Lee R. Quinn, June 30, 1934 - Aug. 30, 2001

It occurred to me that, in light of my finally getting my rocks offsome sweet, sweet lurve, you might be wondering what TOG said in defense of his retarded behavior the last time I saw him.

The answer likely will confound those who aren't fluent in TOGese. He said -- without provocation by me, mind you, as I was more concerned about him not driving buzzed up during a torrential downpour:
[*Sorta a la him, TOG tends to refer to himself in the third person sometimes. Not in a fancy-boy way, mind you; you just kinda have to be there.]

I can see y'all are like, "Wait ... what!?? That says nothing," and on the surface, you're right. Truth is, I could've called him on it and probably should've. At the same time, it's kinda like, you know, picking your battles.

Besides, I got mine, right?

In other news, here I was freaking out about moving my vanity site to Wiredhub from my old host when it turns out that they'll be able to do it with the greatest of ease! Love it when THAT happens. Now, I just hope I can keep a hold on the domain.

She and I have been talking about injecting new blood in the 'rolls, so I was perusing and I came across this: Lookit.

I can think of several people off the top of my head who won't appreciate a word this woman has to say, but I say "Read it, anyway," and then try real hard. She done put a fine point on it that even the biggest blockhead can understand.

Well, WE just had some excitement up here in Chez Broad: I got back from a wedding shower for the second next-door neighbor girl (ohmigod I'm old) where the take-home treat was these fantastic cookies in a plastic box tied with burlap and raffia, right? So I untie the raffia and let the Rube play with it, dropping it on the ground for a split second when it occurs to me that shit! You're not supposed to put any kind of string on the ground for cats because of this. Fuck!

So first thing I do after yanking* the offending raffia string out of Rube's mouth is call the 24-hour vet, where the perfectly lovely nurse tells me that I need to get him to ingest a teaspoon of hydrogen peroxide to make him barf. Oh, and that it'd probably be better if I brought him in so they can inject him with it, but it costs $75 for the office visit and whatever the treatment is, and you have to pay it up front. Well, hell, I was just excited to have $45 bucks to last me through payday, so that's not going to work, what else you got? She tells me -- nicely -- that I'd need to administer it myself. Ok, but I didn't have a dropper, so I call Poppy, who's a regular St. Francis of Assisi has many animals of her own.

Now, you know that e-mail that's gone around about what happens when you give a cat a pill? Eeeeeeyeah. Rube screamed, hissed, spit and growled as if we were eviscerating him without benefit of anesthesia, and it didn't help that he HATES Poppy as it is. Haaaaates her. Always has. Anyway, after about 20 minutes of chasing him to where we could shut doors and get him cornered, Poppy, cornering him in front of my bedroom door with a towel, finally got in him a full dose, after which he took off for under the kitchen sink, where I'm assuming he barfed, but I'm not sure because there was still an awful lot of indignant growling.

Poppy took off, so I thought then would be a good time to call the bride-to-be's mother to find out just exactly how long the raffia string was. (Of COURSE you'd think that calling her beforehand would be the first logical step. Shutup.) Long story short, the raffia was used to tie the burlap in place, and the string I yanked from his mouth? Was likely the whole thing intact.

I just felt a little lick on my foot from under the desk, so I'm assuming we're all good again. But I'm telling you, NEVER underestimate the power of a 15-pound cat, because that little fucker even swatted the dropper right out of my hand. And his brother eventually came out from under the bed, but not without looking around like he'd just survived the battle of My Lai.

It has come to my attention that I've been, ahem, slacking in the original content department. So while I'm thinking about things with which to regale y'all, lemme tell you about my friend Sammy, who's done lost her mind again.

See, Sammy is a perfectly lovely lady; she led my first expedition to the great mecca, in fact. We've been to Vegas together, spent many nights drunk and lamenting the state of the new biz, talked about stupid boys -- you know, everything that good girlfriends do.

But a couple years ago, Sammy made a pact with a devil, that devil being her friend Andy, who talked her into running the Chicago Marathon. From January to race time, Sammy trained, eschewing the levels of beer and crap-food consumption we'd all come to enjoy in those days while she was here. And oh! The running! There were talks of running 2, 8, 12 miles at a stretch! I thought she was nuts and told her so each time we hung out. I mean, there was no question that she WOULD complete the marathon -- which she did, and in the time she was supposed to -- but WHY? When there's beer to drink and pizzas with extra meat to consume!?!

Well, long story short, despite any protest by me, Sammy's running the damn marathon again -- only this time, it's personal.

See, her extended family has been beaten by the cancer stick, so she's decided to raise funds for research. Now, I personally think there has to be an easier way to do this -- bake sale? candy bars? -- but she clearly doesn't share my view. So, since she's so adamant about running this damn thing, I'm putting a button over there on my side bar so you can slip her a few bills if you got 'em.

I mean, at the very least, perhaps we can raise enough money to convince her to stop making the rest of us look like chubby slobs.

What is it about good sex that makes the world seem a little less brutal?

(sighs contentedly)

I am, however, a little bit sleepy. Still. So I bid you adieu and hot wet dreams until tomorrow.

It's his fucking birthday today. Go wish him one.

[Card image from here.]

Doncha just want to eat him?



He was dead asleep in this picture, too.

Got word the other day that a friend of mine's close relative with cancer has relapsed. Not identifying the friend because they don't want identifiers put out on the Interbunny, so don't ask -- just send good thoughts out into the ether.

Of course, I'm now deeper into that time, especially since Mother and I got into a YOOGE fight tonight that made me want to throw her out of the damn car. (I didn't. But I wanted to, even more than mostother times. Trust me.)

-- Him discussing my panties during dinner at a Mexican restaurant.

Tom Waits... charismatic story-teller with a
penchant for freaky people and unusual
settings. You thrive on the concept of the
underdog coming out on top.

Which fucked-up genius composer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

[Horked from the enchanting Kristine]

You know how I said I was going to have EWK shock me by doing something way different with my hair? Behold: The color I was born with.

You're Lou Reed. God, you are cool, can I touch you so the magic
will rub off? You are perceptive, witty, and badass. You wear
cool shades, even at night, and probably wear
black more than most people. You don't give a
fuck what other people think, but you are also
very sensitive in the way that you pick up on
things that others don't. Sometimes you come
off as an asshole, but that's what makes you
cool. You are a poet, and you embody New York
City. You will still be hip when you are old,
and artists love you.

Which rad old school 70's glam icon are you? (with pics)
brought to you by Quizilla

[Guess who?]

So I've been kinda quiet with the feeeeeelings and shit lately, mostly because we're coming up on that time again, and it's just not a good time for the obvious reason. Also? I've been worried about money much more than I usually am. I mean, we know I don't make a lot doing what I do, and that's fine, but I'm not usually THIS broke. It's like, I've started having dreams involving car repossession and shit, and I've NEVER had dreams like that before. Decapitation, yeah (not my own, oddly enough -- used to dream about Dad being decapitated when I was really young, and then Mike, my 21 year-old boyfriend when I was 15. And they weren't, like, getting decapitated or anything; with my dad, his head was dangling on a string from the light in the kitchen, and Mike was in my bedroom without his head), but never money.

Anyway, DtR was supposed to have gotten his "divorce settlement" (snerk), so you'd think he'd want to pay me the $550 he still owes me, which would take care of just about all the niggling little bills, but that would mean he would have had to get divorced in the first place, which we know hasn't happened. As if THAT weren't bad enough, you know how he was uber-coming on to me a week or two ago? Well, now that I kind of indulged him*, he goes all silent. I'm sorry, but excuse me, who the fuck does he think he is!?! This isn't college when I was despondent and on the rebound.

So, how am I going to combat this awful feeling? By changing my hair tomorrow. Don't know how yet, but I told EWK that I need to be shocked.