I was heading home from the meeting I covered tonight (last night, whatever), and I thought I'd call Mother back one last time to check and see if she was feeling better, plus there was tornado warnings throughout the Chicagoland area. There was no answer. Ok ... so I wait a couple minutes in case she was in the can, and I call back. Still no answer. Hmmm. Didn't like that, so I call my aunt to see if she'd either picked Mother up or if Mother called her to let her know what was going on with her stomach; they share kind of shit all the time, no pun intended. My aunt says no, she hadn't talked to Mother, but she guessed she was probably downstairs in the basement because of the storms. Well, after remembering something I read about women's heart attacks mimicking stomach aches, I wasn't buying it, so I went over to Mother's crib.

I get there and the light's on, and since I couldn't find the key to let me into her building, I started laying on the buzzer. No answer. Started laying on the buzzer again. Still no answer, so I buzzed her downstairs neighbor, who let me in. I get upstairs and bang like hell on the door, and still. no. answer. The neighbor was nice enough to first try and call the landlord for me to see if he could get over and let me in to her apartment, but then she thought to go see if Mother's back door was opened. Sure enough, it was, so I walked in, expecting to either find her in a pile in front of the can all fish-eyed and dead, or stiff as a board in her bed. She was neither.

Now, for those of you who are thinking I found her in flagrante delicto with some dude, you're sick, and it would never happen, because Mother is a perpetual virgin. (Those who know her understand.) No, she was downstairs at the Nutjob Neighbor's, laughing and drinking a Coke, is what she was doing.

I don't know why I'm worried about how she's going to invest her money, because I'm going to be dead long before, and it'll be her fault.
Oh, whatEVER.

Ok, now I realize that might sound really insensitive, and reading back on it, it does. What you need to understand, however, that a) Mother is a HUUUUGE drama queen, and b) I am of the suck-it-up variety. It's not that I want to see my mom in pain one bit. It's just extremely frustrating to deal with the drama.

Whoever suggested that she and I live together after Dad died would've been responsible for a homicide, no lie.
Oh, whatEVER.

So today was maintenance clean-up day at Chez Broad; the boys' boxes and the refrigerator got cleaned out. So in the fridge now? A half-drunk case of Pepsi; a partial bottle of Tequila Rose from my 30th birthday party; a half-drunk gallon of distilled water; a Brita pitcher half-full of water; wine that comes in a jug (can't think of the name off the top of my head) that I killed the cork on and therefore have never drunk; plenty of condiments, and ... that's about it. We gots to hit the grocery store tomorrow. Or sometime this week. Maybe.

A pedicure happened today, too, since it's FINALLY becoming trusty-Birkenstock weather. Last year, I got kinda lax on the whole keeping-up-with-the-pedicure thing -- not letting it get to crackwhore proportions, just not doing it at all -- and that kinda made me look much more granola than I actually am. So I thought this year, I might try to keep it light pink at all times, since In-Style says that's the gold standard. But the gold standard it likes for pedis, "Mademoiselle" by Essie? Way freakin' light. In fact, you really can't tell it's on until you get outside. I suppose it beats sallow flesh colored nails, though.
Oh, whatEVER.

Now, I have many feelings about this Iraq business -- the short version being that we shouldn't have gone back there until we had a reason -- but God help the person that would ever blame the soldiers for doing what they have to do. My prayers are with them.
Oh, whatEVER.

The concert? So. unbelievably. BEST. I don't think I've ever heard a live band play so tight EVER; they sounded exactly like their CD. And my homies in Wookie!?!? They were ready and rocked. It was so cool to see them having fun again, and they stayed sober through their set, even! Good friends, good music -- it was all good. As an extra bonus? I'm not even hung over today.

I do think the coolest part of the night, however, was when I went up to Roger as they were getting on the bus, and I handed him my article. He said he'd read it, of course, but I told him that I give him serious credit, because here, I thought that all my questions were different and interesting when he and I talked, but then when I went to write the article and googled him, I found that at least a dozen other writers were as interesting as I thought I was. And yet when we talked, he made it seem like he'd never heard my questions before, and you know, that's got to get old after awhile. I mean, I know I hate repeating shit over and over and over until I want to kill myself or the person asking, right? But you know he said? He said that we had a great talk and that I made him think. Not only that, but HE REMEMBERED I TALKED TO HIM WHEN THE BAND WAS IN BOSTON. AND MY NAME. If ever there was a way to reserve a place in my jaded heart forever, that was it, because I now want to have his love children. Think his wife and kids will mind?

All right, seriously, though, it's bands like the Peacemakers that make live music cool -- that give-it-all-you-got and then total accessibility to fans. If you've never experienced a live show like that, go forth and find one, and then pimp that band out to everyone you know so that they don't have to sign with a huge record label and get the heart and soul sucked out of it. I know I'll be doing it for the Peacemakers.
Oh, whatEVER.

Anyway, tonight was Puente's going-away bash, and the one up-until-two-hours-ago-ex-friend and I were doing the whole "I'm not LOOKING at you" thing when, all of a sudden, she said "Mich ..." and I looked at her. Then she says, "Did you know (our one friend who thought the whole fight was stupid) is going to the Plain-Dealer?" And I'm like, "Holy shit! I SO did not know that!" So then it started slowly, talking to each other in the whole context of the group, and then, the bathroom trip. We went to the can, and as we were washing our hands, I said "Come here," and gave her a hug and said I missed her -- which I did, don't let me fool you -- and she said she missed me, too. And then we spent an hour or so in the parking lot catching up on shit. The end. I guess I'm still kind of shell-shocked about the whole thing, but happy nonetheless, because really? I don't like carrying that kind of negativity around, no matter what I say about being at peace with shit like that. Now, if I can just make a decision about the other friend who called me today wanting to make peace ...

But the big news? I still fit into my Tommy cropped jeans from last summer. That's one less article of clothing I have to replace!
Oh, whatEVER.