From our ol’ pal and self-proclaimed BBW Kaffy:

Ok, so as Girlie, Curlie and Li’l Holly and I were standing at the ghe-TTO flea market waiting for our rib tibs, a seagull shit on my head.

I’ve heard somewhere that it’s supposed to be good luck when that happens, but so far, the only thing lucky about it was that Girlie had baby wipes on her.

No, no no, I did NOT disappear in a fit of pique or anything quite as dramatic—just a quiet week with nothing to bitch aboutshare with the neenerbunny. (Well, there’s ONE thing, but my sister would disown me if I did, and anyway it’s not really my story to share. It’s a good’un, though, holy shit.) This weekend has some potential for ridiculousness, however: The ladies and I have a couple engagements this evening that could either shake out as muy fun or absolute disasters, which in turn will make for excellent sharing, so stay tuned. As for my leetle outburst Monday, I get really angry when my integrity or how I “do business” or whatever is questioned by people who I count among my core crew. I mean, if you gotta question it after this long, that says more about you than it does me.

The edict on politics still stands, though.

I don’t usually read Feministing, but one of the jezzes pointed to this post in a discussion: Lookit.

Scared to look? Then hows about a highlight:

I just found out my 20-something’s gone. He moved away for a job and to be closer to family, so of course I’m happy for him because that’s what he wanted, but it’s just ... wow, he’s gone. Booooooooooo.

In other news, my cholesterol’s down 30 points and my birthmark won’t ever turn malignant.

the SNL sketch with Amy Poehler, Kristen Wiig (I think), guest star Shia LeBeouf (who also happens to be my new pretend celebrity boyfriend) and the rest of male cast where Amy and Kristen are in a nice restaurant, and at every table there’s men, only the men have these dopey expressions? And then, when the women—completely enamored with all of them—wonder what they’re thinking, you hear them thinking “Doy da doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doooooooyyyyy!” Ohmigod, the LOOKS on their faces! I about PEED myself laughing. See, that’s the kind of thing my one oldest and dearest does to me all the time: We’ll be chillin’ and then I’ll go to the can or get us something to drink, and I when I come back he’s there with one of those exact expressions on his face, and I can’t breathe because I’m laughing so hard. Last time he was in the NWI, I was trapped in my bathroom for, like, 15, 20 minutes because he was sitting on my couch with that look. We weren’t even stoned, and I was just dying. I hope someone puts that sketch up on youtube so I can post it or send it out or something.

In other news, I hemmed my first pair of pants tonight, and not just with hem tape. Ima make me a good wife someday and shit.

[UPDATE: I FOUND IT! Lookit. I’m telling you, pure, unadulterated GENIUS!]

Why is it that when I get a 10-cent coupon off 10 gallons of gas, that equals $1 off, but when gas goes up 10 cents and I put in 15 gallons, I pay $5 more than the last fucking time I had to fill up!?? Yeah, that was without the coupon, but still, the hell!?? Or am I just that retarded?

Or maybe it was the too-much-beer-and-tuna-Subway combo, because I felt like shit on toast all day, exacerbated by the fact that I had to be in court at 9 a.m. for a story. It’s not like I was even out that late, but I NEVER sleep well after I’ve had more than I should, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Not even a mid-afternoon nap snapped me out of it. Gross.

So, Wad’s and my visit was engrossing as always: We drank, we shared, we discussed at length my compulsion to always be right, I may have cried a little—you know, the usual. All right, well, not the USUAL usual, but it’s a discussion we’ve had before and one that’s sort of pertinent for me right now. As someone who’s been on the ass-end of that compulsion so many times we’ve lost count, Wad has a valid take. Where we disagree is on the point of compromise and how it should factor into the equation—he maintains that even if you know you’re so right, a 90-degree angle ain’t got nothing on you, suck it up for the good of the friendship/relationship and apologize from the bottom of your heart, because being right isn’t worth the loss, just let the shit go already, etc. I, on the other hand, think that if two people are wrong, they both need to acknowledge their individual wrongness and if it can be worked on, work on it from there.

I don’t think he’s wrong at all, and I admit that I do probably need to pick my dealbreakers more thoughtfully than I do sometimes. But see, when you start taking it for the team no matter what in a relationship or friendship, one of two things is bound to happen, if not both—1) the person will eventually lose all respect for you, and 2) you’re going to start resenting the ever-loving hell out of them. I know this because I’ve done it time and time again, and it never turns out any different. Not once. As such, my knowing when to hold and fold IS skewed because of it. Still, if I’m ever going to rid of my “I’m Responsible for Global Warming"(TM) complex, I have to relearn to stand my ground; it’s not something I do easily anymore, and I miss that about myself.

It’s now time for me to die, so no poignant ending. But I’m glad he and I talked.

If someone can find me at least one Healing Garden Green Teatheraphy Meditation Tea Candle, you would be so awesomely rewarded, you don’t even know. I fired up the last of mine up tonight, and I’m dying because I LOOOOVED the smell, and now it seems that Healing Garden/Coty doesn’t make it anymore. Please! There’s gotta be some left SOMEwhere!

Nothing especially new over here: Cleaned off my desk for the first time since forever, even throwing some Old English on it, and I had a great political story yesterday that didn’t make me want to shoot myself. Eight Belles, however, made me want to cry; that poor, poor baby. Thankfully, I didn’t hear anything about it before I left the OTB (I was doing a story on Derby Day in NWI), or I’d have been horrified on top of weirded out over being there, as the OTB is NOT my turf. Oh, and I can now pull both the front and sides of my hair into a pony-knot on top of my head, which I haven’t been able to do since college, but I won’t be showing that until I get my roots did.

I’ll be having drinks with Herr Wadensteiner tomorrow provided I don’t have to work, though, so I’m sure there’ll be something interesting out of THAT mess. We have mucho catching up to do.

I know that boy-cut panties are the shit-diggity—they’re my preferred cut, if you must know—but if you’re going to wear a white, high-collared bad 80s sweater AS A DRESS, rockin’ the white boy-cuts underneath defeats the purpose.

And don’t even get me started with that stupid wide gold belt with the black pumps.

[EDITED TO ADD: This comment is to the snooch we saw workin’ it after the gig, not Roger Clyne himself. He wouldn’t dare be so crass about his underwear choices.]

(A summary of the Bower-Mollin wedding)

So, the wedding to end all weddings, right? I don’t even know where to start other than to say it truly was a fantastic night, full of joy and love, great friends, designer couture and all the free booze you could handle (as long as the bartenders were at their posts—whut up with dat, Ben-ha-meen? Like, every time the band went on break, so did the barkeeps.) Ben wore the hell out of his ascot, suit and silverish pimp shoes, of course, but Ann?

How ‘bout I just show you:


Ok, she doesn’t have a head in this shot,
but you had to see the back of the gown first
to get just how gorgeous it was. (Standing
next to her is her son, Lathan, who cut quite
a dashing figure in his mini-tux.)

Not good enough? Then how ‘bout this:


This was taken after mucho drinkage,
and she STILL looks unbelievable.
I, on the other hand, had started wilting
at that point.

Lessee, what else? Oooo! Here’s a cool shot of the Hava Nagila that killed my feet and knees:


Ben’s momma and pop sang it.


My seester and I as she took a break from
all that shooting (and man, did she get some
awesome shots.) (And if you’re thinking we
don’t look that much alike, you’re correct. I
got all the Eastern European features, while she
got the pretty skin that tans.)


Thas righ, Reality TV sneetchez! That most certainly
IS Steven Rosengard of Project Runway Cycle 4.
That’s who designed Ann’s incredible dress and day-before
wedding ensemble, which was equally sharp. (The hot chick
is Girlie, who accompanied me.)


Joe Winters and me. Don’t he clean up nice?


After Girlie and I split the reception, our presence
was requested at a local benefit at the Hobar
American Legion, where we ran into this cat,
the infamous Randy Anderson ("Buck Daddy”
to his musical fans). Evidently Randy doesn’t
remember ever seeing me without my specs,
because he kept marveling at my eyes the whole time.

And so as not to give you the impression that the wedding was all about me even though I acted like it with all that prep and planning my outfit, here’s one of my favorite moments of the night:


Right after the three of them walked out to
the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Ben
yanked Lathan up and swung him around.

My other favorite moment was in the video of the wedding: The moment the judge told Ben to kiss his bride, the sheer elation on their faces was proof enough that they’re going to be a couple for the ages. You don’t see love like that often, and it’s always so breathtaking to see.

And then I started doing a little jig at the bar.

and as such Ima hit the couch for a nap on a dreary Sunday afternoon regardless of the fact that I probably picked up tetanus walking through the American Legion barefoot this morning. Full wedding day story TK, but here’s a teaser since I gave it such a build-up:

or was watching the wrong things if he has, because he clearly does not know from stripper shoes. Therefore, a visual:


These are stripper shoes.


These are my shoes.


Striiiiiipper ...


Nooooooot stripper

This wild and wonderful pattern right here is my new dress, which came in over the weekend, and I have to say, it’s even BETTER than what I imagined, and not just because I have to have it taken in. (No no, giving up Pepsi for the last week has NOT made me lose a shit-ton of weight, though it has helped some. I ended up buying a size too big.) It’s SO cute that the first thing I thought when I tried it on is, “You know what would be REALLY be fun? If I wear a big ol’ petticoat underneath and rock a whole ‘50s vibe.” I mean, I bought the shrug, and Mother’s got this 3-strand choker of ginormous pearls—it’d be totally cool and so not out-of-place since it’s an eclectic bunch anyway. Now, I just have scour bridal shops to find a petticoat short enough to go underneath. And make sure that when I do find one, I don’t end up looking like a big-assed dork with stumpy legs, as is the wont in my gene pool.

But you can’t do ‘50s garb without rockin’ ‘50s style hair, so I said to Ben as he was chopping about 2 inches off my hot mess yesterday (they got me in early, hooray!), “So, if I wanna ‘50s up this bitch, what do I need to do?” He stopped and said, “Did you just say, ‘ ‘50s up this bitch?’ Because that’s the fuckin’ funniest thing ever.” And then he and Ann agreed that I’ll need to rat the hell out of the back of it if I decide to “ ‘50s up this bitch.’ “ In the meantime, the result of their efforts is below the fold: