I probably should’ve written about this yesterday when I was all twitchy and emotional, but today marks the first time I go it alone on a holiday. Mother’s depression is out of remission* right now, so she has decided that today is “just another day” and would rather stay at home and think about the stomach cancer** she absolutely doesn’t have even though we’ve been invited to Poppy’s for dinner (we usually have reservations someplace). So, I’m going to Poppy’s, and then Anna’s, alone, which is awesome and I love that they’re including me, but dammit, my Mother’s still alive, and we should be celebrating together.

I do wish y’all a wonderful, artery-clogging feast, however, and I will make sure to have one as well.

Any of y’all catch this on Today this morning: Lookit? I didn’t, but I’ve been following the story since Moe Tkacik broke it on the Innerbunny last Friday.

No, I don’t have anything to say that hasn’t already been said by hopefully hundreds of thousands of people who cannot fathom the impossible pain that Curt, Lori and Sarah Drew have brought upon Tina and Ron Meier. I just want to be among the Innerbunny vigilantes who’re keeping these sorry excuses for humans under the computer screen’s harsh glare.

Karma can be a nasty, filthy whore sometimes, ain’t it?

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People who not only bring their snotty little shits to any sort of production that isn’t a matinee, but TALK TO THEM during the whole production. In a NORMAL VOICE. Like tonight: Went to see my pal Anna’s kids in the Indiana Youth Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker, and this family with not one, but two kids under the age of 7 was sitting behind us. Well, the little girl who couldn’t have been more than 2 and was sitting directly behind ME kept shrieking “AAAAABBEEEEEE! AAAAAAABBEEEEEEE!” every damn time AAAAAAAABBEEEEEE was on stage, and the grandpa was encouraging the little shit with “Can you see Abby and Alli up there!??” the whole time, while the other kid kept whining to his mom “What’s going on NOW!??” and instead of telling the brat to shut the fuck up and watch the play, she explained it to him. And they weren’t whispering; in fact, each time the music rose to crescendo, the assholes took it as a cue to TALK LOUDER. And neither my turning around and glaring nor me asking Grandpa Fucktard, “Do you need me to move so you can see them!??” clued them into the fact that they were rude.

It was a great show otherwise.

Welp, it’s official—A former college amour and now sergeant with the County Mounties faces up to three years in the clink for theft.

You know, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: This guy is a lot of things—blustery, arrogant, prone to exaggeration with a bit of a Napoleon complex to boot. But a thief? I don’t buy it, and the fact that the FOP is allowing him to pay restitution further seals it for me. I hope he and his family come through this all right.

Anyone with any good memories about my couch, please share in the comments. It’ll go along way in the healing process.

the new couch is here—pics to follow, especially now that I’m going to go to Target and see if I can’t get me some Tiffany blue curtains to lighten up the place. I’ll also take a pic of my old couch if it’s still sitting outside by the dumpster; it’s a pretty pitiful sight to see, especially that middle cushion. It, of course, is still in the crib.

It’s a sad, sad day up in Chez Broad, for we are fast approaching the end of an era. What might that be, you ask? Am I admitting defeat and getting rid of my size 10-12 clothes? Am I getting a real job with benefits? Nay nay. I’m getting a new couch. As early as Thursday.

Yeah, you’d think that would be an exciting thing, and once it’s here, it probably will be. Thing is, I don’t want to let my current couch go; it’s been with me the entire 9 years I’ve been here, and it’s the first piece of furniture I ever bought. And it was REAL, not a futon. Cost me $650, and I paid cash. True, I was never really excited about the flower pattern, and the fact that it’s cream gave me pause, but it’s been a good, comfy couch (ask Cat Rags and Headcase—they’ve both logged time on it). Memories have been made on that couch. I’ve laughed, cried, had insane sex on it (shutup, you have too on your own couches), taken so many naps on it. Hell, I’ve probably slept more on it than I have in my bed. And I’ve been trying for months to figure out how I can get a few more years out of it, but it’s yellowed and the middle cushion is way flat and fabric torn beyond repair; and the alternatives—reupholstering or tight-fit slipcovers—aren’t much less expensive than the new couch (which I got for a steal: $380 with shipping!), and on and on and on. My sister was like, “Hey, out with the old, and in with the new,” and she’s right for various and sundry reasons, but I’m more of the “loyal to their toilet paper” type, so this is kind of a struggle for me. I suppose it doesn’t help that I have anthropomorphic tendencies and am convinced my couch will suffer severe abandonment issues once it leaves the confines of my crib.

If there’s any good to come out of this, it’s that I finally have to clean the living room that I’ve been saying I’ll clean for months now.

In a rare bit of I-don’t-know-what-you’d-call-it (though it probably doesn’t need to be called ANYTHING and I’m just grasping for a lead-in), the paper’s esteemed columnist wrote about a guy who’s being stalked by a woman. No talk of boiled game or creative homicide-suicide letters or anything that you usually think about when you think “crazy nutjob stalker”; apparently, this woman just drives by his house and his place of work more than a person probably should. Naturally, the guy’s unnerved, as he should be, and he almost had me completely on his side until he said this:

So I shot our esteemed columnist an e-mail to the effect of, “Not to be an a-hole, but what makes this guy think women are treated any different when they file complaints on stalkers?” I mean, seriously, does he HAVE any idea how many women are murdered by freaks who violate protective orders? Now, of course the victim threw out the old chestnut of “What, do I have to wait until she harms me before something gets done about this?” and I thought to myself, “Well, YEAH. You do, because that’s what women do every single day, and you know what else? The odds are really good that the women who’re taking out protective orders? Aren’t just dealing with drive-bys. The likelihood that they’re dealing with threatening phone calls and crazyass letters is really high, so I’d say you’re pretty damn lucky as far as stalkers go. Now, why don’t you grow a set and ignore the crazy lady!??”

I mean, am I wrong?

That’s kinda been my big excitement lately: It all started last month, when I left my car unlocked one night; the next day, I jump into my car to find my car manual sitting on my passenger side and a 12-pack of Pepsi GONE. Now, NOBODY takes my nectar, dammit, but what am I gonna do? And anyways, the kids were out of school for whatever break, so I figured it was teenagers being stupid. Whatever.

Until today, when I walked out to my car to find my manual once again on the passenger’s seat, plus my trunk and gas door opened. As far as I can tell, nothing was missing, but now it seems that someone’s fucking with me. So, fine. I’ll just keep my doors locked at all times, or maybe I’ll just start pointing a hidden cam at my car at night and tape the sons-of-bitches. I mean, I haven’t gone to the police about anyone in a couple years, so I reckon I’m about due.

below’s the picture I promised of me with my hair blown completely straight. I’ll never be able to get it this pretty again.

(Yes, hair God EWK and I have parted ways, but it was an amicable parting. And yes, I AM being intentionally cheesy in this shot.)

and roll back the date on this entry*, but it’s not like we hadn’t already determined that I was going to puss out. And after being up ass-early yesterday, it was an early night. Just for that, you’ll get two entries today—maybe even one with substance! Ooooooooo! And a picture of my hair, which the lovely Ann of Dynamite Hair fame (and my D-list celebrity BFF’s FIANCE, wooooo!) colored my bastard grays and blew it out completely straight.

and it was a strange one: Republicans getting a stronghold where you’d never think they would, and vice versa. Everybody’s especially freaked out that Gayle Van Sessen of Crown Point got beat by Democrat Dave Uran. Not that Uran wasn’t a good candidate, but Crown Point is seriously GOP. I blame outgoing mayor Dan Klein for that; if he hadn’t run such a dirty campaign during the primary, perhaps he wouldn’t have besmirched the Republicans’ good name so badly. But, as always, what do I know?

Tomorrow, I get to have breakfast with the Guvnr of our fair state. At the ass-crack of dawn. I’m sure I’ll be a joy to be around.

And the episode that’s on now? The dude, Ricky, is from NWI because they showed him and his derelict pals ripping off DVDs from Southlake Mall. He’s definitely from Porter County, and his school was the Indians, so I wonder where he’s from.

that I’m not going to make it through a whole 30 days of posting? Well, I signed up for it anyway, because I’m a sheep who has constant need for approval. Also, I coded the Nabloyomama button correctly, so I’ll take that as a sign.

Oh yeah, another thing: Some of you have noticed that I’ve been keeping comments open less and less. You would be right—that’s because the spammer nazis bombard my shit with their shit every chance they get. So, in order to keep them at bay, I’m now leaving stuff opened for about a day or two. Sorry, but they suck.