It's fucking 95 out there with, like, a heat index of eleventy billion degrees. I mean, if I'm wearing shorts? You KNOW it's bad, because I'm wearing shorts with my big ol' sallow yellow turkey legs.

Waaaaaaaaaaaah.

After a teeny hiatus, my girl over at Bitchbook has made the announcement that her dad is about to have his first biopsy after getting remission status for, if I remember correctly since we haven't talked about it in awhile, non-Hodgkins like Dad. So to you I say run! and give that girl some lovin' and good thoughts.

Well, don't just sit there -- GO already! Jeez ...

So, the die is cast, and the appointment of doom has been set for 1 p.m. July 19. She asked if I wanted 8:30 a.m., and I was like, "Oh, honey that'd be waaaaaaaaay to early to deal." Surprisingly, she had a sense of humor about it. Now, my accountant is going to go through my files and see what we need, and then at some point we're going to meet and do a "mini-audit" so I know what to expect. But again, I'm really not that freaked out about it. I mean, I usually never have a reason to go rooting around in the files once my taxes are done for the year, so other than a few things, I don't think it's going to be a mad dash for anything. Laugh if you want, but having Greta organize my shit for me is the best thing I ever do for myself. Seriously, girl should pimp that shit out as a business.

Meanwhile, not much is going on here in Chez Broad, other than catching up on sleep. Tuesday was a big nightmare on several fronts, among them Mother hunting me down at the paper to make sure I remembered that I had to take her to pick up her eyebrow pencil. (!) Lemme tell you, nothing like feeling like you've got a noosetether tied to your neck. I mean, good Christ, I had people at the crib last weekend, and the woman had no food in her house so I had to send Snidgey to run errands for her. It's like, when do I get to have a little peace and quiet, huh!?!? A life? Shit. And so what does she do when I go off because of frustration? Pulls out the ol' "When I'm gone/I wish I were dead" drama, to which I tell her then why not just do it already? I'm sure I've told y'all that before, so don't be all freaked out or anything, but seriously, what are you supposed to say to that? Yeah, I KNOW she's depressed. Yeah, I KNOW she probably needs a change in medication. Yeah, I KNOW she needs to spend more time with her psychiatrist than just a 15-minute med check every three months. I KNOW she should be in a widow support group. I KNOW all that. But I can do only so much before she has to take some of the responsibility, and she won't.

I know she needs me, and it's not that I don't want to help, because I do, but boundaries, people!

Not sure if there's going to be posting at all today; got a buttload of assignments to finish, plus I'm still sick and really, REALLY angry about some stuff that I hope will be worked out. (And no, it's not for public consumption, so don't ask. I'll probably chew off your head and shit down your neck if you do, anyway.)

Oh yeah, the part about where I have a date with the IRS to get audited.

(!)

Yup, y'all read that right -- got my notice Saturday night as she and I barely made it into the crib before passing out, so exhausted were we from dropping a pantsload of cash in Trixieville all afternoon. And I know I should probably be more concerned than I am, but I have an accountant, so no sense in getting my panties in a twist.

Wait, who said that?

In the meantime, the rest of the weekend was stellar; the chickies and me did serious damage, including $83 worth of damage in the Endo-Exo Apothecary on this, this and this; another $80-something on a brown beaded halter and earrings at Arden B, and then $30-something on stuff from Lush, including Buffy the Butt Skin Slayer, which is the best exfoliant EVER, and the Butterball Bath Bomb Mademoiselle Pants is so in love with. With all that exfoliatin' going on, maybe now my self-tanning efforst won't be such an exercise in futility.

So then, we caught the second Peacemakers show at HoB, and if we thought Roger was awesome Friday night, he was ON. FIRE. Saturday night. He was so on fire, we almost turned her into a true rock n' roll believer (But alas, she made Winston listen to show tunes on the way back to his crib.) The only thing that would've made the show better? Stools on which to plant our poor, tired asses.

Then Sunday, Snidgey took off with Newbie, EWK's dog, and according to her, she's made fast friends with Trusty and the feline sisters. Now, let's see if I can keep the crib in its current condition long enough for Snidgey to return for the 4th ...

In the meantime, I know y'all have been dying to hear about DtR, so here goes: We met for coffee, he gave me $200 and ... it wasn't horrible. I mean, I don't forsee myself ever getting involved with him romantically (aside from the fact that he's married, just ... no, and we'll leave it at that), and that in fact was the best part about it: knowing things worked out the way they should have, and those things did NOT involve me being with him. Will we be friends? Well, I guess we'll see after we talk about the "IT."

These two knuckleheads are off at Starbucks getting us fuel for our next excellent adventure: a day of shopping and merriment in Lincoln Park and the Roger Clyne show at HOB which, if it's anything like last night's show, is going to be fucking UNbelievable. Wow. Just ... wow. And shurman!?!? Holy shit. The COOLEST guys you ever want to meet ever. And they ROCK. HARD. And? They totally wanted to come out and party with us AFTER THE SHOW! Too bad we thought milkshakes were a good idea; we had to pull the car over so Snidgey could barf.

More stories (and pictures) later -- just wanted to let y'all know we're not dead.

Awwwww yeah, yo. She arrived late last night, whereby we proceeded to consume beer and pizza, and now she's making herself all pretty for her lunch date while I lament the fact that I? likely won't be drinking tomorrow night at the show because the Great Infection of June 2005 has not let up and instead is dumping great gobs of green down my throat. It's pretty. And yeah, I know I still gotta get y'all up to speed on the DtR meeting. We'll get there, but suffice it to say, I am up some of my money.

but it's going to have to wait until tomorrow, because I'm one. beat. Broad. (But not in a physically abusive way, promise.)

Sweet dreams, yo.

That's when the deal goes down, yo. He's not going to be able to give me all the cash at one time -- which I guess I wouldn't have expected him to, although that could've been a really extra-SWEET weekend, boy -- but what he's planning on giving will be just fine for downtown shopping at all the right places.

Yes, I know some of y'all are worried that I'm walking into a complete nightmare; don't think that hasn't been on my mind, too. Therefore, I'm posting this e-mail I sent to him last night as my thoughts to the world on the subject:

That way, if I turn up dead, you'll know he'd been warned.

Ok, that made absolutely NO sense, but I'm also working on very little sleep here, because my throat? Is in ribbons.

JACKSON ENDING SLEEPOVERS IN HIS ROOM.


Shut-UP! Seriously!?!?

Take a good gander, because this? Rarely ever happens.

Ok, so remember the Here's to Life show back in March? The one where the Fab FoxWad Five was born? Well, we getting it all back on this weekend for a doubleheader. Thursday night, Snidgey arrives, and then Friday, after Snidgey gets worked over by EWK, we'll be joined by this hottie for Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers plus Shurman and BtL at McCool's once again (no whining, you. Then Saturday will be downtown shopping, where we'll be joined by this chick and her man, and then Roger Clyne at the HoB. Sunday? I'll no doubt be in a coma.

Anyone wanna come clean my crib?

--Mer on why she can't go the teachers' end-of-the-year party anymore.

Incidentally, she was telling me that their IS in fact a way to make a different number come up on caller ID using a cell phone, because her creepy, girl-beating ex did it to her several times after she got the restraining order on him.

The extreme sleepiness, the scratchy throat, the bloody sputum I hacked from my throat this morning, the welling up with tears during Griffith High School's rendition of "The Incredibles"* at commencement last night? Oh. Yeah. It's a fucking sinus infection, and I'm getting it as I need to be cleaning the crib and preparing for the lovely Snidge's arrival next weekend. And here, I was all excited that I'd gotten through most of the winter without succumbing to some mucous-laden travesty. Son of a bitch, man.

Read this: Lookit. It's a story about a 23 year-old woman's battle with sarcoma.