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:

Uh, wut!??

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.

What’d I tell you: Lookit

Now, to m: Was I right about the soup?

From the Popster herself—

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)

It’s official and everyone can rest easy: I have in fact done my civic duty and voted my freakin’ ass off. And you know what the best part was? Voting a big fat NO! to retaining Diane Boswell as a judge. I swear to God, I have NEVER seen such screwed up sentencing as I have from that woman, and I sincerely hope the victims who were hurt by her far outnumbered the criminals who got off with slaps on their wrists. I also completely threw caution to the wind and voted for whoever’s running against Van Til and Philpot (for the NWIers in the hizzy), even though I know NOTHING about their credentials other than they’re Republican. And I ALSO voted for our incumbent governor, if you must know. That’s a horribly unpopular choice for many Hoosiers, but love him or hate him, no one can deny he’s actually DONE stuff, and a good portion of said stuff hasn’t been detrimental to the state. If Long-Thompson gets in, however, I won’t be disappointed as long as she keeps to her word about getting rid of tax abatements for incoming companies. (They don’t NEED them!)

In other news, I will be spending my evening at Lake County Guvmint Complex reprising my role as STAT GIRL! (na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!), which I love. Hell, since the major networks will no doubt be there in full force to see what Lake County does, you may even see me slinkin’ around. I’ll try to wear something bright and festive so you don’t miss me.

Did it not occur to you that when you yourself write a missive talking about your son, you kinda throw plum out the window the right to threaten anyone with legal action if they mention his name? I’m guessing you didn’t, because you called the paper all fired up over it, but yeah no, honey. You don’t get to do that without looking like a total nutjob. And YOU, PVT, calling me from home and stuff. Not sure what you wanted, but my story was correct: You were reprimanded, and rightfully so; I mean, just because you HAVE the influence doesn’t mean it’s appropriate to throw it around. And I know how that is—people ask me to “wield my influence” (such that it is, and believe me, all MY influence is going to get you is an eyeroll, if you’re lucky) all the time, but that doesn’t mean I do it. But you know, y’all can go ahead and hire an attorney if you like. You’ll LOSE, but whatever.

Lessee, what else ... Girlie had a pregnant Hooters waitress wait on her when she took her daughter there for lunch Sunday. She said it was pretty horrifying.

to comPLETEly piss up my rope and all but ruin everything else: Last week, I went on eBay and found the exact Waterford champagne flutes I bought my sister 10 years ago for her wedding (they’d gotten smashed in a moving or some other incident), so I bought them for her anniversary coming up and sent the seller HER address along with my payment. Well, the seller asked three different times to resend the address, which I did, but then something told me to go look at the listing to make sure it got paid, etc. What did I find? The seller RELISTED THE FLUTES. Oh. It is SO. ON. NOW. MOTHERFUCKER. I comPLAINED on your stupid ass.

(ahem)

I know y’all have been waiting with bated breath to hear how my 20th went. No no, it’s all right. I mean, it’s huge stuff, so you don’t have to front. I gotcha. So, does Awesome.Freakin’.TASTIC tell you anything!?? Now, my feet are still swollen from standing all night despite wearing flats with no support in them whatsoever—good thing I didn’t wear the Manolos—but I’m Ok with that because it was such a good time. Ann hooked me up Friday with a super-hot outfit when we went shopping Friday afternoon and then blew out my hair Saturday while I had my car detailed; my fake eyelashes didn’t end up somewhere else on my face by the end of the night; and I saw and talked to all the people I wanted to talk to—even the ones I might never have talked to anywhere else.

There were, naturally, observations:

1) Either my weight gain or new hair color (dark, dark brown) threw people off or they like the rest of the world just don’t recognize me without my glasses, but I kept getting these glances like “Who IS that?” for about the first 1/2 hour;
2) While everyone talked with everyone else in the hallway where the open bars were, once we got inside the banquet room, it looked exactly like the lunchroom Senior year, with all the cliques congregating at their various tables. Not sure why I thought it would be different, and I guess I really didn’t, but it was still funny to see; and
3) Centennial Park is a just a spectacular place to hold an event, landfill and cancer-causing agents* be damned.

I also have to say that the women in my class look amazing for our “advanced” age. Guys are guys, but the broads looked HOT.

that if Uncle Peepaw and Bible Spice (thanks Jez who coined the term!) lose the election, she’s going to hit the talk-show circuit/tell-all memoir circuit with a story of how she was “coerced” into making all those racist comments* and just didn’t hear those calls to kill Obama, doggoneit! because she would’ve NEVER let it all happen if she were allowed to campaign the way SHE wanted to, because she’s NOT racist, nosiree.

Just a thought (but mark my words; I give it a year).

So I did something Wednesday that I haven’t done in, oh, something like two years, I think. Ready?

I am now the proud owner of a current valid drivers license.

This comes as no shock to my crew, who’ve had to haul my ass around and hold their breaths while I get carded since I finally admitted my lack of license (don’t worry—I may not look like I’m approaching 40, but I’m still not cute enough to pass as under the age at which it’s appropriate to card), but it shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of y’all, either, because truth be told, I’m kind of an asshole when it comes to stuff. Here’s what happened: I got dinged for speeding in late February or early March 2006 (twice within a week, as I recall); paid my tickets and was told I needed to go to defensive driving. Thing about that was, having gone through DD before several years ago during my last spate of speeding infractions, I seemed to recall the cost as being something like $90, which I didn’t have at the time. And then I forgot to sign up, and then I forgot I forgot and so on and so forth until my license was suspended (and yes, they DO send out the paperwork). Fast forward to April, I was heading down to my accountant’s for the annual buttrapemy taxes when I got pulled over. And the officer discovered my suspended license. Said officer was kind enough to NOT impound my car and wrote me a ticket far less than my actual speed. But did that prompt me to reinstate my license? Of COURSE not, because now that it was suspended, I figured the fee was MUCH more than $90 and I had to prepare for that kind of coin.

Then my first court date in August came and went—it was deferred since I was still a scofflaw—and I decided I’d better take care of this nonsense, so I called downstate to find out what I needed to do to become legal again. The lovely gentleman told me all I had to do was take the DD course I’d put off. “Really? That’s IT!??” I said in utter shock. “Yep, should cost you no more than $50.” Well, hot PISS! I thought, I can do this right quick!

Except I didn’t and deferred two more court dates before sitting my ass down at the computer to TAKE THE COURSE. Hey, I told y’all I was an asshole about this stuff.

In what has to be my punishment for being such a dick, y’all can rest assured that the picture is horRENdous—my face is too small for my head and my hair is HUGE on one side because I made the mistake of pulling it outside my collar (first mistake: wearing a collared shirt in the first place) without benefit of a mirror. None of that, however, compares with my Peter Griffin butt-chin, which is more prominent than I’ve seen it in forever. But you know, now that I have my license back, I kind of feel all out of sorts, like it’s not normal to not be a scofflaw. Is that weird?

Next up: getting my license plate renewed. Then I’ll be COMPLETELY legal (It was due in August.). The question, however, is will I still be the exciting, mysterious rebel I’ve become by having a suspended license all this time? Only time will tell, I reckon ...