and as such Ima hit the couch for a nap on a dreary Sunday afternoon regardless of the fact that I probably picked up tetanus walking through the American Legion barefoot this morning. Full wedding day story TK, but here’s a teaser since I gave it such a build-up:

It’s snowing AND thunderstorming out here right now.

Figure THAT one out.

Apropos of nothing, have any of y’all seen that new Burger King commercial about the cheesy tots? The one about “Morning Tongue?” Pretty darn funny.

Been having kind of purging spree the past few days, both physically and emotionally, and gotta tell you, who knew cleaning could be therapeutic in that regard? (I did. No, seriously—I even wrote a short story about getting rid of a toxic boyfriend compared with cleaning the shower when I was 19. Got published in the college lit mag and everything! Of course, life didn’t imitate art for another three or so years, but you know ...) Got the bathroom and kitchen scrubbed down spic n’ span and am now working on the mess that is the living room. Now if the laundry will just stay in the hallway and not revolt, I might get Chez Broad up and running again.

or was watching the wrong things if he has, because he clearly does not know from stripper shoes. Therefore, a visual:


These are stripper shoes.


These are my shoes.


Striiiiiipper ...


Nooooooot stripper

No, I have NOT been asked to cover his glorious, uber-hotness. At least, not yet. But I’m not above begging ...

This wild and wonderful pattern right here is my new dress, which came in over the weekend, and I have to say, it’s even BETTER than what I imagined, and not just because I have to have it taken in. (No no, giving up Pepsi for the last week has NOT made me lose a shit-ton of weight, though it has helped some. I ended up buying a size too big.) It’s SO cute that the first thing I thought when I tried it on is, “You know what would be REALLY be fun? If I wear a big ol’ petticoat underneath and rock a whole ‘50s vibe.” I mean, I bought the shrug, and Mother’s got this 3-strand choker of ginormous pearls—it’d be totally cool and so not out-of-place since it’s an eclectic bunch anyway. Now, I just have scour bridal shops to find a petticoat short enough to go underneath. And make sure that when I do find one, I don’t end up looking like a big-assed dork with stumpy legs, as is the wont in my gene pool.

But you can’t do ‘50s garb without rockin’ ‘50s style hair, so I said to Ben as he was chopping about 2 inches off my hot mess yesterday (they got me in early, hooray!), “So, if I wanna ‘50s up this bitch, what do I need to do?” He stopped and said, “Did you just say, ‘ ‘50s up this bitch?’ Because that’s the fuckin’ funniest thing ever.” And then he and Ann agreed that I’ll need to rat the hell out of the back of it if I decide to “ ‘50s up this bitch.’ “ In the meantime, the result of their efforts is below the fold:

If you try to live your life by the “Accept things as they are, not how you want them to be” paradigm but also “The law of attraction” paradigm (wherein you put out into the universe exactly what you want and how you want it, etc.), how exactly do you reconcile the two?

This is the shit I think about when I’m lying on the couch stuffed-up, miserable and weepy, but then I get bored and don’t process it all the way through. Also, I had a dream this morning that I SWORE I was going to write about, but then I fell back asleep and forgot it.

I was going to tell y’all about having to cover a live rendition of The Last Supper tonight and how their communion crackers were the size of Chiclets, but after talking to the performers and seeing how earnest they are, can’t bring myself to be snide about it. Hell, I even refrained from imbibing the shot glass of “wine” after passing on the Chiclet, and I was tempted!

I’ve talked about my sister’s mad picture-taking skillz before, but I have to say I’m in awe of this one:



It’s Lulu Buttons, and it was taken as the tea party (with a genuine butler and everything, might I add) she attended this past Sunday was winding down. It’s killing me how grown up and gorgeous she is already, and could you just DIE over the dress!??

Why yes, my sister DOES take pictures professionally. If you local people want the hook-up, lemeno.

Man, look at li’l ol’ prolific me these days. I’m kinda scaring myself with all this posting, but this bit of news is exciting because, well, it just is --


I just got off the phone with Mer. Yes, that Mer, she of the nightmare hookups, super-scary vaykays and mad brilliant repartee that never fails to crack my shit up. First time in, oh, four months, maybe? Something like that. It was fall, I know.


Anyway, she’s gotten her shit together (as much as it can be with Rebecca still hanging off her jock) and in August is moving to Tel Aviv for two years to teach. So THAT means SHE’LL BE COMING HERE FOR ONE LAST VISIT! Huzzah! Yes, I know last time was a disaster of epic proportions—one that I never care to experience ever again—but without all the collective baggage there was during that visit, I‘m going to tell myself that don’t think I need to worry about a repeat, and we can spend all our time laughing and having fun. (And trashing the crib, because we ALWAYS do a really good job of that.) AND since Israel’s one of those places I’ve always wanted to see, I now have something cool to save toward.

You know, it’s funny, because I honestly was just thinking about how much I missed her yesterday, but she beat me to the punch. I love when peace is made. Best feeling in the world.

What is NOT the best feeling, however, is whatever’s going on in my throat and head right now. I’m going to be PISSED if I’m getting the death flu, though it might explain why I’ve been so squirrelly and weird lately.

[PS I forgot to mention that she’s talking about coming in April over her spring break. It won’t be summertime where we can REALLY get into trouble, but start saving your pennies for bail regardless.]

Ever since the new neighbors moved in downstairs, condom wrappers have littered the cul-de-sac in front of the crib. I’m kinda thinking to myself, “Uh, I know car sex is fun and all, but when you’re doing it in front of the crib you just moved into, doesn’t it sort of lose its appeal? I mean, just sayin’.”

So I’ve been crabbin’ to everyone who’ll listen, as well as to those who’d rather not, about my hair and how much I’d really like to shave it off my head, except that I can’t because the wedding’s next week, and though baldness would certainly be not inappropriate, it’s kinda not the look I was hoping for. The look I have now, however, is equally distasteful: Ben has had me growing it out since September, and now it’s jaw-length in back and just past my chin in front, and up until about a week ago, it was working out. Couldn’t get it as smooth as he or his gorgeous Bride-to-Be can, but I could at least get it close.

Now? It’s too heavy, and what used to take 10 minutes tops to dry now takes 20-30 and won’t blow completely straight. But instead of curls, I get what I like to call “the bends” (pretty self-explanatory), and the only way I can make it not look super-dumb is by tucking it behind my ears. Bottom line: I look like Marilyn Quayle with honey-colored bangs that have roots. How you like me NAO!??

And I was just contemplating this, too, or something very similar: Lookit

After a good two or three months of minutes upon minutes of searching, driving the committee batshit with options and finally reaching out to the Innerbunny for guidance, I finally purchased my dress for the Wedding of the Year Saturday.

And it wasn’t anything on the list.

I know: We all decided that No. 1 of my last three choices was the one, and I agree wholeheartedly. However, that dress is much too gorgeous to tastefully cover with a shrug or wrap, and I gotta be honest, Homie ain’t ready to bear her arms in something sleeveless yet. My final choice, on the other hand, will look equally good with or without a shrug. My final choice was also $110 cheaper, and for someone who doesn’t have to dress up often, it makes much more sense, and then I can spend my hard-earned dough on more worthwhile pursuits, like yesterday’s $60 Target purchase comprised mostly of pedicure tools. (Nooooooo, my feet are NOT that gross; they’re not gross at all considering how rarely I wear socks. I’m a girl, and it was Target, and everyone knows that girls cannot go into Target without getting distracted by all the products and gewgaws of Target. Simple genetics, really.) Speaking of which, next up on the decision-making for Operation Look Hot: the right shade of nude/buff nail polish that will be visible yet not make sallow yellow me look like a corpse for said pedicure. You think the dress business was a pain in the ass? We’ve got two weeks, people!

So I didn’t end up having company this weekend, which was ultimately good because I have a metric shit-ton of laundry that keeps mocking me while I zip out hither and yon, and nobody outside my inner sanctum needs to see a metric shit-ton of laundry piled outside my bathroom. (My inner sanctum probably doesn’t either, but they know and love me, so it’s cool, at least in my mind.) But can I just tell you that people in their 20s crack me up? Caught up with a pal a few weeks ago when I was working on a story, and he said he wanted to get together this weekend. Plans weren’t set in stone or anything, but it seemed like a good possibility, and one that I was looking forward to since he’s truly one of the most genuinely nice people I know and certainly the most happy-go-lucky, and God knows I desperately need some happy-go-lucky energy after the last few weeks—no, months if you count the nightmare with Mother. Anyway, whilst sitting through possibly the most boring assignment EVER (good CHRIST it was bad) I shot him a text to firm up plans and whatnot, but I didn’t hear anything. Later that night, I logged into Facebook.

Now, for those who aren’t on Facebook, it takes users to a “home” page when they log in that tells what their friends are up to in terms of who’s friended who and whatever apps they’re using and stuff. Most people go straight to their profiles; I usually get sidetracked by words—it’s a habit, one so ingrained that TOG used to hand me reading material wherever we were because I would just find it and start reading anyway—so as I’m reading I notice he has plans for the High Holiday. I click on it, and it’s an out-of-town pub crawl celebration starting Saturday and ending Sunday.

[I’m going to sidebar here for a moment to reveal the one pet peeve I have that will do serious collateral damage to, if not downright destroy, any relationship of mine: Making plans that fall through without a legitimate reason or breaking plans without at least two days’ notice—especially more than once, mmmmmmmaybe twice if I’m feeling charitable. Been seriously burned one too many times to just let that roll.]

That said, he and I weren’t set in stone, so it didn’t bother me. Besides, I had other things to do (like laundry, which I didn’t, but other cool things).

Friday, I’m wrapping up my story for the day and getting ready to head out the door to drink on the company’s dime when he texts me back telling me he’s out of town.

Visiting his grandparents.

(blinks) Um.

My first thought was, “(snerk) Uh, Baby? Do you not know how Facebook works?” but then I thought nah, why be an ass when it’s so darn cute that he evidently thought I’d be pissed at him for doing what 20-somethings do. Or maybe he was going to the pub crawl as an incidental to visiting his grandparents. I don’t know, whatever. I just thought it was funny in a precious kind of way.

on the History Channel? Whoa, is all I’m sayin’. Just ... whoa. The stuff about the domestic animals almost made me cry.