:10 rolls around, and we ask again what the holdup is: The officer said there was a “mishap”; the cleaning ladies said someone threw up and peed all over, and until THAT was brought “under control,” no one was leaving. FINALLY about 34:20, he came out. I thought she would just hand him his keys and leave with me, but no, she wanted to ride with him, so whatever, I didn’t have to listen to it. I got in her car and drove the hell home.

Earlier this evening, I was on the horn with Mother when I started hearing what sounded like caterwauling until the caterwauling started forming words. I look out, and the boyfriend is walking up to the door with a bag, then he goes back to the truck and PULLS her out of it. I stood there and waited for her to throw herself in front of the vehicle, but thankfully that didn’t come to pass. Haven’t heard anything since.

Calling in the middle of the night for a piece when I could just as easily be substituted with a fresh corpse or really any other inanimate object with marginal pliability does NOT turn me on. It makes me want to shit on your car.

I tried to resist it. I really did. Lord knows I didn’t want to succumb to the charms because I know it’s so, SO bad, especially for someone like me. But now I’m stuck, and I’m not sure what to do.


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How the hell am I going to live without the data package on my new Blackberry!??(What’d YOU think I was talking about!??)

It’s not even that I love being attached to my e-mail or facebook everywhere I go (Shutup, I’m not even kidding about that!), because the e-mail it works with is my catchall e-mail, so I get duplicates of crap; and the one time I had a document I needed sent, I was home in front of my computer, and when I get my laptop, that’ll kind of negate the need, too. What I love love LOVE, though!?? This freakin’ calendar business. Par example, I just plugged in the assignments I just got for the rest of the week into Google Calendar, right? Well, when I go pick up my phone, the bitches will have already talked to each other, and not only will the assignments be on the phone, but a reminder will pop up! BOING! Yes, of COURSE I can sync them by USB easily, too, but ... but DUDE! I don’t even have to THINK about syncing with this setup! It’s just. so. TITS.

Problem is, is it tits enough to spend 30 bone extra a month during a time when my industry’s in the can. All signs point to “no,” but ... BUT, there’s a way to bypass the data package via the APN, so if someone (*cough*wad*cough*) will supervise me switching, I’d love them forever.

Last Saturday, we celebrated Curlie’s birthday at Frontera Grill, the “casual” Rick Bayless dining establishment. People. SO. GOOD. And talk about class, too: When JChoo (Girlie’s cousin) locked her keys in the car as we were giving it to the valet, the manager was all, “Hey, we got this. Can we get you a drink while you wait?” And they jimmied the lock free-of-charge as we dined! OutSTANDING! The margaritas were amazing, too—Curlie and I had the Yucateca, which was Patron, something citrus and a hint of habanero pepper, which was like, you took a sip and then it was all “Why, helLO there, habanero! How sneaky are you to show up in this drink so smoothly!” and Girlie had the Blue Agave, which was their version of the regular margarita, and if all regular margaritas were like that, I would so drink regular margaritas. (As of now, mine must have a minimum of two fruits before it passes my lips.) Food was really good, AND they even took Curlie’s cake and dressed each slice up with raspberry sauce and pomegranates. Highly recommend to ANYONE who likes Mexican fusion-type stuff.

Anyway, the holiday’s definitely shaping up to be better than last year, so if I don’t get a chance to wish it, Hairy Fishnuts to all you crazy cats. Hope it’s non-eventful and full of joy.

A word to the ladies that I may come across in my travails, if I may: Unless you want a short, overweight woman in a faux shearling coat and fake D&G handbag to start shaking that ass whilst you give your date a lap dance during a cover of “Sympathy for the Devil” IN A RESTAURANT, you probably ought to not give him a lap dance. Then I—er, I mean SOMEONE, might not get the urge to look your date straight in the eye and give him a “Thumbs up” because he knows—AS DOES EVERYONE ELSE IN THE JOINT—that he’s going to get himself some, and though that might be his endgame, what if he doesn’t want to make it that obvious!??