When I was on my deathbed last week, I’d had a really rotten day and thus plotted out how I would explain why it is a nickname seemingly EVERYONE has taken to calling me gets on my damn nerves; about how I’d just gotten cool with—dare I say, even proud of—people calling me by my last name only in recent years and OH THE DRAMA and a whole bunch of other things about which y’all probably don’t give a shit.

Since my lover once again saved me from drowning in my own snot and blood (oh yes, there was blood this time around, and a lot of it, too), I’ll save y’all the histrionics and get to the point, which is this: The nickname everyone thinks is so cute! and fun to say! or whatever gets people goofy about it has a tendency to make me feel like I’m not being taken seriously ("Awwwwww, c’mon, [redacted] ...!"), and that’s offensive. Worse is when someone gets all butt-hurt because I lay down an edict to not call me it—it’s like, “Well, hell! I’m sorry for not allowing YOU to call ME something that’s making me want to stab you in the ear right now. Can you EVER forgive!?”

(And before I hear all about how I can and often do shorten and make a nickname out of anything resembling a name, ask yourself if a) you’ve ever asked me to stop calling you whatever I call you, and b) if you have, if I’ve ever blown you shit for it. That’s what I thought. No no, not someone on your behalf—YOU, and did you ask me in a straightforward way, non-dick way.)

So there it is.

Evidently, I’ve been doing my job right this week, because damn people all butt-hurt and telling me how to do my damn job. Jesus. Look, lady, I didn’t stay for “the whole meeting” because my deadline is 9 p.m., and it takes me a half-hour or so to write up a story. Therefore, since I left at 8:45, surely you can see the dilemma, right? As for how I cover a story and what I end up writing about it, my job is to provide readers with the newest information humanly possible, and I hate to tell you this, but the people in the crowd were NOT SAYING ANYTHING NEW. I know you think they were, but between the nutjob who had his son refigure the study numbers, the Rush-wannabe wingnut accusing the board of entertaining real estate offers and HIS mother getting up and talking about how her father was the first union president, really, they weren’t. In fact, the only parent who offered anything remotely reasonable was the woman who asked what improvements would be made with the money that would be saved. And no, no one on EITHER SIDE gave any viable solutions, either, so tell you what: When the parents CAN say anything I haven’t heard ad nauseum since November, I’ll stop acting like I have better things to do. ‘k?

THAT one wasn’t even the best one, either. Behold the atrocity I got over the weekend; my comments are obviously italicized. [WARNING: It’s SUPER long.]

Could my cousin PLEASE stop blowing up my phone about the story I’m doing!?? I GOT IT! Jeez.

More on my birthday tomfoolery later—just had to get that out.

Well, I WAS in a decent frame of mind until I logged onto Facebook (where I spend another fairly big chunk of time) and found one of my pals/colleagues posted THIS bit of horseshit: Lookit.

When it comes to the paper, I don’t even know where they think they can cut us anymore, but I can tell you one of myriad ways in which they monumentally fucked it up: Outsourcing our circ to our MAIN COMPETITION. From what I understand, the TRIB is the one that not only prints us but handles our delivery. So, if the Trib’s going to handle our circ, do you REALLY think it’s going to give a Goddamn about what delivery problems the Sun-Times News Group’s having over its own issues!?? Think about that. Yeah, I’ve heard our upper brass goes to Cyrus et al all the time, and Cyrus et al talks about how they’re going to “present these issues sternly” when they re-up the contract or whatever, but again I ask you: With the newspaper industry and all its issues these days, do you really think the Trib cares? Was there a clause in the contract stipulating that as long as the Trib doesn’t ACTIVELY pursue STNG’s subscribers, instead just not doing anything and letting the subscribers get pissed off enough that they cancel, it’s cool? I mean, what!?? It’s stunning to me that these people are letting us die on the vine. And sure, more cuts sort of means more for me, but I don’t WANT more at the expense of other, much better reporters. Never have.

And now with this pissing in my oatmeal, I have to pick up MOTHER in full-on jerk mode to get a new winter coat after she had to sleep on the couch last night because her landlord didn’t fix the roof properly, and it was banging against the side of her crib all night. (whimper)

to comPLETEly piss up my rope and all but ruin everything else: Last week, I went on eBay and found the exact Waterford champagne flutes I bought my sister 10 years ago for her wedding (they’d gotten smashed in a moving or some other incident), so I bought them for her anniversary coming up and sent the seller HER address along with my payment. Well, the seller asked three different times to resend the address, which I did, but then something told me to go look at the listing to make sure it got paid, etc. What did I find? The seller RELISTED THE FLUTES. Oh. It is SO. ON. NOW. MOTHERFUCKER. I comPLAINED on your stupid ass.

(ahem)

I know y’all have been waiting with bated breath to hear how my 20th went. No no, it’s all right. I mean, it’s huge stuff, so you don’t have to front. I gotcha. So, does Awesome.Freakin’.TASTIC tell you anything!?? Now, my feet are still swollen from standing all night despite wearing flats with no support in them whatsoever—good thing I didn’t wear the Manolos—but I’m Ok with that because it was such a good time. Ann hooked me up Friday with a super-hot outfit when we went shopping Friday afternoon and then blew out my hair Saturday while I had my car detailed; my fake eyelashes didn’t end up somewhere else on my face by the end of the night; and I saw and talked to all the people I wanted to talk to—even the ones I might never have talked to anywhere else.

There were, naturally, observations:

1) Either my weight gain or new hair color (dark, dark brown) threw people off or they like the rest of the world just don’t recognize me without my glasses, but I kept getting these glances like “Who IS that?” for about the first 1/2 hour;
2) While everyone talked with everyone else in the hallway where the open bars were, once we got inside the banquet room, it looked exactly like the lunchroom Senior year, with all the cliques congregating at their various tables. Not sure why I thought it would be different, and I guess I really didn’t, but it was still funny to see; and
3) Centennial Park is a just a spectacular place to hold an event, landfill and cancer-causing agents* be damned.

I also have to say that the women in my class look amazing for our “advanced” age. Guys are guys, but the broads looked HOT.

Still here; STILL without cable/neenernet. Hope to regale y’all with all my complaints later this eve.

Allow me to state for the record here that I absolutely HATE when women use their monthly as an excuse for being pissed off, but since I’m sure some jackass out there will think it, I thought I’d save you the trouble. (And I DARE YOU to ask me about my meds. Do it. PLEASE.)

Earlier today, a company in town had its big send-off for the almost-to-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty it created for one of its biggest accounts—you know, music, free food, a zillion balloons released into the air, 30 (!) semis leaving the lot and hauling the statue, traveling with police escorts all the way to Missouri. A real feel-good, family thing I was covering, except it wasn’t JUST a big feel-good, family thing because also at this hootenanny, the company’s owner announced which municipality would be taking the statue once it comes back. What’s go great about that, right? Well, considering that the real statue’s in NYC and there’s no other replica anywhere else (never mind that not everyone may make it to NYC or even see the real one if they’re there; I know I’ve been there twice and haven’t seen it yet), this thing has the potential to draw a whole lot of people to NWI. Oh, did I mention it’s made of STYROFOAM!??

So I cover this thing; covered it all week and sent in the photo request, like, 10 days to two weeks ago like I’m supposed to for this admittedly feel-good but pretty important and highly photogenic event. But a photog from MY paper was nowhere to be found. See, they had to go to the beach today to wait to see if a dead kid washed ashore from a drowning yesterday.

Are you KIDDING me with this!??

First of all, no credible paper, even with the industry’s current horrific state, is going to risk running a shot of a dead, bloated body unbagged, so what? You’ve already shot rescuers searching for the kid, and you’ve gotten the poignant “crying relative” shot and the “concerned onlooker” shot; why the hell would you waste the photog’s time on something that MAY NOT HAPPEN when you have a huge event THAT IS!?? Un. real. And I’m sure I’m going to hear the “Bleeds/Leads” crap—NO. It was a piss-poor call. Hell, *I* could’ve taken the shots. My camera’s not that great, but it sure would’ve beat leaving a good photo op with its dick hanging out.

And while I’m at it, could someone please tell me why there’s another drowned kid!?? Park officials don’t close swimming at the beaches for their health; they do it for OURS, so why would anyone think moving to another beach = No Undertow!?? It’s not In-ground Pool Michigan, people. No, the kid didn’t deserve to die. What he deserved were guardians who wouldn’t let him and his brother go out in dangerous water.

yeah, I would admit that I’m wrong. But if you think so little of me that you have to ask? I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it now.

On another note, hear ye, hear ye: Until I decide otherwise, there will be no political talk here in Chez Broad by anyone; the past few times I’ve veered into social comment, there have been unwanted turns that have really pissed me off, and despite what anyone thinks about me or my demeanor, I don’t enjoy being pissed off. I also don’t give a shit about who you want as president, about the a-hole conservatives or the limp-dicked liberals, about what party wrote the laws and who’s administering them, NONE OF IT. And I sure as hell don’t want to hear how I SHOULD care, so unless you want me to rip off an arm and shit in the socket, NO POLITICS.

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?

Someone can stick THAT up their ass real quick. Good Christ.

Could somebody please tell me where my damn paycheck is? For the last month or so, it’s been showing up on Monday or Tuesday, so that’s been more than cool. But now it’s Thursday, and I have bills to pay, clothes to get and company this weekend, so it probably would behoove me to have more than cauliflower and months-old milk in the fridge. I mean, Thursday or Friday is usually when it gets here, so it’s not technically late really, but just remembering what happened to my finances the last times my check was late does nothing but add to the anxiety of an already not-in-a-good-way bizarre week.

[UPDATE 3/14: My check did arrive, and it’s bigger than I was anticipating, so that’s a pleasant surprise AND one less thing for me to be freaked out about.]

Any of you who were thinking about sitting through all those episodes of “Gone Country” you put on your DVR, Girlie and I (armed with a bottle of champers) spared you the trouble last night. Ima spoil it for you.

Observations:

1) “Save a horse/ride a cowboy”—sorry, John Rich, not when you’re wearing the skins of defenseless animals and rhinestones on your pants. Urban country my ass—you look like a Liberace grape-peeler reject. And get rid of the porno mustache, because that ain’t gonna be good for NOTHIN’.

2) Bobby Brown (he of unconstipating Whitney Houston fame) has other scatological issues: He pees in random places when he sleepwalks. Isn’t there a pill for that?

3) “She’s about three steps away from being the crazy bag lady”—Girlie on Maureen “Marcia Marcia MARCIA!” McCormick, who’s turned into this bizarre amalgamation of Christian Soccer Mom and haggard barfly without the booze. Not that we didn’t dig her, because we did, but wooooooo! Girl focused on the wrong issues when she visited Dr. Phil. And these are the types of issues that are going to get her involved with freakin’ Bobby Brown even moreso than she was on “Gone Country,” so please please PLEASE, Mo, get help. And if you and Bobby are dating, Ima be pissed, because then Girlie and I are going to get roped into watching THAT trainwreck of a show, and we already saw a leeeeetle too much of Bobby Brown without pants last night.

4) Has Michael McDonald ever played Dee Snider on “MadTv?” Or better, has Dee ever played Stuart? Because THAT could be funny.

5) Carnie rocked as she always does.


But you know why the whole thing was a total waste? Because John Rich made this whole big deal about wanting to pick the song that “had the most country appeal,” and then who does he pick? Fuckin’ Julio Iglesias Jr., who could barely sing ENGLISH, never mind reach out of his Latin love-song genre. If all he wanted was to find the biggest challenge with whom to produce a song, why get the hopes up of all the other performers!?? He should’ve just devoted the whole show to turning Julio into a country star. Sheesh.

PS I’ve been ordered by Girlie to tell y’all that the champers we imbibed last night was won during Bingo. For the class factor and stuff.

Went shopping with Girlie today to get a new pair of jeans before the big bad snow comes to bury us all, and as I came out to model, the following conversation ensues:

Jammies and underwear should NOT feel like I put them in the freezer for whatever reason when I take them out of the dryer.*

Well, nothing like finding out the desk (or a certain person on it) is talking smack about me.

I’d explain the context if I didn’t think it would bust out the person who told me anything was said, but I will say this: I may eat, breathe and shit the paper as my full-time gig, but technically I don’t work for it anymore. Therefore, I don’t have any sort of power to decide to scratch any story at my capricious whims. As such, if I’ve covered something that I don’t think merits space, I call the person in charge and run it by them; if they agree, I don’t file, and if they don’t, I pull something out of my ass.

Jerk-off.

Anyway.

I had hoped a mid-afternoon shower and once-over with the loofah would be enough to restore my will to live, but alas, it wasn’t. My last two days have been spent hauling Mother around to her first two tests, the endoscopy and, because the doctor discovered her duodenum is narrow, an Upper GI series this morning. The running-around alone would be enough to make someone crazy, but add to it the following things:

-- Mother calling me at ass o’clock Tuesday morning, yelling that we have to leave RIGHT NOW because they can get her in earlier (and not really believing her because of past histrionics);

-- having to run her errandssit with her because she’d been sedated and might be woozy all day (she wasn’t); and

-- smushing myself into two chairs trying to sleep while waiting THREE FUCKING HOURS for this test today as a crazy Asian old guy yelled at his son and a bunch of snotty little kids ran around screaming and being snotty;

and you would be as useless as I was today when I got home. Seriously, I conducted an interview and then just sat in front of my computer in a fog all afternoon because I’m so worn out. About the only thing good in all this is that switching Mother’s meds last week has kept her relatively calm. If she’d have been on Defcon Mother, someone would’ve been dead by now.

I threw “narrow duodenum” into the Google monster, and everything that came up first had to do with duodenal ulcers (of which I had one, like, 13 years ago, and it sucked). Seeing that Upper GIs are used to find ulcers, we may have a diagnostic winner. We’ll find out tomorrow morning.