Somewhere between Bell's Palsy and death

Things I shouldn't say, period

Saturday, June 29, 2013
Confidential to Shensi

Yes, you’re on my mind, and yes, I continue to vacillate between hoping you’re dead in a ditch and aren’t.


Posted by Broad7:09 AM
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Blame SBrown for this one

Man, to think at this same time three weeks ago, I was sitting on a real live deck (not my puny little balcony) in a real live backyard at an undisclosed location in a pair of basketball shorts and a tie-dye while my friends’ hound guarded the perimeter (and when I say “guarded the perimeter, I really mean peeing on everything he hadn’t already peed on twice—prednisone sucks), and now I’m .... not. I got to grill out for my charge and me, and people, I GOT TO TAKE A SHOWER LONGER THAN A SLIGHTLY LONGER WHORE BATH. Do you know how long it had been since I’d done that!?? And my blowdryer didn’t overheat as fast, either. Perhaps there’s something to the whole home ownership thing. Today I spent ... sleeping, which is equally as awesome, really, but also has me on guard because between the sobbing I’d been bitching about all week and need for copious amounts of sleep, the cook at the restaurant better not have gotten me sick, is all I’m saying.

I’ve been instructed by one SBrown that I must tell the story of my first laser hair-removal treatment—no no, not THAT kind of hair because a) NO, and b) the Groupon that allowed me to purchase this dreamprocedure didn’t cover that business. And anyway, what I went for is, at least to me, much more embarrassing: my face, or more specifically, what I refer to as my “meatbeard,” much to the dismay of my sister, who thinks that’s the grossest descriptor ever, but I (and other people, thankfully) think is hiLARIous.

So like I said, Sbrown wanted to hear all the gories—except there weren’t really any, other than I had to put gauze in my mouth to cover my gums and had to put cotton pads over my eyes beFORE the blonde, fuzzy-bunny, 20-ish year-old aesthetician strapped the solid-metal tanning-booth goggles over my eyes. She then spread ultrasound goo on the area, kicked up the jams to whatever voltage felt like a rubberband snapping, and it was all done in less than five minutes. I’ll go through it five more times, the end. The REAL bitch of it was that I was a mere five minutes from the greatest mall in the world ever (A FREAKING TESLA DEALERSHIP, PEOPLE!), but I had to be back for a finance meeting, so I didn’t get to go. Next time, you’ll have to pull me out of Nordie’s shoe department. Mark my words.

Meanwhile, chatted recently with a familiar character ‘round these parts—because of job crap, she’s asked me not to use her name, but I’m sure you could figure it out if you’re so inclined—and she was telling me about reconnecting with a guy she dated a million years ago. She friends him on fb, they talk for a few days and everything appeared to be fine until one day, when first he was all “Hey, when you going to be on?” and then when she gets on, he hits her with the following:

I’ve been thinking a lot and I can’t think of one positive memory of you. I really don’t like you. I’m sorry I was abusive ... (something something gibberish we couldn’t quite parse) ... I don’t want to talk to you anymore.


Then he blocks her as if after that, she’s going to pursue any sort of further contact.

So naturally, that guy deserves ALL of the scorn because WHAT!?? Who the fuck reaches out to someone to tell them they don’t like them!? More than that, though, I’ve come to really not understand what possesses someone to apologize when they don’t really mean it, and by “mean it,” s/he thinks the apology’s enough in and of itself.

Self-indulgent story time, and I’ll even throw it below the fold for y’all:


Posted by Broad4:52 AM
Friday, May 21, 2010
Spambots gave me an epiphany

E! Channel’s been playing The Craft for the last few weeks, and I gotta say, I really dig that movie. To me, it’s a smarter, better version of Heathers, and I’m sure my angsty-cool card has been revoked for saying that, but seriously! Fairuza Balk BURIES Christian Slater in terms of over-the-top nutjobs. Just LOOK at her. Anyone who can have cockroaches crawling out her jacket arms? Is badass. Plus, she was hot in it, and all the other performances were nicely low-key for such a campy flick.

Those of you who still blog, do y’all still get spammed in your comments every so often? For as long as I can remember, I’ve been closing out my comments after 48 hours or so, but somehow they figure out how to get through and leave their droppings, or else the comment expire I put on expires or something, I don’t know. But anyway, I got a shit-ton of spam last week on entries I hadn’t thought about in forever, so I took a peek down Memory Lane as I zapped the spam. And as I was doing this, a particular entry grabbed my attention pdq:

“i’m not in the mood for your bullshit. leave me alone.”


That particular entry was about the e-mail the one guy sent me after Cat and I showed up at a party to which we were all invited; problem was, since the party was thrown by HIS friends (and God forbid I have anything to do with HIS friends because, well, they were HIS friends first), he was unhappy, and that was his response when I called him out on it (read: asked him nicely, like a sucker, why he was so rude to me at the party, because he not only didn’t talk to me the whole night, but he stayed directly across from me AT ALL TIMES, as if I smelled). Now normally, TOG doesn’t exist in any meaningful way for me anymore, but seeing that hed made my blood run cold.

But what REALLY kicked in the flop sweat was I wrote after it: I said I admired that he was able to protect his widdle feelings from my harshness (!) and that I would rather he be an asshole to me than ignore me, more or less. Just so I’m crystal here, let me break that down: I said in so many words that I was Ok with this guy treating me like shit—well, maybe not OK ok, but clearly Ok enough to not kick his stupid ass to the curb.

For all my bravada, that right there was—and still is in many ways—me. That scares me.

My issues with anxiety and depression aren’t exactly a secret to y’all, so it was about two weeks after my birthday that I fell into a sinkhole I haven’t experienced since after Dad died. Not sure if my meds stopped working or other external factors played into it, but it was bad enough that my peeps were begging me to get thy flat ass to the brain garage for a tune-up. The episode lasted a good month, month and a half, but for the moment I’m stable, in no small part because I’ve consciously started paying attention to and embracing the nurturing relationships I have and eschewing the ones that aren’t. The endeavor has and hasn’t been easy, but it is what it is, and I’m all right—horrified by what I’ve allowed myself to endure, but getting better.

In other news, Mother turned 75 this week. Do you believe that shit?


Posted by Broad6:24 AM
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Mercury’s back in retrograde, and God, I feel like a dick, Pt. 2

Things that have struck me dumb since, oh, let’s say Saturday:

-- On tonight’s second Intervention episode, the dude took to drinking foamy hand sanitizer when he couldn’t get out of the hospital quick enough to hit the fifth of vodka he had stashed at home.

-- The customer at the restaurant who, when he discovered his order was wrong, said—and I quote—“If I wanted to be treated this bad, I’d have stayed in Afghanistan.” Seriously? You’re really going to equate not getting your burritos grande to getting shot at in the desert? That’s a tad dramatic, n’est-ce pas!??

-- Then pal and co-waitress Double D (as in “Designated Driver,” you pervs) told the douchebag that her brother’s been in the Middle East twice already, yet she still doesn’t get why we’re there. I mean, I love that she said it, but during work where other customers might hear probably isn’t the best time or place.

-- In the first episode of Intervention—and this is one I’ve seen before, so how I missed this, I’ve no clue—the love-interest enabler chick basically just told the world the drunk with whom she’s in love either can’t get or keep it up. Wow. Hope he didn’t see THAT when he got out of rehab.

-- On our way home from the boys Sunday morning, G/BF tells me her latest nightmare (who we now refer to as “Dumbass No. 3,” or DA3 for short) told her if he moves back up here, he would STAY WITH ME so she could feel safe in knowing what he’s doing. O RLY!?? Because I would WANT his dumbass germs contaminating the resort.

-- The blatant homoeroticism of the latest Quizno’s ads: “Put it in me.”

-- Cheeks wearing a blowup doll with an arm-sized appendage on his head. (Ok, that didn’t strike me dumb, but it needed to be mentioned. We have the pictures to prove it.)

Despite all the toy play, I didn’t enjoy the weekend—still felt rotten and had family nonsense, after which I should’ve just taken my ass home instead of forcing myself to be social, because that rarely works and then I end up all fired up about stuff that’s, like, whoa, what the hell are you talking about. But tomorrow, I have a Cubs game with my old boss, so a slight change of scenery should do me good, and she and I always have a good time. Actually, it’s going to be an expensive month: Cubs tomorrow, RCPM Friday, another Cubs game over Memorial Day and possibly Great America at the end of the month to see my niece in her dance recital. Maybe I should start enterprising stories more.


Posted by Broad3:25 AM
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
If you hear the Jaws theme trailing me wherever I go,

that would be because I’m once again on an eating frenzy where nothing resembling food is safe. It’s like, you know, I’m nearing menopause, fer chrissake; you’d think this shit would ease up after awhile. Gad.
How ‘bout a vignette dump? Haven’t done one of those in a while ...

-- You in the band! You ain’t security: Managed to get in the middle of a bar fight Saturday night when the little brother of a friend started getting shoved around by some dumbass drunk. First I tried to grab him, and then I got between the two of them when the shoving started. I was feeling a little feisty, you see, and since I wasn’t going to get to let off steam in other ways, you gotta do what you gotta. Girlie just kind of rolled her eyes.

-- Oh, but there WILL be trout slapping tonight, Ladies: Yeah, see, when the “friend card” is played on one, one really needs to think long and hard about whether the (in theory) long and hard is worth it. But that’s all I’m going say about that, so take from it what you will.

-- Still getting acclimated to the new computer. Turns out all the hassle last week? Was over a dead ethernet cord, which wad DID point out was most likely the cause and Emperor Warrior Kendar told me how to check. There might also have been a complete overlooking of the little satellite icon at the front of the computer, too, but that wasn’t the problem. VISTA, though! You really CAN’T do anything without it asking you whether you want to or not, which yeah, is kinda good for those of us who know just enough about computers to do a lot of damage but sure is annoying when you DO know what you need to do. Cumbersome. But I’m really digging being able to stretch out on the couch and do my stuff; I just need to get a wireless router.

-- Watched the Inauguration today at Bang Bang, and the ladies and I were kinda disturbed by the color of Michelle’s suit. Over there, it looked like chartreuse, which I thought was a really odd choice considering she rocks yellow, but upon further inspection it was really a pretty golden yellow. I wasn’t having the green shoes she wore with it, though.

-- Speaking of the Inauguration, I have to say I’m pretty appalled by all the star fucking going on. Yes, celebrities identify liberal, but come on! When have they ever taken such an interest?

-- So my check is once again late, and in keeping with my feisty mood, I’m sure I didn’t make any friends when I got a little testy about it. 


Posted by Broad6:33 AM
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Remind me to NEVER open my door again

Four forty-two. That’s what time I got home this morning.

No, no. I wasn’t partying up with my crew or getting my junk crunked or anything one would normally assume would be going on at 4:42 ayem. Nope, I was driving home from Area 2, District 5 after sitting there for FIVE HOURS. For nothing in which *I* was involved.

Let’s back the train up, here: 10:30, right as Chelsea starts her monologue. I’m on the can after watching Nip/Tuck (whoa, this season’s going to be fucked UP, people!) when I hear voices (or A voice, as it turns out) in the hallway followed by hysterical knocking. I yell “Hold up! Hold up!” and finish my business, thinking the building’s on fire and how the hell am I going to round up the boys to get them out. The building wasn’t on fire, though; it was my downstairs neighbor, and a cop just called her and said he has her boyfriend, can she come and pick up his truck so it doesn’t get impounded? They’re at the corner of such and such ... on Chicago’s East side. And she doesn’t know how to get there, can I please, PLEASE come with her!??

Now, you might remember such situations as the Sweetest Day debacle that would be reason enough for me not to venture out of the crib where these two are concerned. You might also remember that I’m a big sap. And anyways, she was going to take the long way to get there, and I at least know how to get there quicker.

So the ride there was listening to her manically flit from one topic to the next, but the gist was the cop didn’t tell her why they had him and that she’d talked to him an hour earlier, and he’d said he was sleeping. (I, in the meantime, had decided it wasn’t a cop that called her but an “associate” who was going to pop a cap in her head as soon as she got out of the car, but I digress.) We get to the intersection, and sure enough, there’s his truck and an unidentified cop car behind it. She parks, throws her emergency lights on and then tells me to follow them to the station, but doesn’t tell me how to turn her emergencies off, so there I was driving like an idiot in a 2009 Camry with emergencies, blowing stops and shit just so I can keep up because it’s been waaaaaay long since I sowed oats on the East side. (Yeah, I was hardcore back in the day. What!?) Our destination: 111th and Cottage Grove, also known as Area 2, the place where telephone books are never wasted.

I think I told y’all once the lesson I learned about the penal system and how it’s not supposed to be like Momma’s house in order to keep criminals from coming back, right? I can tell you with utmost authority that Calumet Station? Not so much with the amenities. Thankfully, it didn’t smell like urine a la the old Gary HQ, but man! Imagine taupe and burnt sienna colored floor tile that’s kinda coming up in spots but not really, gray walls, block glass surrounding stairwells with primary yellow painted railings and brown gates separating the lobby and the rest of the facility, then take away any joy or hope you’ve ever had in your life and throw four homeless people sleeping outside, and there you go. Oh, and let’s not forget this art ... thing suspended between the two buildings that looks like a big chunk of ceiling tile held by 100 little wires and any manner of sketchy hooligans wandering in and out, especially the one woman who kept railing at the “pussy-ass po-lice” for arresting her brother or cousin or whoever—THAT was fun to decipher.

We’re there about an hour when the other arresting cop comes out and tells her his prints have come back fine and that whatever it was he was doing (and I do know, but for privacy reasons I’ll keep it to myself) wasn’t serious enough for the cop to pursue it but that the boyfriend WAS arrested and would be released at, oh, 3 a.m. “Well, hell, (neighbor), why don’t we just go home and he can call you when he’s done? We’re not that far from here for you to come back.” She told me I could take her car home, but like yeah, I’m going to leave her in the middle of the ‘hood by herself all geeked up on adrenaline and suspicion. That’s never a good combo for ANYONE. At that point, she says let’s take his truck and get something to drink.

And that’s when she started the recon.

We’re sitting there in the parking lot, she with her coffee and Red Bull (and for those like T who know my neighbor, they know that’s a baaaaad combination) and I with my Sierra Mist Cranberry, going through his immaculate vehicle looking for evidence. This, I had mixed feelings on. I mean, I’m no stranger to the recon and am pretty darn good at it—please—but. It’s all about what you’re going to do with the info once you have it, and I knew she was going to do exactly what she did—call the woman—and really, when the relationship is as bad as theirs, there’s really no point in getting all up in the other woman’s biz; let the other one deal with his stupid ass, right? Turns out, though, that that woman isn’t the woman he’s cheating with; it’s ANOTHER one. (FABulous!) Anyway, whoever it is doesn’t matter because now she knows, and hallelujah! she wants to leave him there—except we CAN’T, because she can’t just leave his keys at the front desk for him, say the officers.

SIGH.

So, we go back out to the truck for awhile before coming back in at 2:55 because he was supposed to be let go at 3, remember, and I’m starting to reek because the temp in truck was like 80 and who knows how hot it was in the station, and I was wearing sweats that should never leave the crib, clean or not. 34:10 rolls around, and we ask again what the holdup is: The officer said there was a “mishap”; the cleaning ladies said someone threw up and peed all over, and until THAT was brought “under control,” no one was leaving. FINALLY about 34:20, he came out. I thought she would just hand him his keys and leave with me, but no, she wanted to ride with him, so whatever, I didn’t have to listen to it. I got in her car and drove the hell home.

Earlier this evening, I was on the horn with Mother when I started hearing what sounded like caterwauling until the caterwauling started forming words. I look out, and the boyfriend is walking up to the door with a bag, then he goes back to the truck and PULLS her out of it. I stood there and waited for her to throw herself in front of the vehicle, but thankfully that didn’t come to pass. Haven’t heard anything since.


Posted by Broad4:18 AM
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Consider this bit of advice a gift:

Calling in the middle of the night for a piece when I could just as easily be substituted with a fresh corpse or really any other inanimate object with marginal pliability does NOT turn me on. It makes me want to shit on your car.


Posted by Broad5:29 AM
Friday, December 12, 2008
Peppermint martinis make me hungry, ill-mannered

Let’s hear it for my evil overlords, who’ve once again screwed up my paycheck and left me in the red during the holidays!

blank stare
Boo-urns

Rather than bitching about the inevitable, however, I’m instead going to tell you about my awesome weekend and how I should never, EVER be allowed to drink hard liquor again.

It all started Friday, when my seester came in for a quick visit. Now, as a SAHM with a hub who travels for work 50 percent of the time, she doesn’t get out much, which is fine with her most of the time. So after we got the kidlets situated, it was going be dinner, shopping and meeting one of her girlfriends out for A drink, since she had to get back home and I had to be up at the ass crack to cover the FUTURE OF NWI(tm).

Three a.m. and three glasses of Riesling later, the only thing that got Ms. WOOOOOOOOO! to leave the second bar of the night was the snow, because she had kind of a haul to get back to her dad’s. It was nice to see her relaxed and having grown-up fun, though, so I didn’t mind my head being pudding during my assignment in, oh, five hours, plus I’d had only two fluffy martinis (read: $8 sweet drinks in a fancy glass), so I was fine. Cutest moment: Earlier in the evening, my niece Lulu was doing a kind of jump-wiggle around the living room with this little satisfied grin on her face, like, “Yo, wut up.” Eight hours later, my seester was doing the same thing at the bar, same look and everything. God, I love those two. I even ended up talking to this idiot, but that was HER fault since she decided to give him a ride to the other bar.

Then Saturday, after a series of schedule changes that would’ve normally pissed me off (and kind of did until I discovered things actually worked out better), was the Bang Bang Christmas Extravaganza. The apertifs du soir: Peppermint martinis made with Ciroc, peppermint schnapps of some sort and a hit of gin, maybe? I don’t know, and SHINER BOCK! of which Ben bought by the metric shit-ton for his lady. As I was feeling rather festive (and wired since I hadn’t slept much), it was going to be martinis for me, no skimping on the sticky candy-cane rim coating, barkeep.

Sometime after the second one, I think, it was time for me to find something to eat since I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and there on the buffet was a gorgeous cheese plate—with neither tongs with which to pick it up nor plates on which to put it, as I would discover AFTER I tried to take one or two pieces of round, thinly sliced cheese but ended up having to take FIVE because cheese sticks together, and it’s not like I can just leave it there after my hands have been all over it. So I improvised and grabbed a styrofoam cup for my cheese.

Around my fourth peppermint martini, Girlie said I was quite the sight trying to carry on a conversation with Sensei Massey with my cup o’ cheese, martini (hands sticky from the rim) and candied pretzel sticking out of my pinkie; to hear her tell it, there might’ve been cheese crumbs expelled in some fashion. It was then that I switched to PBR.

The fun didn’t end there, however. It was time to head to our next destination—a place in Hammond where NASCAR lovers go to die—to catch the Leprechaun Virtuoso filling in for one of the 17 bands he plays in, but not before we hit McDonald’s for double cheeseburgers. They were mighty tasty, those cheeseburgers, but not quite as tasty as the chicken, mostaccioli and mashed potatoes Danny was eating when we got to the bar. So tasty were they, I not only ate off Danny’s plate but got up and helped myself to more, not giving any thought to the fact that he got the food from a wedding reception being held there.

It might not have gone exactly like this—the person who put up the video needs the page views so s/he disabled embedding—but close.

The NASCAR bar was too much for us, so I inhaled my ill-gotten fourth-meal and we set about our way when 1) I got the heel of my boot caught in the hem of my cashmere dress coat trying to get in the party van (I yanked it out), and 2) Girlie got pulled over, and I had to be told several times to STFU because I was rather loudly telling my sister of the night’s events. By the time we got back to the shop, the party had wound down—probably for the better.

And THAT, my friends, is why I don’t drink hard liquor as a rule. Thankfully, no one outside my crew saw how badly I was behaving.


Posted by Broad6:35 AM
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
My eyes! They burn!

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!??


Posted by Broad7:28 AM
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Something wacky this way comes

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:

Are you seeing somebody and just aren’t telling me? Because every time you pick me up, your phone’s always ringing, and I wonder if it’s a guy.

big surprise
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.


Posted by Broad4:09 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
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Oh, Peggy

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.


Posted by Broad3:54 AM
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Is that what you call it?

Ever get wind of something you know is only half the story, and you’re hugely offended and feel the need to bring your side to the table even though you’re so much better off not being involved, and anyways it’s not like your side makes a difference?

Eeeeyeah.

No, not going to share with the class, except to offer a bit of advice: In every relationship you have that goes bad, when you’re sitting there justifying your reasons to get out of it—and of course there are great reasons to get out of relationships that don’t make you happy; not saying not to—do yourself a favor and make sure you’re completely aware of YOUR part in it, if for nothing else than to not repeat the same shit* over again with the next unsuspecting schmuck.


[*And when I say “repeat the same shit,” what I mean is not subject the next unsuspecting schmuck to said shit, though the other interpretation works as well.]


Posted by Broad5:41 PM
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Dual purpose for not shaving my legs

Would somebody like to explain to me how it is that, barring external factors like absence, if a man and a woman of the same intelligence level take the exact same classes in college; or take the exact same training program for their companies, the WOMAN is the one who needs “more training?” And if the problem is “Well, the women have FAMILIES to raise, so they can’t be there for all the classes,” wouldn’t the more effective (read: fair) solution be “provide better affordable child/elder care so women can complete the tasks with which they are given?” Just curious.

And I wish I could take credit for this question, but I shall post it here in case, by some twist of fate, someone with any means to get it to the proper channels sees it:

I personally would like someone to ask Sarah Palin during the VP debate why she feels if their ticket wins, she doesn’t deserve as much money as Joe Biden would get.


Fortunately for Ms. Palin, it’s a non-issue since, if she gets elected, the VP’s pay is federally established. Wonder if she’d support the party line if it weren’t.


Posted by Broad5:14 PM
Friday, July 25, 2008
Good CHRIST will you shutUP already!?? Gad!

It’s now, oh, midnight-ish up here in Chez Broad, and I’ve been following with morbid fascination two posts on Jez (SHOCKING!) that my favie Moe wrote about condom-less sex. The original post was about an NPR segment calling said sex “the new engagement!”—an interesting premise, if you ask me—and the second an APOLOGY post for the first post because people read it as Moe singing the virtues of unprotected sex, and we’re not supposed to do that in this day and age. Only, the people didn’t like her apology, either, because of its flip tone.

The first thing I gotta say is to all the commenters who let everyone know—AGAIN—that this time was the LAST time they’d ever read Jez: We KNOW you don’t like Moe’s writing, and we KNOW you have your reasons because you tell us every damn time she posts something. If you’re going to go, KEEP YOUR DAMN WORD AND JUST FUCKING GO. Y’all are like the spurned party in a rotten relationship who keeps threatening to leave but NO ONE takes seriously because you keep coming back and repeating yourself (not that *I* have any experience with that whatsover, but ... (cough) ... and I mean the rotten relationship, not making dramatic pronouncements on Jez. I reFUSE to do that).

The other thing is this, and it’s in reference to the particular commenters who insist that Moe’s a role model via her position on a well-known Web site: A role model, by its definition, is something to which one aspires, but what if Moe doesn’t WANT anyone aspiring to be her and just wants to tell her truth? To me, “role model” signifies a lofty position that should be filled only by a specific type of person who I would say is almost beyond reproach, and that ain’t Moe, nor is it many people I know. So why should she have to be someone she’s not or doesn’t want to be? I know I sure as hell don’t want to be a role model; poster child’s more my speed, anyway, and I’m good at that.

And they’re STILL at it over there. Talk about a mob mentality. Man.


Posted by Broad4:46 AM
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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.

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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!??:



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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].

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