With today’s stellar weather and superclandestinehot liaison last night, you’d think I’d be a futon full of purring baby cougars all day. I at least started off as such, but then I turned into a bag full of hammers for most of the afternoon. That didn’t last, though, (through the wonders of age and medication, I am able to rein myself in more quickly than I used to, though I know Girlie doesn’t believe that at times; she puts up with an awful lot of whining from me), even after getting a definitive answer to something I’ve been dreading getting a definitive answer to.

(As an aside, I still might be on the fence about The Law of Attraction, but please believe that God, the universe, Johnathan Livingston Seagull or whatever thing in which you have faith will ALWAYS give you what you need to hear when you need to hear it. Unfailingly. Pay attention to that and see if I’m wrong.)

Unfortunately, most of my day tomorrow will be spent covering the funeral of Pfc. Shane Penley, from start to finish, for the paper and its sister. I suspect it will be draining. 

Any of y’all who’ve been by Snidge’s lately may have noticed that you’re getting a 404.

That’s not an error, folks. I’m afraid that my dear friend has decided to go silent ... no, wait, that’s not entirely accurate. Let me be frank: The short version is, Snidge pulled her blog because of crazy pussy. Normally, crazy pussy is something we laugh about, because it’s funny in a tragic sort of way to watch grown women resort to subterfuge and all manners of bizarre behavior to get a man/job/whatever it is she wants. (And, as a recovering crazy pussy myself, it’s practically law for me to look and laugh, much like an alcoholic reminisces about past benders.) The long version of the story, however, has Snidgey afraid for her son’s and her well-being, and for that reason, I’m not going to repeat it here.

I will say this, though—and since I know the woman behind it is checking in on me now as well, I’ll direct my observations with her in mind: She needs to give it a rest. Not because it’s the right thing to do; that goes without saying. But I’ve been watching this whole thing unfold since she started it, and I gotta tell y’all, I’ve never seen such a sloppy campaign in my life. Seriously, it’s embarassing. True, she did have a couple interesting tech touches, so Ok, credit where it’s due and so on and so forth. But all the tech in the world isn’t going to help if you can’t keep your damn mouth shut. THAT only gets you busted, which she now has been (and y’all can take that however you like).

Outside of visiting the blogs she frequents, I doubt Snidge will be back online ever, and that’s a shame; aside from being one of my closest friends, she’s a voice I admire and got a lot out of, as I’m sure many of y’all did. Yeah, she and I call each other 12, 15 times a day, but you know what they say about the written word and its profound effects and stuff.

And you? You’re a two-bit hack. Don’t quit your day job.

Ok, so which one of youse has the “getting-to-not-caring-about-someone-after-caring-about-them-for-years” cheat sheet!?? My kingdom (such that it is) for that formula, because this “It’s a PROCESS” bullshit BLOWS. BLOWS, I tell you.

PS The South Park rendition of Beth Chapman in this week’s episode? Funniest thing EVER.

That’s some full moon out there tonight, because wooooooooooooo! The crazy cans are a-shaking all over the place! Man alive. Snidgey and I were just like, WOW, what in the HELL is going on around here? and then I recalled Thursday, there was just a smidgen left before the full moon would be in its big shiny glory. And say what you want about the full moon bringing out the crazy, but I’m telling you, the crazy is OUT THERE and LOVIN’ IT.

So I’ve been logging entirely too much time this week ruminating over my emotional well-being, something I despise doing because it means feelings are involved, and I don’t do well with feelings, especially my own. And even worse than actually having feelings, at least to me, is trying articulate them in some sort of meaningful way; it’s not at all like writing a story, where everything is all (scribbled illogically) in my notebook. It’s more like walking through a haunted house during Halloween when you’re a little kid and sticking your hand in what’s supposed to be a brain but really is a bowl of spaghetti, and you’re trying fish out the meatball or piece of candy or whatever’s hidden in the goo. It’s moist and way unpleasant, but if I don’t and I leave the meatball in the goo, it’s going to mold over and start reeking. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if these feelings could cure cancer, much like my beloved Garcia Birkenstocks that I had to pitch because I figured they’d dry out once the detail guys got them out of the soup. Or cause it (cancer, I mean). Whatever.

Anyway.

The events leading up to all this, as I’m sure y’all gathered from last week’s bile spew, were nasty, horrific, embarassing, you name it, so I’m not going to rehash them verbatim. Suffice it to say, I got sucker-punched hard (proverbially, y’all, not physically) by someone who meant a great deal to me and has for a very, very long time. None of it should’ve surprised me, and though most of it didn’t, it’s the vitriol, man—the level it reached is just off the charts when it didn’t need to be. It NEVER needed to be, but I’m being told that yes, it did, because I just didn’t get it otherwise, and anyways I LET it happen, so really, it’s ALL MY FAULT. Got it now!??

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeessss. It’s all my fault. Way to rationalize your own behavior, dicksmack.

As someone who prides herself on being fluent in batshit crazy, I’m well aware that that’s all it is—not wanting to be called out on the carpet for rotten behavior, projecting one’s own (many, MANY) demons onto someone else and so on and so forth. I get it. Yet there are days now when I run it over and over about how I not only failed him, but that I put myself in a position to be shit on repeatedly, and there’s no deciding which is worse. Luckily, they’re fewer and further between, and I can go for extended periods keeping it all in perspective and, more importantly, not flogging myself over that which I cannot control. It’s just the waiting for the day when the good just clicks on and stays on that’s maddening.

if you’re screaming like a little bitch and telling me you really, really hate me when I’m apologzing to you for saying something that wasn’t called for, I’M not the one who needs therapy.

Just a thought.

Oh, and PS: If my own family doesn’t get to dictate with whom I can and can’t associate, what makes you think you can!!?

How someone who’s in the exact same boat as someone else a) chooses to ignore the irony of the situation, and b) would rather beat the first person with an oar and throw her off the boat to drown instead of, I don’t know, having some fucking empathy.

about the whole exchange with TOG? I'M the one who's feeling bad about it, as if I did something horribly wrong to upset the balance of the universe, and so I totally want to apologize and make sure everything's all right. I SHOULDN'T, however, because then I risk making things worse.

(she says, dropping to her knees like in those cell phone commercials, then beating her head on the floor.)

Tell me something: Why is it that I can't have just ONE DAY where I have no responsibilities other than what I want to do -- which, in this case, was just sitting around the house doing nothing but drinking Pepsi and watching TV after a morning story and a nice lunch with Poppy!?? I was in for the night when I finally decided to answer Mother's seventh call of the day; she called to tell me that she needed pills picked up. (Before anyone jumps on my shit gets the wrong idea, it's a medication that she didn't absolutely, 100 percent need until Sunday, and believe me, I know aaaaaall about her meds and what she needs immediately and what she doesn't.) Oops, I forgot, along with the appointment I made at Marathon to have them look at my tire, which got really low on Thanksgiving, but Ok, I'll get them, I said, to which she promptly starts going on about how she's soooo worried about my tire and how I need to get that looked at before winter sets in, wonkwonkwonkwonk, then asks if I would then pick her up a pack of Orbit gum along with her meds because she doesn't want my aunt to complain about her breath tomorrow when they go out for lunch. (I almost said "Obit." How's THAT for a Freudian slip!?). Well, I got caught up in AMW -- again, she doesn't need these pills until tomorrow -- so as I'm picking them up, I get my eighth call of the day. I call her back:

I get there, and she tells me to grab the last piece of pumpkin pie. As I'm putting whipped cream on it, she hands me her checkbook to write out her rent check -- you know, the one THAT ISN'T DUE FOR ANOTHER WEEK, because it must be done RIGHT NOW. Sigh. Where's a pen? I ask, and then she's all like, "I don't know what I did to you." I tell her, "Nothing," but she gets all whipped-puppy like. Ok, yeah, I DID say that she should call in the pills today; I just didn't sweat it because she said she had one to take in the morning and wouldn't need it until Sunday.

Just one lousy day to myself, is all I ask. Is that so wrong?

And THEN there's TOG, who gets all pissy with me because, as we were having a little saucy talk over e-mail, I kid that he's talking to some hot chick online. (CONTEXT: Without getting into details -- shutUP, you -- I was asking what he was doing home when he COULD be with me, unless he was talking to some hot chick online.) The correct (and funny) response to that would be "The only hot chick I'm talking to is you," regardless of whether I was or wasn't, or to just not say anything at all. But no, he gets all, "See? You gotta kill the mood," and I'm all, "Um ... wasn't trying to ..." and then he tells me he's going to bed because he's falling asleep. Oooooo-kay, then. Fine time to tell me that's a sore spot; that'll REALLY encourage me to indulge in saucy talk the next time, but whatever.

Stupid boys and their periods ...

If there's one thing I can appreciate about TOG, it's his candor. Doesn't make it hurt any less when I'm on the ass end of it, but ... I guess I admire the ability to self-preserve with such authority at the first sign of something uncomfortable (snickers weakly and shakes head). But I'm cool -- honestly, I'd much rather know than be ignored -- so we're just going to let it lie. It'll work itself out however it's supposed to.*

Let's talk instead about the really big news: Cousin Crackhead is supposedly going to the station tonight because she's "really anxious to clear her name," according to the detective. I'm sure she is (rolls eyes). Oh, and guess who I talked to yesterday during the parade I covered? That would be Boy Wonder, who was there with BFKAS and SC. (shudders) B-dubs looks well and seemed to have his head about him; we talked mainly about Crazy Aunt and her troubles, which have become so out of control, I'm not even. He also talked about a little bit about a fight he had with his dad wherein his dad basically said he would never accept his lifestyle, and that made me sad for him. But we parted on good terms and he said he would stop by one day and we would have coffee or something.

First, the new skin: Huh!?!? Didn't I tell you it kicks ass!?!? My thanks to Christina at Bonafide Style for coming up with something fun as well as a little disturbing. It's like she could read my mind before I even knew what I wanted. Tres cool, yo.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled drama.

I have this coin that I got from the wife-beater talk: It's an advertisement for Waymon and his biz, but the coin reads -- and I carry it in my pocket like a talisman -- "I am ultimately responsible for the amount of chaos I allow into my life." I really WANT to follow this mantra, and lately, I'd been doing a pretty good job, what with the family thinking I'm the antiChrist and all. Things were peaceful. And then came early Monday morning and the one guy, and now, it's shot to hell.

For those who have no compunction about their proclivities to diddle, a question, s'il tu plait: Keeping in mind that all things are possible when it comes to rubbing the magic lamp, have you ever tossed one off while sleeping (of which you're aware)? Now, taking it one step further, has a partner ever tossed one off while sleeping with you in close proximity*? Did it squick you out?

No particular reason for asking -- just pandering to Wad's assertion that things are getting boring up in here. And also? Traumatizing the parents of children who're looking up "Aladdin" on the worldwideinternetwebbunny: "Mommy? What's a 'diddle'?"