So my seester and her fam have rented a beach house next week for the High Holiday, and she invited me to come out and hang with her and the spawn. “Awesome,” I said. “I’m not a big swimmer (especially when not surrounded by vinyl or concrete), but it’ll be fun to watch the spawn frolic among the waves and sand, and maybe we’ll grill out and shit.” My seester, however, reminded me of how big a dork I would look like trying to get sun in a pair of capris and a tie-dye, so it was somewhat decided that I should have a new swimsuit. Ok, like I said, I’m not a good swimmer, and I’ve mentioned here before that when the genes were parsed among my sibs and me, I, as the only full-blooded Eastern European, got the sallow-yellow-doesn’t-tan-for-crap gene (I take that back—I’m pretty sure the youngest doesn’t tan, either, but she’s not sallow yellow, so if/when SHE stays out of the sun, it looks like she’s supposed to, whereas *I* look like a ‘net porn addict who rarely experiences daylight). Therefore, I’m NOT going to pay a lot for this swimsuit, so I decided to hit Kohl’s—you know, decently made, mid-range stuff that’s on hella sale this week. Got to Kohl’s around 11:30-ish and proceeded to find three tankini tops, two bottoms and one full tankini in what I figure my size is around.

Now when I hit the dressing room, I knew right off the bat the bottom half was going to be a trainwreck. I mean, let’s face it: I’m 5’3 with squatty legs, I’ve gained 50+ since the LAST time I shopped for a swimsuit and there’s that thing about my ass being flat. Heidi I’m not, and I’ve reached that point where I can deal with the fact that short of starving myself, I’ll never hit my high school weight again. But y’all, why they gotta make my cans look flat? I mean, there were cups where the tatters go—in the right places, even—but they were purely decoration, because ain’t no WAY a chick my size was going to look hot in any of the three I tried on. Not even store-bought t*ts could’ve held up under the mockingly blatant non-support. And it’s not like I want people being all like, “Guh, look at the rack on THAT one!” but dammit, there has to be something better out there for chicks like me who don’t want to spend a shit-ton of money on something I might wear once or twice a season. Jeez.

Last night found the crew and me at yet aNOTHER gig with our boys, this time on the way sout’ side of Chicahga at a bar to which I’d never been and Girlie hadn’t been since, like, 1994. It was remodeled, sure, but you know the phrases “Throwing 300 pounds of shit into a Gucci bag is still 300 pounds of shit,” and “This is the place where people go to die?” Y’all, my D-list celebrity BFFs have chosen the wrong market in which to ply their trade, because these were some of the saddest looking m’erf’ers I’ve encountered in a looooooong time. And—AND!—they have absolutely NO taste in music. The opening act, which I will cleverly disguise their real name as “Crotch Louse,” was this blues-metal-country fusion mess that tried to evoke, I don’t know, the Butthole Surfers, maybe? Girlie thinks they thought they were being unique, what with the lead singer using that distortion thingy that singers use to sound like they’re far away and all, but dude, seriously. All that came out was only slightly impressive guitar playing at times, and the drummer didn’t completely suck. Oh, and there were at least two songs about butt secks, because we could understand THOSE lyrics clearly. And then when Steepwater took the stage, every time Jeff whipped out the weedlee and other hot tricks, a-holes were WALKING OUT OF THE BAR! What a nightmare. The mood was all off; even the boys knew it was bad and cut the set by two tunes.

So we entertained ourselves, as we always do. Some choice quotes from the night --

Last night Girlie and I trekked on up to Martyr’s in Chicago to catch this band called 27 Jennifers. Maybe you’ve heard of them:



This is ubergroovy bassist Andrew Livingston, who used to provide the bassline with his big ol’ cello before Homeland Security made it an asspain to travel with such an instrument. He’s a pretty popular musician, but perhaps you know his band leader:

Girlie’s slacking on sending me the Saturday night pics (which are magnificent acts of cyberphoto terrorism in and of themselves and you will DIE when you see them finally), so bide your time sorting through THESE beauties: Lookit. Many thanks to ButterCup Trix for this bit of 12 year-old boy humor that had me tearing up with laughter but a few minutes ago.

I know, I know, I’ve been neglecting my duties. I guess I’ve just been feeling PRIVATE lately and not wanting to share my innermost goings-on, like having a sit or critically deconstructing the merits of “It’s Complicated” or my oldest sticking his butt in my face for the millionth time in a day (but not before he delicately kisses my hand). It’s all so personal, and I just don’t want to feel so JUDGED all the time.

(snerk)

I’m being an ass. Sorry. Sort of.

Life’s still pretty quiet around these here parts, though; outside of the magnificent weather last weekend that I DIDN’T GET TO SEE (dammit), just been working a lot and looking forward to next month, when all the cool things happen (hint: BUS DEMOLITION!). But tonight’s Girlie’s birthday party, and since we’re going to see Metalicious, she’s making us dress all 80s stylee. Lemme tell you, my ensemble is SICK with authenticity, and they’re going to DIE when they see it. You will, too, because I’m sure pictures will be posted.

and because we’re nothing if not service-y over here at Chez Broad, there’s Classic Tractors, Training Mules and Donkeys, Big Joe Polka Show, Forge and Anvil, Animal Makeover TV, Cowboy Flavor (now now, it’s a cooking show) and Making it Grow (whatever that means). And all of this high-brow fare is kicked off by Imus in the Morning, of all things. Oh, and you can get a 10-carat yellow sapphire and diamond ring for the low, low price of $30,500 and an Air Climber and a laptop on the Shop Latino network (because like Girlie says, them Latinos sure do like their gadgets).

We’re indulging in a quiet weekend over here—Girlie’s over here laughing hysterically at the Gem Network, where they have a “treasure chest mix” for $199.99 ("It’s rocks around the clock!") and I keep trying to yank my hair back into ponytail. It’s much more sedate than last weekend, when I broke into a rather, um, spirited performance (or, as Girlie calls it, a “cry for help") when these three skanky bar whores walked into the G-Town after our boyz played a blisteringly good show. Sorry, but grinding up on each other after last call at G-Town is NOT APPROPRIATE. No. It isn’t. That behavior is more appropriate at the Serbian bar a town over.

THAT’S Paul Stanley, y’all:



I’ll take Gene—plastic surgery or not—because that poor bastard looks like Jackie Mason in a cheap Cher wig.

Not sure which I’m more disturbed by—that someone is using his junk to procreate, or that his hair looks frighteningly like mine in this picture. And TELL me he’s not wearing at LEAST mascara, if not false eyelashes (of which mine are still languishing at the bottom of my purse from last weekend. Suppose I should get them out of there.) As always, there’s just no accounting for taste sometimes.

So my one oldest and dearest e-mails me excitedly yesterday all about our, get this, 20-year high school reunion. At first I was kinda like, “Ew, I’m in touch with all the people I want to be in touch with from high school, thankyew,” but now that I’ve been looking at the Web site the committee’s set up, I’m thinking there are some comedic possibilities that’ll be too good to pass up. And anyways, my pal promised he would stay at Chez Broad and dry-hump me until my leg’s raw, and really, how could I possibly turn THAT down?

From our ol’ pal and self-proclaimed BBW Kaffy:

Ok, so as Girlie, Curlie and Li’l Holly and I were standing at the ghe-TTO flea market waiting for our rib tibs, a seagull shit on my head.

I’ve heard somewhere that it’s supposed to be good luck when that happens, but so far, the only thing lucky about it was that Girlie had baby wipes on her.

No, no no, I did NOT disappear in a fit of pique or anything quite as dramatic—just a quiet week with nothing to bitch aboutshare with the neenerbunny. (Well, there’s ONE thing, but my sister would disown me if I did, and anyway it’s not really my story to share. It’s a good’un, though, holy shit.) This weekend has some potential for ridiculousness, however: The ladies and I have a couple engagements this evening that could either shake out as muy fun or absolute disasters, which in turn will make for excellent sharing, so stay tuned. As for my leetle outburst Monday, I get really angry when my integrity or how I “do business” or whatever is questioned by people who I count among my core crew. I mean, if you gotta question it after this long, that says more about you than it does me.

The edict on politics still stands, though.

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.

I don’t usually read Feministing, but one of the jezzes pointed to this post in a discussion: Lookit.

Scared to look? Then hows about a highlight:

I just found out my 20-something’s gone. He moved away for a job and to be closer to family, so of course I’m happy for him because that’s what he wanted, but it’s just ... wow, he’s gone. Booooooooooo.

In other news, my cholesterol’s down 30 points and my birthmark won’t ever turn malignant.

the SNL sketch with Amy Poehler, Kristen Wiig (I think), guest star Shia LeBeouf (who also happens to be my new pretend celebrity boyfriend) and the rest of male cast where Amy and Kristen are in a nice restaurant, and at every table there’s men, only the men have these dopey expressions? And then, when the women—completely enamored with all of them—wonder what they’re thinking, you hear them thinking “Doy da doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doooooooyyyyy!” Ohmigod, the LOOKS on their faces! I about PEED myself laughing. See, that’s the kind of thing my one oldest and dearest does to me all the time: We’ll be chillin’ and then I’ll go to the can or get us something to drink, and I when I come back he’s there with one of those exact expressions on his face, and I can’t breathe because I’m laughing so hard. Last time he was in the NWI, I was trapped in my bathroom for, like, 15, 20 minutes because he was sitting on my couch with that look. We weren’t even stoned, and I was just dying. I hope someone puts that sketch up on youtube so I can post it or send it out or something.

In other news, I hemmed my first pair of pants tonight, and not just with hem tape. Ima make me a good wife someday and shit.

[UPDATE: I FOUND IT! Lookit. I’m telling you, pure, unadulterated GENIUS!]