Well, Greta and I got my tax shit together for Friday. Other than that? Notta lotta going on up in here.

Ever have one of those days when you curl your eyelashes with the curler and they're, like, perfect -- not all bent and weird -- but you can't sleep with mascara on, and even if you did, if wouldn't matter because you'd end up looking like Lon Cheney when you woke up, anyway? Hate when that happens.

Not a lot to report up in Chez Broad. I'm nervous about a story I wrote today about an issue that involves a lot of numbers; one of the copy editors buzzed me with questions that made it clear that either a) I didn't write the story clear enough in the first place, or b) someone screwed around with it before she saw it. Either way, it was reconstructed, and that scares me. Otherwise, Easter was pretty cool -- ate a ton -- and I'll be spending a good portion of my week getting my stuff ready for the accountant on Friday (yes, on April Fool's aGAIN). And yes, it's likely that I'll owe -- as a free-lancer, I don't pay during the year -- but with this site, my other site and a new car, I may get to not owe a ton. Gee, I guess that means the car was good for something after all ... Of course, if I don't get butt-raped in taxes, I DO plan on getting me some new skin ... Christina, you game?

I'm going to bed, yo.

Oh, btw, I'm getting rid of pings, because those stupid-jerk spammer dicks won't leave me alone. If I get a particularly good meme, just link me.

That is all.

Would someone like to tell me when in the HELL a Snickers bar ended up being 94 CENTS with tax!? That just ain't right. Good thing I don't jones for candy bars often, although this month, I just might. (You know, the whole weird craving thing we women of menstruating age get when it becomes that time. Must. have. CANDY. Or rye bread smothered in Ragu. Hey, hormones ain't pretty.)

Speaking of pretty, Cousin Nancy is going to the prom, so I've been enlisted to take her dress hunting this weekend, which is cool, because Nancy and I have a good thing going when it comes to picking out her clothes: She doesn't pick out slutty things, and I don't pick out dorky things. It works. I was a bit concerned when she started talking about getting something in lime green -- her first date wanted a lime green tux with a top hat and shit like a big tool -- but now that she's going with her new boyfriend (huzzah! And he doesn't seem to be an asshat), I think she'll stick with something a little less Britney. (Yeah, if y'all haven't read the interview in Details yet, please do, especially if you're a fan of hillbillies.)

And speaking of hillbillies (I know, transitions suck), part of my VD was spent at a local jeweler watching young, withchild couples in love getting married. (Region rats will know what I'm talking about, and yes, it's as cheesy as you think.) The other part? At the courthouse watching couples get marriage licenses. Woo.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks our fair country is run by the biggest frat rat in the world, as evidenced by this lovely Gawker piece today: Lookit I will have you know, however, that I, at my advanced age, DO know what "The Big Shocker" is. (Thanks, Kate!)

Speaking of age, is it wrong for me to have thoroughly enjoyed last night's Paul McCartney halftime gig when I previously thought the whole set-up was a sellout? Because I really dug it, moreso than any of the other crap put during Super Bowl halftimes.

Oh, and thanks to the always excellent EWK, I now have the black lowlights I was talking about, but you can't really see them, so we're probably going to add more. They may pop more once I wash my hair, so I'll post a pic.

Now that Snidge is safely tucked away at an undisclosed location for the weekend, I'm confident in letting y'all know that she seems to have gotten over the drama into which she got sucked (and not in a good way). Not that she -- or anyone, for that matter -- won't be welcome any time she -- or anyone -- needs to vent but can't do it at their own crib because of the neighbors. I'm just saying all's good in the 'hood for now. In fact, y'all can catch me over at her crib at some point this weekend, because she's having guests fill in while she's boogieoogieoogie-ing her way through her mini vaykay.

In the meantime, you know how I was bitching about this douchenozzle the other day? Following is the deal:

Grabbing a shaker full of cayenne pepper that has been used once in almost six years to find little tiny grubs under the cap.

Anyone have any idea how THAT happens!?!? (shudders)

Covered a meeting last night and didn't get to see "Who's Your Daddy?", and I'm not seeing that anyone else did. (You bet I would've watched it. Are you kidding me!?!?) But why do I get the feeling that all the men TJ had to choose from were all successful doctors, lawyers, businessmen? And really, what fun is that? Now, if that were ME on the show, we'd have at least one candidate who's a 300-pound, marginally employed dope smoker, and with my version of getting potential sperm donors, we'd have at least two or three rotten-livered alcoholics and some dude who shot his paw. And how could THAT not be more titillating or, at the very least, more painful to watch since that seems to be more of what reality shows go for!?!? Seriously. The drama of finding out the dude who sired you is a two-bit loser who doesn't want to know they have another kid floating around? And -- and! -- the idea that the dude or I could walk away $100K richer for it? Emo porn at its finest. Where do I sign up!?!?

Meanwhile, out of meds again, but at least the paperwork is in this time as opposed to last time.

Did y'all know that in order to record mp3s on a CD and have them play on an outlet other than your computer, all you need is a CD-R, and then you can use any CD burning program without having to buy their special package? I'm sure I did, too, at some point, but between then and now, I've wasted several of my pretty blue CD-RWs trying to record Mer's birthday present, a collection of old favorites from our youth as well as some Romani folk tunes I found and tunes of which I'm particularly fond, like "Ciao!" by Lush and the Cristina version of "Is That All There Is?". Her birthday's in July, and she was here in August.

(flips hand at shoulder, making retard yeti noises)

Today was one of those days spent either at the computer or in front of the tube just chilling with the rest of the wine I didn't polish off last night (yeah, I know -- guess I just wasn't in the mood). Found out Cousin Nancy ended up in a fight with Loser Sid's new scumbag last night but that Nancy righteously beat her ass. Hey, if the bitch -- who, by the way, is over 18 and therefore could get tried as an adult -- was stupid enough to throw the first punch (which, according to Nancy, she did, and I'm inclined to believe Nancy's telling the truth based on what transpired earlier in the week), she deserves what she gets. That's not to condone violence, but I'd never tell anyone to take a dive, either ... unless they were going to get a shitload of money to do so, of course.

Anyway, tomorrow is Hair Party Day, where the Emperor Warrior Kendar, Ms. Kaffy and I sit around and giggle while EWK makes us pretty. I saw this really cute bobbed style on a hairdresser at Mother's shop when we stopped in to get her some hairspray Friday, so I'm thinking I might try to grow the mop out a bit. Now, since I've been known to stick paper clips in my hair when it gets too heavy, the chances of me getting through a month are probably slim-to-none, but I'm up for something different. We'll see.

Amazing thing, the human female body. This morning, I woke up still ready to tear the heads off small woodland creatures and chew them, and now with the onset of menses, I'm perfectly calm and looking forward to drinking myself stupid with coworkers tonight. But I'll tell you what: If menopause is going to be ANYTHING like the last few days? Dude. I'm going to be a bitch.

Not that I'm completely over a comment that was left for me yesterday questioning my empathy toward Southeast Asia these days; now, I'm just more scratching my head that someone could be so retarded. I mean, if you think I stand for something you don't like, then it's your option not to read me. But I don't want to hear it, either, especially on your first comment here ever and even more if I don't know you or read you, which I don't and won't now. Dumbass.

You know, something tells me my commenter also has magnets on their car ...

How do you know if your liver hurts? Because man! that was a lot of vino last night. But remarkably, I'm not hangin' this morning, because the wonders of water have once again not ceased to amaze me. I did feel an ache in my upper left back, though.

So, I just got me one of them flickr accounts, and I'm going to show you some pictures from yesterday, including the ones where I was really, really smashed on cabernet. That is, when I figure out how to post the damn pictures to it.

Oh! One more thing: Congrats to my homies Tara and Sean, who're one step closer to matrimonial hell with the receipt of Tara's one-carat sapphire and diamond engagement ring this morning! Woo! Sean's become a man! And I KNOW Tara's not going to make me wear a stupid ugly dress, either. Right? RIGHT!?!?! And that she's not going to wear panty hose with open-toed shoes if that's what she gets!?!? (Arms crossed, cocks eyebrow and taps foot.) Because you KNOW I'll call you out on that.

So, did anyone happen to catch that raise Ms. Kaffy got? That would be 17 percent, bitches. While you're congratulating her, flip her the bird o' jealousy, too. I mean, sheeeeee-it.

Oh, and for those who were actively wondering, no, I'm NOT the first contestant on Fox's new reality nightmare, "Who's Your Daddy?" although I must admit I laughed out loud when I heard the premise. Wait ... why am I laughing? I should be suing for freakin' royalties.

The Snidge is back where she belongs, tired but no worse for the wear. So, my fears of axe murders and Headcase's fears of little Snidge pieces spread out all over Lake Michigan are unfounded, and we can all just breathe in ... breathe out. Yes, that's better.

Oh! Speaking of good mental health, finally picked up my meds today. Of course, I picked up only half of them because the PAP hasn't processed my form yet and I had to BUY them at $65.89 for 15, but I can deal. Starting to feel better, too; this morning was a little too close to being out of control, closest I've been to it in awhile -- real hyper and jittery, and not being able to settle down without serious effort. But I was amazingly productive, which is unusual when I'm on warp speed. When it used to happen on a regular basis (like, 97 percent of my life), I just spun around in figurative circles and never left the house.

Ok, I know I've made this complaint before, but it bears repeating, especially on the eve of a formal event that I'm covering tomorrow night: Why can't I find a freakin' pair of pants that doesn't make me look like a Goddamned sausage!?!? I'm covering the event, which means I don't have to whip out either of my floor-lengths (which is good, because I'm reasonably sure I'd look like a sausage in them, too), but all I have is my black dress pants, which I can wear with the new chocolate brown sweater with the bling on it, but why should I have to when Old Navy has a pair of brown pants pin-striped with pink that would match the majority of the bling perfectly!?! Because Old Navy doesn't make pants for women with short legs and big asses, that's why. Crap. Hopefully tonight when I go out for my industrial strength support thing-y later, I'll maybe find something that's not low-waisted.

Meanwhile, it's been kind of a fucked-up week story-wise -- not as in I haven't been working, but as in, I've been chasing a whole bunch of shite and have gotten off my blog-reading sked (with the exception of Mac), so if y'all haven't noticed me creepin' round your doorstep, that's why. I'll make with the catch-up on Sunday. I can tell you that I think things with me and BFKAS are going to come to a head and possibly soon, but more on that later.

[UPDATE: WE HAVE PANTS, EVERYONE! Ralph Lauren is my new, pretend, mega-rich-mega-older boyfriend, because he makes brown, flowy pants that I'm going to totally rock tomorrow, especially after Crazy Aunt hems them to not be mega long. And -- and! -- they were on sale ($38, marked down from $95 (!) ). And you ready for the best part? I won't have to wear the generic support garment thingy that I bought; I'll get to wear my Spanx Power Panty, which is, like, the best. thing. EVER. for holding in the flub. Now if my hair will just not succumb to the freakin' rain and humidity ... And yes, Ogger, I'll make sure to get a shot of me looking like a girl. You haven't even seen my new specs yet, but chances are, I won't be wearing them tomorrow.]

I'll catch up with y'all later.