Um, Hoosiers from the South? Yeah, hi. Would you mind keeping your stupid, uninformed pieholes shut about Lake County, a place you’ve no doubt never spent any time in because you still think Al Capone rules the roost from the grave!?? Appreciate it much!

Kisses!

Broad

Or maybe it was the too-much-beer-and-tuna-Subway combo, because I felt like shit on toast all day, exacerbated by the fact that I had to be in court at 9 a.m. for a story. It’s not like I was even out that late, but I NEVER sleep well after I’ve had more than I should, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Not even a mid-afternoon nap snapped me out of it. Gross.

So, Wad’s and my visit was engrossing as always: We drank, we shared, we discussed at length my compulsion to always be right, I may have cried a little—you know, the usual. All right, well, not the USUAL usual, but it’s a discussion we’ve had before and one that’s sort of pertinent for me right now. As someone who’s been on the ass-end of that compulsion so many times we’ve lost count, Wad has a valid take. Where we disagree is on the point of compromise and how it should factor into the equation—he maintains that even if you know you’re so right, a 90-degree angle ain’t got nothing on you, suck it up for the good of the friendship/relationship and apologize from the bottom of your heart, because being right isn’t worth the loss, just let the shit go already, etc. I, on the other hand, think that if two people are wrong, they both need to acknowledge their individual wrongness and if it can be worked on, work on it from there.

I don’t think he’s wrong at all, and I admit that I do probably need to pick my dealbreakers more thoughtfully than I do sometimes. But see, when you start taking it for the team no matter what in a relationship or friendship, one of two things is bound to happen, if not both—1) the person will eventually lose all respect for you, and 2) you’re going to start resenting the ever-loving hell out of them. I know this because I’ve done it time and time again, and it never turns out any different. Not once. As such, my knowing when to hold and fold IS skewed because of it. Still, if I’m ever going to rid of my “I’m Responsible for Global Warming"(TM) complex, I have to relearn to stand my ground; it’s not something I do easily anymore, and I miss that about myself.

It’s now time for me to die, so no poignant ending. But I’m glad he and I talked.

So tonight I’m over at Girlie’s for a candle party with the usual suspects when one of them who isn’t part of the crew starts chatting with me as I’m writing a story. She was interested in the types of stories I do, and I gave her the usual shpiel about how I write everything but sports because I’m a sports retard, etc. when she asks me if I do this and that. (It’s here that I’m going to start being vague for reasons I’m sure y’all will appreciate in a second.) I tell her yeah, I’m asked to do this and that every so often, so she asks if I’m familiar with so-and-so, and I was all “Of COURSE! I love them!” when she said “Well, don’t get too excited.” I look at her all intrigued --"Oh?”

And there it came: “So and so molested me when I was in high school.”

See, I’m one of those people that gets told a lot of things regardless of whether or not I want to be told. Part of it is because of what I do, naturally, but nine times out of 10 people just share their deep dark stuff with me. And I’m a pretty good listener, so it’s cool, whatever. But I gotta say, that one was hard to take. I mean, it’s bad enough to hear about abuse when the a-hole who did it has no connection to you, but when it’s someone you know and could conceivably have contact with!?? “Awkward” and “disappointed” don’t even come close. I’m pretty sure my jaw is still over at Girlie’s.

Could she be lying? Sure; there’s also no way of proving anything because she never prosecuted, and this was 20-some years ago. Still, based on the conversation, I don’t believe she is.

Just ... wow.

[NOTE: Before anyone calls me out for putting this in such a public forum—and I understand why you would—she told me in front of the others that I could tell anyone and use her name if I wanted. I’ve chosen not to, of course, because again there’s no police record. But if there was, I’m still not sure I’d name names, because there’s other people involved and oy! does this suck.]

except for, oh, that Snelling and I took second place in deadline reporting at the state Society for Professional Journalists Awards last night for our work on the Chase Street crash.


Holla,
muthafukkas!

Yeah, I know, I didn’t say anything here when I found out a month ago that I was up for it because bragging kinda sucks (though it didn’t stop me from mass e-mailing my posse with the news, so clearly it doesn’t suck THAT much), but I figured I’d let y’all know when I found out for certain how I placed. And I’m thrilled, though not as thrilled as I would’ve been had we taken 1st. Why? Well, because as I’ve said a million times before, that story meant a lot to me, but also because the story that beat us out was by the competition, and I ALWAYS hate that, though I dig the writer who wrote it, so I’m cool that it was someone deserving and not, you know, someone who WASN’T (ahem).

Now, I just have to come up with the value of drinks y’all will be buying me for my win. Good thing it WASN’T first, because someone would be required to cough up a bottle of Veuve, and that ain’t cheap.

New discussion over on Jez: Lookit.

Nope, didn’t watch it, don’t wanna watch it, find absolutely no intrinsic value in it, etc. Do you? And if not, do you think it should be banned?

I know that boy-cut panties are the shit-diggity—they’re my preferred cut, if you must know—but if you’re going to wear a white, high-collared bad 80s sweater AS A DRESS, rockin’ the white boy-cuts underneath defeats the purpose.

And don’t even get me started with that stupid wide gold belt with the black pumps.

[EDITED TO ADD: This comment is to the snooch we saw workin’ it after the gig, not Roger Clyne himself. He wouldn’t dare be so crass about his underwear choices.]

All right, now Accounting’s just screwing with my head, because my check totally came in today. That’s not a BAD thing, per se, especially right this second, but there are in fact a few things in my world that need to be consistent, and my money is one of them.

As promised, here are the pictures from my drunken night with Roger Clyne, except, there won’t be too many pics of me because I look retarded in most of them. But everyone else is fair game!


Awwwww, my first Shiner of the evening.
At $5.50 a pop. Yeah, Joe’s on Weed might
be a great bar, but fuck those prices, man.
Also, whatever that thing is in the lefthand
corner, it’s not a scrote. I think.


You can’t see him real well, but this is the drummer from
opening act, Georgia. Great band, but I kept wondering if
the drummer had some sort of deformity that glued his head
to his right shoulder.


Hey, everybody! It’s Lenny and our ol’
pal Opie, wearing Buck Daddy t-shirts like
they planned it or something, which they
totally DID.


The picture I really wanted to use would’ve gotten me killed
by my seester, so here’s one of her with her pal. I think she
looks a little more like me in this shot—if I were blonde, anyway.


First shot of our man of the evening, looking very Johnny
Depp-ish in his, what is that, a porkpie hat? I don’t know.


Such a pretty, pretty man.


He’s singing to me, you know.


Lenny, his lovely wife and, buried under her
coat, their first baby boy, John Jackson --
or Jackson John. They haven’t quite decided,
but they’re going to call him “Jack” either way.


Requisite sexy flipping of the hair.


Sigh.


If you ever need proof that no
hairspray on this earth can make my
hair stay straight in humidity, here it is.
And I wonder why my head’s cocked so high?


Oh wait, that’s right: Because THIS a-hole kept
FARTING in front of us the whole time. Do yourselves
a favor: Memorize the back of his head and RUN if
he’s ever in front of you. You’ll thank me.

Right around now, Opie reappeared after a length of time that HE said he spent talking to “some chick” but Girlie put him in his place with the entry headline, and I started trying to take more band shots. That’s when my seester nabbed my camera and said, “I’ll do it.” I’m sure you’ll note quite quickly who the pro here is:


Yeah.


Steve!


Such gorgeous hands.


(blinks) WHOA.


Girlie and Lenny sing gleefully.


Little Holly and DDDenise (as in “designated driver,” pervs!),
the other part of our quartet. I covet Little Holly’s hair.


Don’t get what he’s having.


I ... have NO idea.

More post-show wrap-up later; need to finish another story.

Y’all remember the Megan Meier nightmare, yes? Today, GMA had on the young woman who dealt the proverbial final blow to Megan: Lookit. Didn’t watch it live of course, but I caught the discussion over on Jezebel, like I do. And one of my fellow Jezzes (that’s what we call ourselves) brought up the point that Ashley, now that she can scarcely leave her own house because of death threats and has actually attempted suicide herself as a result of the backlash, is at 19 but a child herself and that perhaps life should go on for Ms. Grills.

(Let me point out that for the sake of brevity, I’m completely oversimplifying what she said; my fellow Jez did NOT condone what Ashley did. Rather, as someone who was deeply ill herself at that age, she was empathizing with being in such a dark place and that much of the time, 19 year-olds don’t know what the hell they’re doing.)

My armchair assessment after watching the interview was that yeah, Ashley’s life probably WAS shitty prior to Megan; if I had to wager a guess, she comes from poor-to-modest means and was bullied for it and all manner of crap. Then when uber-cunt Lori Drew hired her, she got access to something, be it a lifestyle (the Drews DID have money at one point) or a mother figure, that she wanted and thus would do anything to keep being a part of it. I’m sure there was all kinds of self-hatred going on there, too; you can see that just looking at her. The difference, however, at least to me, is that my fellow Jez turned her pain and self-hatred inward, hurting herself primarily and her family secondarily. Ashley didn’t.

I said it over there, and I’ll say it here: Maybe she doesn’t deserve to be harangued by the rest of the world for the rest of her life, because having to live with what she did is punishment enough. But it’s certainly a punishment well-deserved.

(A summary of the Bower-Mollin wedding)

So, the wedding to end all weddings, right? I don’t even know where to start other than to say it truly was a fantastic night, full of joy and love, great friends, designer couture and all the free booze you could handle (as long as the bartenders were at their posts—whut up with dat, Ben-ha-meen? Like, every time the band went on break, so did the barkeeps.) Ben wore the hell out of his ascot, suit and silverish pimp shoes, of course, but Ann?

How ‘bout I just show you:


Ok, she doesn’t have a head in this shot,
but you had to see the back of the gown first
to get just how gorgeous it was. (Standing
next to her is her son, Lathan, who cut quite
a dashing figure in his mini-tux.)

Not good enough? Then how ‘bout this:


This was taken after mucho drinkage,
and she STILL looks unbelievable.
I, on the other hand, had started wilting
at that point.

Lessee, what else? Oooo! Here’s a cool shot of the Hava Nagila that killed my feet and knees:


Ben’s momma and pop sang it.


My seester and I as she took a break from
all that shooting (and man, did she get some
awesome shots.) (And if you’re thinking we
don’t look that much alike, you’re correct. I
got all the Eastern European features, while she
got the pretty skin that tans.)


Thas righ, Reality TV sneetchez! That most certainly
IS Steven Rosengard of Project Runway Cycle 4.
That’s who designed Ann’s incredible dress and day-before
wedding ensemble, which was equally sharp. (The hot chick
is Girlie, who accompanied me.)


Joe Winters and me. Don’t he clean up nice?


After Girlie and I split the reception, our presence
was requested at a local benefit at the Hobar
American Legion, where we ran into this cat,
the infamous Randy Anderson ("Buck Daddy”
to his musical fans). Evidently Randy doesn’t
remember ever seeing me without my specs,
because he kept marveling at my eyes the whole time.

And so as not to give you the impression that the wedding was all about me even though I acted like it with all that prep and planning my outfit, here’s one of my favorite moments of the night:


Right after the three of them walked out to
the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Ben
yanked Lathan up and swung him around.

My other favorite moment was in the video of the wedding: The moment the judge told Ben to kiss his bride, the sheer elation on their faces was proof enough that they’re going to be a couple for the ages. You don’t see love like that often, and it’s always so breathtaking to see.

And then I started doing a little jig at the bar.

This wild and wonderful pattern right here is my new dress, which came in over the weekend, and I have to say, it’s even BETTER than what I imagined, and not just because I have to have it taken in. (No no, giving up Pepsi for the last week has NOT made me lose a shit-ton of weight, though it has helped some. I ended up buying a size too big.) It’s SO cute that the first thing I thought when I tried it on is, “You know what would be REALLY be fun? If I wear a big ol’ petticoat underneath and rock a whole ‘50s vibe.” I mean, I bought the shrug, and Mother’s got this 3-strand choker of ginormous pearls—it’d be totally cool and so not out-of-place since it’s an eclectic bunch anyway. Now, I just have scour bridal shops to find a petticoat short enough to go underneath. And make sure that when I do find one, I don’t end up looking like a big-assed dork with stumpy legs, as is the wont in my gene pool.

But you can’t do ‘50s garb without rockin’ ‘50s style hair, so I said to Ben as he was chopping about 2 inches off my hot mess yesterday (they got me in early, hooray!), “So, if I wanna ‘50s up this bitch, what do I need to do?” He stopped and said, “Did you just say, ‘ ‘50s up this bitch?’ Because that’s the fuckin’ funniest thing ever.” And then he and Ann agreed that I’ll need to rat the hell out of the back of it if I decide to “ ‘50s up this bitch.’ “ In the meantime, the result of their efforts is below the fold:

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.

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.*

Nutjob: Legitimate description, or term used to describe someone who either doesn’t see eye-to-eye with you or doesn’t let you have your way? Discuss.

[I do have a post swimming around in my head about this, but no time to write it this second since I now have the best of both worlds because I? will be sitting amongst my awesome peeps watching a world premiere while some other poor suckeranother correspondent will be at the meeting. And because I’m doing the background reporting, I’m sharing the byline. AND I came up with this solution all by myself. My genius knows no boundaries sometimes.]