Ok, so Greta, my across-the-hall neighbor, and I went to Target tonight so she could pick up her new bedding for when she moves into the house she's buying. (It's lovely, a gold and sage striped theme.) As we're loading stuff into her truck, I notice what had to be a brand spankin' new Chevy Cavalier in that "Caribbean blue" color that only Chevy makes, right? And hanging underneath the bumper? A blue ball sac. No, seriously -- it was made of leather, I think (no, I did NOT touch it), and it was vaguely vein-y and just hanging there like a scrotum. It was even lopsided, for Chrissakes. I'm still trying to figure out the irony, here, but ... yeah. There's someone running around Northwest Indiana with a ball sac hanging from his or her bumper. I mean, I might get the joke if it were hanging out of the trunk or something. But underneath the bumper? I'm ... confused.
Oh, whatEVER.

I'm sure at some point I'll feel the need to talk about how that all happened and why, of all the biological relatives in my life now (and there are a ton of them), the three who went out of their way to find me -- my brother, sister and mother, aka "BFKAS"-- are the only ones I don't get along with. But now ain't that time. I'm more interested in pondering the tidbit that my sister is allegedly living in a $500K house on a Lake within driving distance of me, which is entirely too close for my liking. See, I know that my brother-in-law makes some good coin in pharmaceutical sales, and I don't begrudge him that. And I'm sure they've bought and are able to afford a lovely house with a pool and all the other shit that you need to clean and maintain when you buy a huge house. But $500K? With two kids and my sister not working? Not buyin' it, and not seeing the point of having to make that shit up.

In other news, cousin Bren is about to pop with her second baby girl (eeeee!).
Oh, whatEVER.

So the guy and I talked solar attic fans for a few minutes, and then I ask him his name and position with the store.

"You don't recognize my voice?"
(vaguely recognzing) "You know, actually, I do, but I don't know how. Can you give me a hint where I might know you from?"
"Your youth."
(chuckles)"Oh, Jesus. Who is this?"
"It's ..."

Holy sheep shit, it's the guy with whom I had my first "real" date back the week after I turned 16 (the before-16 dates consisting of clandestine makeout sessions with my 21 year-old Air Force boyfriend in his Mustang, but that's another story for another time). Wow.

He and I were set up through my best friend at the time; they went to school together after she moved. He played bass but was into jazz fusion and classic rock, which made him sophisticated and subversive in my 16 year-old mind. Of course, he was a transparent 17 year-old hormone who broke up with me when I wouldn't put out, but we ended up nailing each other (or attempting to) a couple years later during the summer before my freshman year of college, aka the official start of my late descent into teenage debauchery. He's the first person I ever got high with. And I remember the day, too -- it was in June of 1988 during the hottest summer days ever. It was also the first time I ever drank Ouzo.

He had eye cancer when he was, like, 8, and of course was fitted with a glass eye. I remember telling my crazy friend Mer about it (she was living in Ohio at the time), and the first thing she said was, "Ew! What if it falls down your shirt!?!?!"
Oh, whatEVER.

So, one night, like, six months ago, I was irritated with this one guy (who I'm frequently irritated with, as you'll find as time goes on) and feeling generally pissy about our deal when I jumped on craigslist, as I'm wont to do at 2 in the morning when there's nothing on the teevee. I'm looking through the "Missed Connections" when I started thinking about former guy. (We'd had a relatively bad break-up, but it's not like I wanted to find out he was sleeping on a park bench or anything.) So, I thought to myself, "Hey, I could put out an MC and see if he ever ended up in Chicago or is still in the biz. I mean, what the hell are the chances he's actually going to see it, right?"

Mmmm hmmmmmm, well, about a month later, I get an e-mail from someone claiming to be one of his friends saying to the effect of, "Hey, you're going to think I'm crazy, but I think I know who you're talking about." Holy shit, right? Of COURSE I'm going to respond. (Oh yeah, like you WOULDN'T.) So, I start talking to this "friend," first talking about physical attributes and other semi-personal things to make sure we were talking about the same person, which we were.

But THEN the conversation starts turning into why he and I broke up.

Hindsight-is-always-distance-makes-the-heart and every other thing that occurs 10 years after you break up with someone, the fact is, he and I weren't right for each other and never were, as much as we may have wanted to be at the time. And I'll even concede it was me wanting us to be right much more than he -- I was freakin' 24; what did I know about anything? (Then there were the things that made us not right for each other, but in the interest of decorum, I won't go into them here. Unless provoked.)

Now, to their credit (and I say "their" because it was about this time that I realized that he did TOO know that I was talking to the friend, despite what she said otherwise. How? The writing styles changing among the e-mails was the first clue.) they did put some of my concerns to rest and said some lovely things that made me tear-y.

But then, as is my downfall, I became too familiar with her and started talking about said flaws, and Wifey's claws came out. (You HAD to see that coming, right? I mean, what the hell kind of "friend" would NOT tell you that someone was looking for you? Please. My girl Kaffy's ex had someone looking for him on craigs, and it took me about two seconds to e-mail that to her.) Basically, she told me I was full of shit about what I perceived were his flaws and that he dated "several other women before he got together with her -- oops, I mean "HIS WIFE" -- so she had no idea who he meant when he ever so self-deprecatingly said that he had no idea who would want to know where he is and how he's doing. Oh, and the picture of the two of us I have buried somewhere in my shit that I offered to dig up, scan and show her if she wanted to see it? Well, I need to get RID of it, because "it's unhealthy to keep stuff like that."

Ahem.

The night I got that response, I had spent all day drinking heavily at one of the Cubs' play-off games (GO CUBS!), so please applaud my restraint for my response: "You know what? You're right. All I really wanted to know was that he was Ok, and now I do. Thanks." Or something very similar.

I'd never tell anyone NOT to pursue contacting an old ex. I just hope for your sake he's not a big puss.
Oh, whatEVER.

I must say I'm shocked, yet hugely impressed, that Ms. Mell is standing up, seeing that Rod the Rod isn't exactly supportive of gay marriage. Way bigger balls than Mary Cheney, that's for sure. Don't EVEN get me started on that.

[UPDATE: To clarify, Gov. Blagojevich's stance on gay marriage is that while he doesn't support it, he'll veto any attempts to put it on the Illinois books. In other words, he's riding the fence. Hope it doesn't get stuck up his ass.]
Oh, whatEVER.

Anyway, there are myriad reasons as to why I've decided to blog: One is that my closest friends have heard my stories ad nauseum and so I need new victims -- I mean, a new audience with whom to share my soap opera. (On the flipside of that, they may have forgotten how charming my delivery is, so why not give it all to them again in print, right!?!? Heh.) The more important reason, though, is that I'm looking to rediscover what other voice I have besides "GA reporter." Unless you're a columnist, newspaper writing allows for little in the way of personality, and I've become wistful for the days when I could let whatever came out of my head out on the paper for all the public to see. Actually, that's not exactly it -- maybe "refine" my voice is what I'm looking for, because I feel like when I write something, it's like totally predictable how I'm going to set it up, and it ain't as smooth as I'd like.

And let's be honest, here: I'm an attention whore. It's incredibly cool to see my byline all over the place; I wouldn't do it if it weren't.
Oh, whatEVER.