Somewhere between Bell's Palsy and death

Out of the mouths of babes

Friday, June 05, 2009
“Not expecting you to yell ‘Rectal cancer!’ while I’m on the phone!”

Yes, but if I may go on record here and point out that how the hell was I supposed to know G/BF was setting her son’s voicemail when I thought Buddy over on ”All Over the Map“ got Farrah Fawcett’s cancer wrong!?? (He didn’t, btw.) And anyway, if I heard someone yelling “RECTAL CANCER!” on voicemail, I would it hilarious. I may be the only one, but I’m Ok with that.

So it goes without saying that life is a shit-ton better when I’m not dying of some flesh-eating virus’ cousin or whatever. The Cat & Co. visit over Memorial Day was a great time—spent a lot of time in the city learning ... stuff, like at the Field Museum, for instance: We were walking through the Animals of Africa and Antarctica and whatever when we came upon a walrus skeleton. I don’t know if y’all have ever SEEN a walrus skeleton, but as I was looking at it I notice there’s a rather large bone situated between its legs, and not like a tail. I pondered this for a moment before I whispered to Cat “Cat, are you seeing what I’m seeing here?” to which she was all, “Yeeeeeah, I see it.” So we pondered it a bit longer before sharing our findings with Mr. Rags (her ex-husband with whom she’s reconciled, huzzah!) out of earshot of T-man, who’s at that age where anything scat-related is the greatest thing ever. Well, later at dinner (and I gotta interject here for a moment that for those of you who love Emilio’s Tapas: It was good, but I still think Arco is way better. Too bad it was CLOSED the Sunday we were there for whatever reason, forcing us to almost have to eat at a REALLY expensive little Japanese joint that looked good based on the recommendation of the two gay gentlemen we interrupted at dinner and California Rolls she and I scarfed down to use the bathroom), Cat whipped out the old Crackberry to look up whether walruses have ... bones in their bones. Sure enough, ALL animals have weiner bones except for, like, four of them, of which man is included. So as Cat’s sharing this information, T looks at us and said, “I know what you guys are talking about,” and we were all “No, you don’t,” when he looks at Cat and points at his unit. I of course started cracking up while Mr. Rags had to explain that we don’t point at that in public. Anyway, Mr. Rags isn’t convinced that Cat and I actually left the museum to go shoe shopping while he and T went to see the museum’s Pirate thingy; he thinks we just stood there marveling at the walrus bone.

[Fun fact: Did you know walrus bones can get up to at least 4 feet long and that one time, one that size went up for auction with a starting price of $16K? Tons of people bidded on the thing because it’s an oddity and why wouldn’t you want a walrus weiner bone in your collection? True story.]

There are other stories to tell from that weekend—like the yentas sitting behind us at the Cubs game and another scatological exchange with the BoyofWad, but I think my favorite parts had to do with T and me; it got to the point where all we had to do was look at each other, and we’d just start laughing for no reason, thereby proving once again that I’m nothing if not 12. That’s one groovy little kid, though.

Now, things have taken a somewhat contemplative turn up in these here parts—a turn that has me itching for trouble. And it IS a full moon this weekend ...


Posted by Broad6:22 AM
Monday, November 17, 2008
mmm-HMMMMMM

What’d I tell you: Lookit

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


Posted by Broad5:33 PM
Monday, October 13, 2008
The one where Girlie has a Broad moment
Wait ... this might be 30 years too late, but did Lutheranism come from Luther?

-- asked while I was helping BoyGirlie study for his History quarterfinal Sunday night

Posted by Broad8:07 PM
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Things media people say when we’re bored
I do that in my spare time. The next big, deep thought could be like the invention of the next paper clip, rubber band or battery-operated personal massage device.

It involved less travel than my other hobby: Global macro-economics and how it related to atomic fusion and habanero peppers.

-- [redacted], on figuring out “the big picture”

Posted by Broad3:49 PM
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The weedlee: There’s just no substitute.

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 --

“Ok, Mr. Anthrax. Wrong music for thrashing!”

“Country metal?”
CountryCRAP metal?”

“Don’t forget ‘DENIAL.’”

“If you can work a digital camera, then you could put your teeth in.”

“I don’t know WHAT it is, but if he’s going to play like that again, I might have to pick smoking back up.”

“Yeah!  Go back to your nerd kingdom up front; the cool girls don’t want you back here!”


Posted by Broad10:32 PM
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
File another one under TMI

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

Every time I go to my doctor’s office for my annual girlie exam, it never fails that the nurse, no matter which one it is, brings out the biggest speculum EVER. And then, when the doctor comes in and tells me to scoot down to the end of the table, she’s like, ‘Oh no, you don’t need this!’ and pulls out THE SMALLEST speculum. I mean, why would you assume that if I’m bigger, my cooter is too!?? Seriously.


Naturally, this resulted in great laughter between us.


Posted by Broad6:27 PM
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
“Jacking off in the bathroom doesn’t count as talking to a chick.”

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!

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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.

image
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.

image
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.

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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.

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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.

image
Such a pretty, pretty man.

image
He’s singing to me, you know.

image
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.

image
Requisite sexy flipping of the hair.

image
Sigh.

image
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?

image
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:

image
Yeah.

image
Steve!

image
Such gorgeous hands.

image
(blinks) WHOA.

image
Girlie and Lenny sing gleefully.

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

image
Don’t get what he’s having.

image
I ... have NO idea.

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


Posted by Broad2:11 AM
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
“You’re too gross to do a shot off MY tatters.” *

(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:

image
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:

image
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:

image
Ben’s momma and pop sang it.

image
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.)

image
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.)

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

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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:

image
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.


Posted by Broad3:12 AM
Monday, March 31, 2008
Another snapshot from last night
I don’t know, but it was like everywhere you walked, it was all b00bs.

-- Girlie, swearing up and down that my tatters kept causing a commotion during the reception. I remember nothing of the sort.

Posted by Broad2:14 AM
Monday, March 24, 2008
“If I wanna ‘50s up this bitch, what do I need to do?”

image

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:


Posted by Broad3:41 AM
Monday, March 17, 2008
When people are cute enough that you don’t have to shoot them

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.


Posted by Broad5:01 AM
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Inquiring minds and all that

Our ol’ friend Kaffy has a question, because she’s a heathen Protestant and does not understand the mysteries of the Catholic church:

If masturbation is bad because every sperm is sacred and must be used for procreation, what about chicks masturbating? It’s not like we’re going to waste precious seed, so it shouldn’t be bad, right?

I would like the opinions of your readers, please.


I should also mention that Kaffy wants to know how to get her pervy special ed student to stop feeling her up with his face.

Have at it, folks.


Posted by Broad1:53 AM
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
“My first experience with a cross-dressing man was”
this cook named Beto at the [restaurant redacted]. He’d wear, like, sexy 80s shirts and bangle bracelets, and acid-wash, ripped up jeans with girl’s underwear. Well, my dad said he was in the closet for a long time because he lived with his grandmother, and being as I was in junior high at the time, I really thought his grandmother locked him in the closet. Yeah, I was really a naive young girl. No, I didn’t spend that much time thinking about it.

-- Girlie, buzzed up early NYD

Posted by Broad6:28 AM
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Her first hejab
The typical Islamic garments can be used for many purposes:

1. A last minute Halloween costume
2. Spying on anyone, anywhere
3. Getting an NYC Yellow Cab to take you anywhere in the 5 boroughs at any time of night or day
4. Attracting people who are stunned at the sight of an “Islamic” woman downing shots of tequila at Bay Ridge bars
5. Looking like either a total Islamic fundamentalist or a stupid American tourist terrified of being arrested in Tehran.

Nonetheless, the salesgirls treated me like “Full-size Barbie” and had a hilarious time helping me! What do people do that don’t have a 5th Avenue?


-- Mer, in a Myspace bulletin t-minus 48 hours before she leaves for Spring Break in Iran
Posted by Broad10:18 PM
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Future parents of America
Teen boy: Dumb bitch can’t even get the potholes fixed in the road, and she’s up there talking.

Teen girl: Um, it’s not like she can hear you through the TV.


-- an actual conversation Poppy overheard in the gynie office today [CLARIFICATION: They were watching Nancy Pelosi’s address to Congress.]
Posted by Broad9:18 PM
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It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

100 things
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.

Give it to me, baby.

Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...


The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:



Save the Net Now



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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].

Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].

Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving?  The frigging church.  My church and my mom’s… ...[go].

Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know.  I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].

Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment!  I have… ...[go].

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This explains that large bit of type at the top.

Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.

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