Word of advice to your mothers: If y’all ever get the hankering to send someone a racy text message, I am NOT the person to ask help in crafting it. Also, I’m really wondering exactly when it was that I turned into such a huge dork.*

As of yesterday, I thought I had shopping for the wedding of the year pretty well under control and had picked out a dress that passed muster with the committee:



But then, like a dumbass, I decided to look at Macy’s again for the eleventy frillionth time and found this:


(Why yes, you ARE detecting a distinct pattern in my taste)

and this:



which I love the pattern but makes me worry that I would look like I’m wearing a tent.

Have I really been out of the corporate world so long that I can’t remember how to pick out anything that isn’t yoga pants and v-neck tees? 

However, allow me to point over there on my sidebar, where it says ”Pussy Ranch“ and has for, like, forEVER. That there means I’ve been reading Oscar ingenue Diablo Cody for at LEAST four years now, so don’t y’all be jumping on the bandwagon and saying you’re all huge fans. Because I was THERE, man, before y’all were.

Now that we’re talking about movies, here’s my dilemma for tomorrow: I’ve been invited to a movie world premiere and afterparty in a cool locale with good friends, and it’s been on Girlie’s and my social calendar for weeks, right? Did a story on it (of which I really liked the way it turned out) and everything. So Saturday I’m doing some work (read: screwing around on the Innerbunny), and I get an e-mail from one of my excellently reliable sources in a town I normally cover but haven’t since the latest election because the new councilmen are insane and there’s only so much insanity I’m willing to take when it comes to covering municipalities. In it, my source provides the context of the next meeting, and it’s the kind of story I LIVE for, with corruption and major players that are doing something really really WRONG. I fire off an e-mail to my one editor (who’s LEAVING and as such is one of the reasons I’m a sad panda right now) letting her know I SO want to cover this meeting.

Aaaaaaaand ... you know where this is going.

So, my choices are work and do a story that will really stick it to some deserving, corrupt dumbasses, or go to a cool movie premiere and drink expensive beer with friends who appreciate me. This is not as easy a decision as it seems.

And I totally have the recipe to make them Serbian stylee, too, so I should, because GoshDAMN they’re good. Y’all can have your mac n’ cheese as comfort food; give me them green beans and some sausage and kraut (or even better, stuffed cabbage), and I’m good to go. Of course, all I want right this very minute is a phospho cocktail, because I ate entirely too much today and kind of feel like I need to purge*, especially after preliminary dress shopping with Girlie earlier this afternoon. God, it’s already as big a suckfest as I imagined.

Interesting discussion over here at our former sister paper (I think—no, wait, it was The Telegraph, says Wikipedia): Lookit. If you’re not going to clicky, it talks about how men and women experience music differently, and the basic conclusion is that men are more, ahem, intelLECtual and women are more emotional (of course we are ). Based on this, I don’t see how men could be classified as enjoying the music when really, they’re just kind of collecting stuff about the music in that nerd way they do, be it rare paraphernalia or discussing the relative merits of a Gibson over a Strat. What has that to do with the music itself? As for me, I’m the first to admit I have visceral responses to music. But then you know what happens next? I start listening for harmonies (or creating them in my head if there are none) and breaking down beat patterns and all manner of other deconstruction. And with a refresher course on scales, I could listen to a song and write out the music for it, too; used to do that quite a bit as a kid with my recorder. Don’t know about y’all, but that’s about as nerdy as it gets.

I wouldn’t call the article divisive, necessarily. I just think they’re talking about two different things.

Barry Williams is on “Celebrity Rehab” giving Chyna (the former American Gladiator with the giant ladyflower part) the business for ruining his New Year’s Eve act in Las Vegas.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrowr!

eat the whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake last night, but I put the lid of it on the floor for the little guy so he wouldn’t be all up in my shizz while I was working, and by the time I’d had enough, the lid disappeared, and even I know that you can’t put ice cream back in the freezer without a protective covering or else it’ll taste like frozen ass.

(I did find the lid eventually; he snuck it under the desk. He’s a sneaky one.)

Feeling tons better about the whole Mother thing but still rather moody. And no, not because of V-D (huhuhuhuhuhuh). More like, I’ve been invited to the Wedding of the freakin’ Year at the end of March, so that means I’m going to have to get something killer to wear, but so far I’ve found nothing that either I love or that I can get the fashion committee to agree upon (i.e. “That green will wash you out,” and “Your boobs’ll bust out all over the place.").