How bad is it that my neighbor downstairs has asked me to help her highlight her hair because the stylist she went to fucked it up, and I said “Sure! No prob”?

k.

How much worse is it that I’ve already pounded a 22 oz. Stella and half a Woodchuck because Stella doesn’t live at my liquor store?

This could be very, very bad, y’all.

it really is all pr0n sites that link here or you just don’t want to admit you read me, because damn! What’s a girl gotta do to get some comment interaction up in this bizznatch!?? I mean, NO ONE wants to talk about what they hate in a potential partner!?? Or was I supposed to start with mine, and I’m just not doing it right? Don’t let the crickets chirp on me, man!

Or, since I found a ton of other amusing photos as I looked for my shot of bershon, how about I post another pic of me when I was young broad? This shot, taken in I’m guessing June of 1985, had to have been taken either right before or right after Dad came home from one of his yearly fishing trips in the Boundary Waters:

Ok, so I’m jumping on this bandwagon a little late, but about a month ago, Heather over at Dooce posted a couple pictures of herself in her teen years as an illustration of the term “bershon,” which Sarah Brown describes as the following:

What’s funny is that like Heather and Sarah, I too had heard the term bershon before, but I don’t know exactly where I know it from or under what context. What I do know is that it took me a month to find the following picture, which I think illustrates the term quite rightly. Behold:

So the detailer guy calls me back today and tells me—get this—that even though Pimp (which, if it isn’t clear to y’all, is my car’s sanctioned nickname, as it has many secrets and doesn’t want to be identified by my tens of adoring fans) drives perfectly fine, the two inches of remaining standing water in it has the potential to ignite the electrical nonsense underneath the carpet. And I thought to myself, “Huh. That might’ve been helpful yesterday, when I was driving around the wasteland that is now my town identifying for the paper as many of the flooded areas as I could; they were the ones identified by cones set up by the Public Works Department to deter dumbasses from commanding their own U-boats.” Oh, and because the water not only got under the carpet, but was most likely sewer water to boot (ew), the detail is going to be waaaaaaay over the deductible; the whole interior is going to have to be completely removed and the padding completely replaced, and that’s before the mechanic gives it the once-over to make sure there’s no electrical damage.

But don’t cry for me, because lo! the detailer, he did redeem himself, as he secured for me a brand spankin’ new, 7-miles-off-the-lot, 2007 Corolla as my rental car for the next two weeks while Pimp detoxes. And? He did it at the cost my insurance would cover. And? The new Corolla is a HONEY of a car, with sweet pickup and smooth handling. Makes me really kind of want one NOW instead of in 16 years, when I’ll finally have Pimp paid off and will have likely driven him into the ground. Though, I’m not dissin’ on my car, because if it survived almost-submersion in Lake Woeisme without serious damage, it has to be a hearty vehicle worthy of respect. In any event, Farm Bureau’s getting its money first when I get paid tomorrow.

Speaking of respect, it seems that there are people out there who evidently either didn’t read my missive a month ago about why I blog and the rules to which I adhere when doing so, or they did but have no reading comprehension whatsoever, so Ima post a link to it again so those who need to can go back and read it, but more slowly this time, thanks:

Lookit.

If that isn’t clear enough, then I don’t know else what to say, except to not get yourself worked up by coming here. It’s really not healthy and makes you look kind of sad.

The good news: Despite being submerged in water 3/4 of the way up the tire, Pimp is running A-Ok.

The all-right news: Despite having said water up to my shin, the interior seems to have absorbed a good majority of said water.

The kind of sucky news: Despite the absorption, Pimp’s still carrying about 2 inches of standing water.

The sucky news: The detailer hasn’t called me back yet.

The really sucky news: Unless Pimp needs new carpeting, the cost of the detail likely won’t make my deductible.

As if it couldn’t be any suckier: I have a ton of clean laundry in Pimp that’ll need to be washed all over again.

The worst news: As I was going out to move Pimp from Lake Woeisme, my left Croc got sucked in by the submerged lawn and may have disappeared forever. And I paid $30-something for the fuckers.

[UPDATE at 7:15 p.m.: My left Croc was found safely nestled in the mud that used to be the parkway.]

This is my front yard oh, about 45 minutes ago:



And this is a little further down the block:

IMG_0002_edited_thumb.jpg

I was able to get The Pimp to higher ground (aka the back of the apartment), but there’s water halfway up my shin on the driver’s side.

 

Could this Chicagoland area weather be any nicer than it was this weekend?

Before I go into my holiday weekend and how glorious it actually was, how ‘bout that nip/tuck season opener? Alotta questions here, folks—first up, is Christian gay? A tough one, considering what Brooke Shields (aka Dr. Wolper) threw out in their first session about him being in love with Sean and Sean acting like a jealous wife for most of the episode, but based on that info alone, I got the impression that maybe Sean has some repression for Christian. HowEVER, the character writeups on the show’s official site reveal that later in the season, Christian gets it on in the shower with none other than



A.C. Slater, everyone! All riiiiiiiiiight!

It’s cool enough to have the windows wide open, the crickets are chirping, and I just finished putting together the boys’ between-set CD I said I would make them when I decided the ones they played last time didn’t rock my socks. I think it’s cool, you see, as does this guy, whose advice on putting together a good mix CD I sought earlier this week, but I’m sure Lenny will hate most of it. I told him so, too. Being their No. 1 fan outside of their wives, though, comes with privileges, like being able to give input without getting punched in the face.

The rest of my evening, meanwhile, was spent at a bio-fam Labor Day get-together with enough food to feed Nambia (such as this which ohmiGOD, were they freakin’ good) and excellent company (aka no fighting, snubbing or otherwise making each other uncomfortable—a plus in our ‘hood). Then Bee-Dubs and I spent about an hour and a half deep in conversation away from the rest of the crowd, which turned out to be really nice. And I? Totally made and brought food for the occasion: a peach trifle, a recipe Poppy told me to try involving peaches (deh), strawberries, angel food cake, vanilla yogurt and booze (rum, if you must know, since I didn’t think scotch would work). By myself, with no help. And? It didn’t suck. I KNOW, right? Chalk it up to the fact that just because I DON’T cook doesn’t mean I CAN’T. I’m actually a very good cook. Ask Kaffy; she knows.

Now if I could just figure out what the hell smells in my kitchen ...

Been up since freakin’ 6 ayem this morning to cover an informational picket out in Porter County, so I kinda got nothin’ tonight. But his gives me a chance to post more pictures from the gig, these being of the newlywedded Mr. and Mrs. Opie, aka the cutest couple in the universe (and remember, you heard it hear hear heer HERE first) (See? I’m so tired I can’t even spell.):

Another title having nothing to do with my entry, other than the people who need to know what I’m talking about do. It’s funner that way sometimes.

Except for the Martin funeral, however, there really isn’t much to dish about—that is, unless you count the complete wang Gary Mayor Rudy Clay left in my mouth after his ugly show of ego at Martin’s wake Sunday. MerFer rolls up in his Mayoral Hummer, assistant and bodyguard/driver in tow, and waltzes up to the front of the line and bypasses the hour and a half wait the rest of us had. Yeah, I know this guy thinks he’s a marked man since someone’s tried to shoot him up once already; whatever. No one’s going to convince me that he and Gary Martin were THAT good of friends that he should’ve been given rights reserved to the family, close friends or even the sheriff. I mean, Hobart Mayor Linda Buzinec stood in line maybe 15, 20 people ahead of me—you didn’t see HER taking advantage of her position. Neither did any of the law enforcement officers who attended, at least none that I saw. Tool.

I do get to write a Political Notebook item out of it, though, and that’s always fun because you get to be as snarky as you wanna.

Here’s me and my pal Di at my favorite coverband, Bite the Lime’s (BtL), inaugural performance at Northwoods in Schererville. And I don’t even look particularly huge, amazingly enough.

Waiting for Mother while she had her semi-annual doctor check-up, I was totally rockin’ out with the ol’ iPod, and have you ever had that thing where you think you know the lyrics to a song that you’ve heard a zillion times on the radio, only to find out that you really didn’t and wow! that’s a really good song? I had that moment today with “Brian Wilson” by the Barenaked Ladies. And it’s not like I haven’t heard the song a zillion times; I do have their excellent first album, Gordon. But I guess having ear pods crammed in your ears and blasting the music straight into your brain puts a whole new perspective on things, because that’s a really good song. It did occur to me, however, that BNL does sing a lot about mental health. As proof, I give you the lyrics to “Brian Wilson,” because I’m sure you didn’t actually listen to them and commit them to memory long before I did:

For the last seven, eight years, all the fashion mags have proclaimed OPI’s ”I’m Not Really a Waitress“ nail color as the gold standard of reds. And it’s a fine red, not too blue, not too orange. I have a bottle of it or two myself.

Anyway, I would’ve wholeheartedly continued the endorsement, but there’s a better choice out there. Behold: 

1) Pot smoke should not be smelled anywhere on the premises.
2) The guy who makes your funnel cake should not have a lip ring.
3) Wooden sticks should never be given to kids between the ages of 12 and 16; they hit each other with them.
Feel free to add whatever observations you’d like.

Parts 4 & 5: “14 hours of unadulterated Zook. Ain’t that going to be fun!??”

If there was ever a time when I should’ve been blogging things as they happened, it was when she was here because I’m so over it, I’m like, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. And I probably shouldn’t, except I have to get to the part where Mer, on her last night spent with the town clown, got robbed of all but $40 plus all her sleeping medication she takes for Epstein-Barr.

Yes, yes she did.

After various and sundry stops (and after he yelled “Hurry up!” like a fucking fool outside my crib because it was a frillion degrees and I wouldn’t let him inside), they ended up at the bar we were at the first night she got here. During that time:

1) Zook tells her he’s running short, would she mind picking up the tab?
2) One of the guys who hung out with us the first night (who I knew from my days hanging out there but only remember as Scott B.) saw inside Mer’s purse (when she was getting money out to start paying for her and her “date’s” drinks) and asked her about her medication. She tells him their sleeping pills and that she’d give him a couple before they left;
3) Scott B. decides he’s not going to wait and ganks the entire bottle along with all the money;
4) Zook has Mer pay for his dinner at McDonald’s as well as a round of drinks and a six-pack to go before ending up back at the shithole;
5) And then, when they get back to the shithole, he tells her he’s “tired,” so what she came out there for, she wasn’t getting.

She didn’t discover she’d gotten robbed until she got back to my crib—all hysterical because she was so mortified by the whole evening—so we jump into the car at 2 a.m. to go to the Gary Police Department to file a police report. Somewhere around 5 a.m., she and I had a horrendous fight where I almost left her on 7th and Grant Street (that’s square in da HOOD, for those unfamiliar with the G.I.), and by 6:30 a.m. we were back at the crib crying how much we loved each other and so on and so forth.

The last day of the trip saw me working, Mer getting her meds and trying to figure out she was going to get back home with no money, and then this saucy little bit o’ business. She left Thursday morning at 7:30.

After all this, how many times did she get laid? That’s right: Once. And it wasn’t nearly as good as she remembered it.