Ever since the new neighbors moved in downstairs, condom wrappers have littered the cul-de-sac in front of the crib. I’m kinda thinking to myself, “Uh, I know car sex is fun and all, but when you’re doing it in front of the crib you just moved into, doesn’t it sort of lose its appeal? I mean, just sayin’.”

So I’ve been crabbin’ to everyone who’ll listen, as well as to those who’d rather not, about my hair and how much I’d really like to shave it off my head, except that I can’t because the wedding’s next week, and though baldness would certainly be not inappropriate, it’s kinda not the look I was hoping for. The look I have now, however, is equally distasteful: Ben has had me growing it out since September, and now it’s jaw-length in back and just past my chin in front, and up until about a week ago, it was working out. Couldn’t get it as smooth as he or his gorgeous Bride-to-Be can, but I could at least get it close.

Now? It’s too heavy, and what used to take 10 minutes tops to dry now takes 20-30 and won’t blow completely straight. But instead of curls, I get what I like to call “the bends” (pretty self-explanatory), and the only way I can make it not look super-dumb is by tucking it behind my ears. Bottom line: I look like Marilyn Quayle with honey-colored bangs that have roots. How you like me NAO!??

And I was just contemplating this, too, or something very similar: Lookit

After a good two or three months of minutes upon minutes of searching, driving the committee batshit with options and finally reaching out to the Innerbunny for guidance, I finally purchased my dress for the Wedding of the Year Saturday.

And it wasn’t anything on the list.

I know: We all decided that No. 1 of my last three choices was the one, and I agree wholeheartedly. However, that dress is much too gorgeous to tastefully cover with a shrug or wrap, and I gotta be honest, Homie ain’t ready to bear her arms in something sleeveless yet. My final choice, on the other hand, will look equally good with or without a shrug. My final choice was also $110 cheaper, and for someone who doesn’t have to dress up often, it makes much more sense, and then I can spend my hard-earned dough on more worthwhile pursuits, like yesterday’s $60 Target purchase comprised mostly of pedicure tools. (Nooooooo, my feet are NOT that gross; they’re not gross at all considering how rarely I wear socks. I’m a girl, and it was Target, and everyone knows that girls cannot go into Target without getting distracted by all the products and gewgaws of Target. Simple genetics, really.) Speaking of which, next up on the decision-making for Operation Look Hot: the right shade of nude/buff nail polish that will be visible yet not make sallow yellow me look like a corpse for said pedicure. You think the dress business was a pain in the ass? We’ve got two weeks, people!

So I didn’t end up having company this weekend, which was ultimately good because I have a metric shit-ton of laundry that keeps mocking me while I zip out hither and yon, and nobody outside my inner sanctum needs to see a metric shit-ton of laundry piled outside my bathroom. (My inner sanctum probably doesn’t either, but they know and love me, so it’s cool, at least in my mind.) But can I just tell you that people in their 20s crack me up? Caught up with a pal a few weeks ago when I was working on a story, and he said he wanted to get together this weekend. Plans weren’t set in stone or anything, but it seemed like a good possibility, and one that I was looking forward to since he’s truly one of the most genuinely nice people I know and certainly the most happy-go-lucky, and God knows I desperately need some happy-go-lucky energy after the last few weeks—no, months if you count the nightmare with Mother. Anyway, whilst sitting through possibly the most boring assignment EVER (good CHRIST it was bad) I shot him a text to firm up plans and whatnot, but I didn’t hear anything. Later that night, I logged into Facebook.

Now, for those who aren’t on Facebook, it takes users to a “home” page when they log in that tells what their friends are up to in terms of who’s friended who and whatever apps they’re using and stuff. Most people go straight to their profiles; I usually get sidetracked by words—it’s a habit, one so ingrained that TOG used to hand me reading material wherever we were because I would just find it and start reading anyway—so as I’m reading I notice he has plans for the High Holiday. I click on it, and it’s an out-of-town pub crawl celebration starting Saturday and ending Sunday.

[I’m going to sidebar here for a moment to reveal the one pet peeve I have that will do serious collateral damage to, if not downright destroy, any relationship of mine: Making plans that fall through without a legitimate reason or breaking plans without at least two days’ notice—especially more than once, mmmmmmmaybe twice if I’m feeling charitable. Been seriously burned one too many times to just let that roll.]

That said, he and I weren’t set in stone, so it didn’t bother me. Besides, I had other things to do (like laundry, which I didn’t, but other cool things).

Friday, I’m wrapping up my story for the day and getting ready to head out the door to drink on the company’s dime when he texts me back telling me he’s out of town.

Visiting his grandparents.

(blinks) Um.

My first thought was, “(snerk) Uh, Baby? Do you not know how Facebook works?” but then I thought nah, why be an ass when it’s so darn cute that he evidently thought I’d be pissed at him for doing what 20-somethings do. Or maybe he was going to the pub crawl as an incidental to visiting his grandparents. I don’t know, whatever. I just thought it was funny in a precious kind of way.

on the History Channel? Whoa, is all I’m sayin’. Just ... whoa. The stuff about the domestic animals almost made me cry.

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.]

Our ol’ friend Kaffy has a question, because she’s a heathen Protestant and does not understand the mysteries of the Catholic church:

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.*

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.

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? 

Anyone see “Family Guy” Sunday? Not sure why I don’t normally watch it, but Mr. Girlie had it on when I showed up for Crap TV night. All I got to say is this:



Stewie with his pupils blown out—you don’t even need to know the context to understand that that’s the freakin’ funniest thing I’ve seen in a good while.

Lessons learned while trying to videotape guitar sensei Jeff Massey in action when he and the band play blues favorite “Mean Old World” (originally done by Little Walter as far as I can tell, but with the blues, who really knows who originated what?):

-- No matter where you’re trying to shoot, some stupid fat guy with slicked-back hair is going to get in the shot and dance. Badly.

-- Blues songs are typically at least 15 to 20 minutes long, so your battery pack and SD card should accommodate more than five minutes.

Alas, we didn’t capture Jeff doing his “weedleeweedleeweedleeweedleeweedlee!” this time, but now that we know what song it is, we’ll be prepared the next time.

Prior to catching the band, however, I was tricked—TRICKED, I tell you!—into attending another sex-toy party. I say “tricked” because when Girlie presented the option to me, she said, “So, you want to go to Doris’ surprise party?” Here’s the conversation that ensued when we left:

So yesterday I’m sitting in a luncheon assignment listening to a trio of legislators about Indiana’s impending tax crisis of doom when a grown man walks in and sits down at the table—doused profusely in the dreaded stench. I would’ve asked him about his cologne choice, but he kissed the woman sitting at the table with me, and when I turned around to see who it was, she gave me the hairy eyeball, and I didn’t feel like getting shanked with a salad fork.

Thankfully, my neighbor hasn’t burned any more of the crap, but now we’re back to her boyfriend’s big-ass Escalade taking up all the parking spaces in front of the crib. God, that’s a pointless-looking vehicle.

the smell of pre-pubescent boy has now permeated most of the rest of the crib. Between it and the orange oil I used on my desk, I’m thinking I’m pretty sure I’d rather smell catbox at this point. (I would NOT rather smell pew-tchouli, however. That’s just gross.)

Happily, Poppy and the Peapod are picking me up for lunch and shopping momentarily, so maybe either the stench will be gone or the boys will do enough bidness to kill it. Plus, I’ve already been promised a ride on the giant carousel. Take THAT, office people!

I don’t know what the heck kind of oil my downstairs neighbor is burning in her living room scent burner, but it’s making my kitchen smell like either that drugstore cologne or deodorant that middle-school boys wear. You know what I’m talking about? Kinda musky and sorta spicy, yet ... not? All it needs is rank prepubescent-boy armpit, and I’d be in some version of hell.

So the other day after I threw out my little discussion point about the idea of “nutjob,” I was kinda thinking I didn’t want to go back to it because it came out of not-so-great place that I get into every time I have to make a decision I don’t want to make. And now that I’ve tried to sit down and write it a number of different times between assignments over the past day or so, I’ve decided not to do it here because a) it’s been coming out as a big stream-of-conscious thing of epic proportions even moreso than usually comes out of my head, and who wants to slog through that, and b) I’m feeling strangely self-protective, which is kind of unusual for me. I mean, if anyone’s really that interested in waxing philosophic on the finer points of what makes a nutjob, what I’m thinking is not exactly revolutionary and I’m fine with talking about it—just not here right now.