I tried to resist it. I really did. Lord knows I didn’t want to succumb to the charms because I know it’s so, SO bad, especially for someone like me. But now I’m stuck, and I’m not sure what to do.
How the hell am I going to live without the data package on my new Blackberry!??(What’d YOU think I was talking about!??)
It’s not even that I love being attached to my e-mail or facebook everywhere I go (Shutup, I’m not even kidding about that!), because the e-mail it works with is my catchall e-mail, so I get duplicates of crap; and the one time I had a document I needed sent, I was home in front of my computer, and when I get my laptop, that’ll kind of negate the need, too. What I love love LOVE, though!?? This freakin’ calendar business. Par example, I just plugged in the assignments I just got for the rest of the week into Google Calendar, right? Well, when I go pick up my phone, the bitches will have already talked to each other, and not only will the assignments be on the phone, but a reminder will pop up! BOING! Yes, of COURSE I can sync them by USB easily, too, but ... but DUDE! I don’t even have to THINK about syncing with this setup! It’s just. so. TITS.
Problem is, is it tits enough to spend 30 bone extra a month during a time when my industry’s in the can. All signs point to “no,” but ... BUT, there’s a way to bypass the data package via the APN, so if someone (*cough*wad*cough*) will supervise me switching, I’d love them forever.
Last Saturday, we celebrated Curlie’s birthday at Frontera Grill, the “casual” Rick Bayless dining establishment. People. SO. GOOD. And talk about class, too: When JChoo (Girlie’s cousin) locked her keys in the car as we were giving it to the valet, the manager was all, “Hey, we got this. Can we get you a drink while you wait?” And they jimmied the lock free-of-charge as we dined! OutSTANDING! The margaritas were amazing, too—Curlie and I had the Yucateca, which was Patron, something citrus and a hint of habanero pepper, which was like, you took a sip and then it was all “Why, helLO there, habanero! How sneaky are you to show up in this drink so smoothly!” and Girlie had the Blue Agave, which was their version of the regular margarita, and if all regular margaritas were like that, I would so drink regular margaritas. (As of now, mine must have a minimum of two fruits before it passes my lips.) Food was really good, AND they even took Curlie’s cake and dressed each slice up with raspberry sauce and pomegranates. Highly recommend to ANYONE who likes Mexican fusion-type stuff.
Anyway, the holiday’s definitely shaping up to be better than last year, so if I don’t get a chance to wish it, Hairy Fishnuts to all you crazy cats. Hope it’s non-eventful and full of joy.
I tried to resist it. I really did. Lord knows I didn’t want to succumb to the charms because I know it’s so, SO bad, especially for someone like me. But now I’m stuck, and I’m not sure what to do.
but before I do, I leave you with my buddy Fitz’ blog post about thrifting and how people would rather keep up appearances than admit to being smart with money: Lookit. And while you’re at it, leave her a comment of support; she rocks.
The banks that got the bailout aren’t doing anything to fix the situation!?? And “trickling down” doesn’t work!?? STFU!
I took Math for Poets in College, and *I* could’ve told you THAT.
A word to the ladies that I may come across in my travails, if I may: Unless you want a short, overweight woman in a faux shearling coat and fake D&G handbag to start shaking that ass whilst you give your date a lap dance during a cover of “Sympathy for the Devil” IN A RESTAURANT, you probably ought to not give him a lap dance. Then I—er, I mean SOMEONE, might not get the urge to look your date straight in the eye and give him a “Thumbs up” because he knows—AS DOES EVERYONE ELSE IN THE JOINT—that he’s going to get himself some, and though that might be his endgame, what if he doesn’t want to make it that obvious!??
Let’s hear it for my evil overlords, who’ve once again screwed up my paycheck and left me in the red during the holidays!
Rather than bitching about the inevitable, however, I’m instead going to tell you about my awesome weekend and how I should never, EVER be allowed to drink hard liquor again.
It all started Friday, when my seester came in for a quick visit. Now, as a SAHM with a hub who travels for work 50 percent of the time, she doesn’t get out much, which is fine with her most of the time. So after we got the kidlets situated, it was going be dinner, shopping and meeting one of her girlfriends out for A drink, since she had to get back home and I had to be up at the ass crack to cover the FUTURE OF NWI(tm).
Three a.m. and three glasses of Riesling later, the only thing that got Ms. WOOOOOOOOO! to leave the second bar of the night was the snow, because she had kind of a haul to get back to her dad’s. It was nice to see her relaxed and having grown-up fun, though, so I didn’t mind my head being pudding during my assignment in, oh, five hours, plus I’d had only two fluffy martinis (read: $8 sweet drinks in a fancy glass), so I was fine. Cutest moment: Earlier in the evening, my niece Lulu was doing a kind of jump-wiggle around the living room with this little satisfied grin on her face, like, “Yo, wut up.” Eight hours later, my seester was doing the same thing at the bar, same look and everything. God, I love those two. I even ended up talking to this idiot, but that was HER fault since she decided to give him a ride to the other bar.
Then Saturday, after a series of schedule changes that would’ve normally pissed me off (and kind of did until I discovered things actually worked out better), was the Bang Bang Christmas Extravaganza. The apertifs du soir: Peppermint martinis made with Ciroc, peppermint schnapps of some sort and a hit of gin, maybe? I don’t know, and SHINER BOCK! of which Ben bought by the metric shit-ton for his lady. As I was feeling rather festive (and wired since I hadn’t slept much), it was going to be martinis for me, no skimping on the sticky candy-cane rim coating, barkeep.
Sometime after the second one, I think, it was time for me to find something to eat since I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and there on the buffet was a gorgeous cheese plate—with neither tongs with which to pick it up nor plates on which to put it, as I would discover AFTER I tried to take one or two pieces of round, thinly sliced cheese but ended up having to take FIVE because cheese sticks together, and it’s not like I can just leave it there after my hands have been all over it. So I improvised and grabbed a styrofoam cup for my cheese.
Around my fourth peppermint martini, Girlie said I was quite the sight trying to carry on a conversation with Sensei Massey with my cup o’ cheese, martini (hands sticky from the rim) and candied pretzel sticking out of my pinkie; to hear her tell it, there might’ve been cheese crumbs expelled in some fashion. It was then that I switched to PBR.
The fun didn’t end there, however. It was time to head to our next destination—a place in Hammond where NASCAR lovers go to die—to catch the Leprechaun Virtuoso filling in for one of the 17 bands he plays in, but not before we hit McDonald’s for double cheeseburgers. They were mighty tasty, those cheeseburgers, but not quite as tasty as the chicken, mostaccioli and mashed potatoes Danny was eating when we got to the bar. So tasty were they, I not only ate off Danny’s plate but got up and helped myself to more, not giving any thought to the fact that he got the food from a wedding reception being held there.
It might not have gone exactly like this—the person who put up the video needs the page views so s/he disabled embedding—but close.
The NASCAR bar was too much for us, so I inhaled my ill-gotten fourth-meal and we set about our way when 1) I got the heel of my boot caught in the hem of my cashmere dress coat trying to get in the party van (I yanked it out), and 2) Girlie got pulled over, and I had to be told several times to STFU because I was rather loudly telling my sister of the night’s events. By the time we got back to the shop, the party had wound down—probably for the better.
And THAT, my friends, is why I don’t drink hard liquor as a rule. Thankfully, no one outside my crew saw how badly I was behaving.
For those of you who haven’t been paying attention to my fb tweets, I’m currently in the market for a new smartphone since the wonderful Palm Pilot Baby Brudder bought me a couple years ago died a noisy death over the weekend. The debates have been many: Blackberry or Palm Centro? Because the Blackberry is super-cute, but all my stuff will transfer to the Palm the easiest even though it’s not as cute as the Pearl ... anyway, so I’ve been scouring eBay for a Centro, and I’ve found a couple that I wouldn’t feel bad shelling out the money for, right? (And no, I will NOT buy one from my wireless provider, deals be damned, because they won’t let me get one without a $30 data package, and as much as I would love to be attached to the Innerbunny 24-7, adding an extra $30 to my budget when I technically can’t guarantee my job from month-to-month doesn’t sound like the brightest thing in the world to do.) I go to my bank account and see that I have plenty of cash to drop around $175 for it ... but that money could ALSO go toward the other half of my rent and utilities should my check not show up tomorrow, as it’s wont to do every so often. So what’s a girl to do?
Would you believe that I closed my eBay tab and decided I would cover rent and NIPSCO first?
Who am I, again!??
I know y’all have been waiting for a recap of the anticipated Holiday o’ Horror, and believe me, it’s not that I’ve decided not share. Frankly, there just isn’t anything to tell—it went really well. Mother didn’t stop talking from the time I picked her up until probably the next day, which is either endearing or annoying, depending on who you are; and Baby Brudder did exactly what I figured he’d do and blew out early (HE said it was because work had a server crash, but *I* know it was because he didn’t want to deal, although waiting until AFTER chow would’ve been slightly more polite. On the other hand, though, if you’re going to be twitchy, it’s better to get the hell out of dodge before you turn into a spectacle), but it was eerily normal. I even peeled potatoes, ferchrissake.
It’s the AFTER that’s been a drag.
Friday, after I woke up at ass o’clock to cover the yahoos shopping Black Friday—and I don’t care who you are or how much money you think you’re saying: If you’re up at ass o’clock to shop, you’re a yahoo—helped Girlie texturize the walls of the restaurant and tried like hell to ignore the headache and clogged sinuses that were threatening my well-being, Mother and I went to dinner. That’s when it started:
Before y’all ask, no, there really is no way discuss this with or placate her. I’ve tried, but she doesn’t get that the two of them are very different people to me, and it’s not a matter of who’s more important. They’re just different. So here I try and do a good thing, and once again it bites me in the ass. Fabulous. I did, however, get a great picture of the three of us ... that I’m expressly forbidden to post. But trust me, it’s something I’ll keep close always.
On to happier business, this weekend is shaping up to be filled with all kinds of tomfoolery, starting with my sister’s arrival Friday; she and I are either going to hole ourselves up away from the rest of the world and drink ourselves stupid or go out and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting, then Saturday is the next Bang-Bang “Drink for ...” extravaganza, for which I plan on getting all hot and gorgeous (AND find a skirt that doesn’t make me look like I’m 3 feet tall). You’re invited if you’re in the area. Ann and Ben said so.
How come they never tell you, when you sign up for social networking sites like fb or meatspace, the dangers of trolling through profiles and finding the first boy you ever loved (and took THREE Tylenol in an attempt to kill yourself because your mother wouldn’t let you talk to each other on the phone when you were in the 6th grade) LOOKING LIKE THE MARLBORO VERSION OF A ‘70s PR0N STAR, AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY!?? He has a big fluffy ‘stache, and it looks like he might even have a PERM! I ... just ... there ought to be a LAW, people, because that ain’t RIGHT! How does a man get away with looking like that these days!??
Tomorrow—or today, whichever you want to call it at this point—as y’all gorge yourselves on everything that’s wonderful about the holidays, I’ll be doing the same, only unlike you, I might well be balled up in the corner with the first bottle of whatever I can find. See, while y’all enjoy your family, *I’ll* be spending Thanksgiving with BOTH MY MOTHERS.
AT THE SAME TIME.
I know, I know: What a blessing to be amongst those who love me, etc. etc. I get it. But people, complete bizarreness of my situation aside, think about it—TWO MOTHERS. Not a mother and a stepmother, or a mother and a mother-in-law; those are your run-of-the-mill dynamics. I will have TWO MOTHERS who love to—what else?—MOTHER in the same house, mothers who will either fawn all over me or point out every flaw I have as if I don’t know what they are. And if Mother’s in one of her moods, I’ll be inflicting her on completely unsuspecting people. I mean, she seemed in decent spirits when I talked to her earlier, but that was hours ago—who knows WHAT will happen between then and when we’re supposed to get there that’ll set her off!??
I’m a little freaked out here, people. Please send alcohol.
Went to the eye doc today—first time in, oh, four years, because if my eyes aren’t bothering me, I just don’t give it much thought. The bad news: My frames aren’t made anymore and haven’t been for two years, which sucks because I LOVE my frames deeply and flipped at the idea of having to find new ones as cool as these. The good news, however, is that my eyes haven’t changed significantly, so new glasses aren’t necessary. But I bought some anyway, because I’m a girl who’s easily excited by the idea of having TWO pairs of glasses.
So Mother and I are sitting at dinner last week when out of the blue, she hits me with this:
God knows Mother nags me about myriad things—MYRIAD things—but the one thing for which I always gave her credit was that she never harped on me about me being single and without spawn. So, after I looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted three freakin’ heads, I showed her my received call log, which consists of Girlie, Poppy, my sister, the paper and, well, that’s really kind of it on any given day. She seemed satisfied, but I of course was kinda squicked out by the whole exchange.
No, there hasn’t been a regular male cast member in my merry band of idiots for going on three years, and save for a certain delicious interlude, I haven’t really necessarily been in the market for one. Things like the following remind me of why: Today a friend of mine got some pretty exciting news and naturally wanted to share it with her boyfriend, even though they’re pretending they’re casual. She gets him on the line, and he proceeds to tell her all about how he’s at HIS EX-GIRLFRIEND’S helping her with some sort of disaster, poor, poor pitiful him. And do you know that HIS crap all of a sudden became more important to her than her really good news!?? Yeah, I had something like that happen once. The night before Dad’s wake, the one guy (remember that asshole?), after not hearing from him the whole time Mer was in town, called and as we were talking, he started on some tangent about all the times he’s been kicked when he’s down (and there are many). Something about the conversation told me he’d just gotten fucked over by someone he was dating (yeeeeessssssss, besides me, y’all, no need to dwell), so I asked him if he’d gotten his heart broken. To his credit, at least he said “No” and wouldn’t elaborate, and he did show up at the wake the next day, which I completely didn’t expect (he never met Dad, so it’s not something I would’ve asked of him).
Anyway, I did think to myself, “Um, hi? My dad just died, and even though I’m probably not going to talk to you about it, can we at least focus on me me ME, you know, because MY DAD DIED!???” but that bit of righteous selfishness somehow turned into “Oh, he’s telling me in so many words about his failed relationship because he’s trying to take my mind off MY stuff! Wow! That’s really considerate!” (Yeah, wish I could blame that one on grief, but no. That would be me using my acute rationalization skillz.)
Yeah, I suppose I didn’t need to go into all that, but after two almost-in-a-row major relationships with possibly the two most joyless human beings outside of Tara’s ex, I’m perfectly happy with what little peace I have. I mean, if someone normal wants to come and hang, I could be down with that, sure; I’m not SO jaded that I’ve sworn off men or anything. It’s just something I really don’t think about on a daily basis. But yeah, so now I guess Mother wants me married off or some shit.
From the Popster herself—
Have a BIG pot ready…
Chop and sauté in butter:
1 large sweet onion
4 celery stalks
1 red pepper
When these are soft and slightly golden, add:
½ to 1 lb baby carrots, halved
½ head cabbage, chopped
2 cloves fresh chopped garlic
Once slightly softened, add:
Medium to large can diced tomatoes (do not drain)
Box or large can of chicken stock
½ to ¾ of a large can/bottle V8 (46oz)
5 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, cut into large cubes
2 lbs. smoked sausage, cut into coins
Lots of chopped fresh parsley
A little chopped fresh dark greens (arugula or spinach)
2 tbs hot sauce (to taste)
Salt and pepper
Simmer for a few hours, til potatoes are tender. Eat half the pot. Add more V8 to try to stretch it out so nobody realizes you ate half the pot by yourself.
What will they think of next!??
[Ganked from BC, even if I’m kinda at a loss as to what to even say about any of this. I just ... huh.]
Last week, Poppy and I were talking about diet fads and somehow the ever-popular cabbage soup diet came up, so she decided she was going to make her own version. Her version, of course, was less diet, so much so that she needed my ginormous pasta pot in which to make it. Then, she invited me over for said soup one day last week. Maybe it was because the day was so dark and dreary, but Oh. My God. The soup. It was all I could think about all weekend until yesterday, when I called her and asked if I could come over for more, and she said, “Well, if you can be over in 10 minutes, you can have the whole pot; after eating three bowls the first day, I kinda wiped myself out on it.”
People, I’m telling you, I’ve had to keep the soup in the kitchen so I have to physically get up and take bites of it because if I didn’t, I would try to fit my head in the pot to eat it, it’s THAT GOOD. And it seems to only get better as the cabbage melds with the tomato base, because it’s all sour and ... (shudders). If this is what kimchi is like, yes please!
Is it wrong for a broad to want to engage coitally with a pot of soup?
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)
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:
/> Wanna make a bunch of money doing what you're doing right now?
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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].
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script assistance by
This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.
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