When I was on my deathbed last week, I’d had a really rotten day and thus plotted out how I would explain why it is a nickname seemingly EVERYONE has taken to calling me gets on my damn nerves; about how I’d just gotten cool with—dare I say, even proud of—people calling me by my last name only in recent years and OH THE DRAMA and a whole bunch of other things about which y’all probably don’t give a shit.

Since my lover once again saved me from drowning in my own snot and blood (oh yes, there was blood this time around, and a lot of it, too), I’ll save y’all the histrionics and get to the point, which is this: The nickname everyone thinks is so cute! and fun to say! or whatever gets people goofy about it has a tendency to make me feel like I’m not being taken seriously ("Awwwwww, c’mon, [redacted] ...!"), and that’s offensive. Worse is when someone gets all butt-hurt because I lay down an edict to not call me it—it’s like, “Well, hell! I’m sorry for not allowing YOU to call ME something that’s making me want to stab you in the ear right now. Can you EVER forgive!?”

(And before I hear all about how I can and often do shorten and make a nickname out of anything resembling a name, ask yourself if a) you’ve ever asked me to stop calling you whatever I call you, and b) if you have, if I’ve ever blown you shit for it. That’s what I thought. No no, not someone on your behalf—YOU, and did you ask me in a straightforward way, non-dick way.)

So there it is.

I just found out my 20-something’s gone. He moved away for a job and to be closer to family, so of course I’m happy for him because that’s what he wanted, but it’s just ... wow, he’s gone. Booooooooooo.

In other news, my cholesterol’s down 30 points and my birthmark won’t ever turn malignant.

With today’s stellar weather and superclandestinehot liaison last night, you’d think I’d be a futon full of purring baby cougars all day. I at least started off as such, but then I turned into a bag full of hammers for most of the afternoon. That didn’t last, though, (through the wonders of age and medication, I am able to rein myself in more quickly than I used to, though I know Girlie doesn’t believe that at times; she puts up with an awful lot of whining from me), even after getting a definitive answer to something I’ve been dreading getting a definitive answer to.

(As an aside, I still might be on the fence about The Law of Attraction, but please believe that God, the universe, Johnathan Livingston Seagull or whatever thing in which you have faith will ALWAYS give you what you need to hear when you need to hear it. Unfailingly. Pay attention to that and see if I’m wrong.)

Unfortunately, most of my day tomorrow will be spent covering the funeral of Pfc. Shane Penley, from start to finish, for the paper and its sister. I suspect it will be draining. 

making want to sleep instead of meeting up with all the reporters so we can piss and moan about the man and drink our faces off.

Whose idea was it to hand me shots of Southern Comfort? Oooof.

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!??

As of yesterday, I thought I had shopping for the wedding of the year pretty well under control and had picked out a dress that passed muster with the committee:



But then, like a dumbass, I decided to look at Macy’s again for the eleventy frillionth time and found this:


(Why yes, you ARE detecting a distinct pattern in my taste)

and this:



which I love the pattern but makes me worry that I would look like I’m wearing a tent.

Have I really been out of the corporate world so long that I can’t remember how to pick out anything that isn’t yoga pants and v-neck tees? 

Barry Williams is on “Celebrity Rehab” giving Chyna (the former American Gladiator with the giant ladyflower part) the business for ruining his New Year’s Eve act in Las Vegas.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrowr!

Sometimes when you leave our friend Poppy alone for a while, she starts letting her mind wander. This is what happens when you leave her alone with pictures of her Peapod (to finally be nicknamed “Peaps” from here on out) and Microsoft word:

baby’s new project

Any of y’all who’ve been by Snidge’s lately may have noticed that you’re getting a 404.

That’s not an error, folks. I’m afraid that my dear friend has decided to go silent ... no, wait, that’s not entirely accurate. Let me be frank: The short version is, Snidge pulled her blog because of crazy pussy. Normally, crazy pussy is something we laugh about, because it’s funny in a tragic sort of way to watch grown women resort to subterfuge and all manners of bizarre behavior to get a man/job/whatever it is she wants. (And, as a recovering crazy pussy myself, it’s practically law for me to look and laugh, much like an alcoholic reminisces about past benders.) The long version of the story, however, has Snidgey afraid for her son’s and her well-being, and for that reason, I’m not going to repeat it here.

I will say this, though—and since I know the woman behind it is checking in on me now as well, I’ll direct my observations with her in mind: She needs to give it a rest. Not because it’s the right thing to do; that goes without saying. But I’ve been watching this whole thing unfold since she started it, and I gotta tell y’all, I’ve never seen such a sloppy campaign in my life. Seriously, it’s embarassing. True, she did have a couple interesting tech touches, so Ok, credit where it’s due and so on and so forth. But all the tech in the world isn’t going to help if you can’t keep your damn mouth shut. THAT only gets you busted, which she now has been (and y’all can take that however you like).

Outside of visiting the blogs she frequents, I doubt Snidge will be back online ever, and that’s a shame; aside from being one of my closest friends, she’s a voice I admire and got a lot out of, as I’m sure many of y’all did. Yeah, she and I call each other 12, 15 times a day, but you know what they say about the written word and its profound effects and stuff.

And you? You’re a two-bit hack. Don’t quit your day job.

Ok, so which one of youse has the “getting-to-not-caring-about-someone-after-caring-about-them-for-years” cheat sheet!?? My kingdom (such that it is) for that formula, because this “It’s a PROCESS” bullshit BLOWS. BLOWS, I tell you.

PS The South Park rendition of Beth Chapman in this week’s episode? Funniest thing EVER.

That’s some full moon out there tonight, because wooooooooooooo! The crazy cans are a-shaking all over the place! Man alive. Snidgey and I were just like, WOW, what in the HELL is going on around here? and then I recalled Thursday, there was just a smidgen left before the full moon would be in its big shiny glory. And say what you want about the full moon bringing out the crazy, but I’m telling you, the crazy is OUT THERE and LOVIN’ IT.

So I’ve been logging entirely too much time this week ruminating over my emotional well-being, something I despise doing because it means feelings are involved, and I don’t do well with feelings, especially my own. And even worse than actually having feelings, at least to me, is trying articulate them in some sort of meaningful way; it’s not at all like writing a story, where everything is all (scribbled illogically) in my notebook. It’s more like walking through a haunted house during Halloween when you’re a little kid and sticking your hand in what’s supposed to be a brain but really is a bowl of spaghetti, and you’re trying fish out the meatball or piece of candy or whatever’s hidden in the goo. It’s moist and way unpleasant, but if I don’t and I leave the meatball in the goo, it’s going to mold over and start reeking. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if these feelings could cure cancer, much like my beloved Garcia Birkenstocks that I had to pitch because I figured they’d dry out once the detail guys got them out of the soup. Or cause it (cancer, I mean). Whatever.

Anyway.

The events leading up to all this, as I’m sure y’all gathered from last week’s bile spew, were nasty, horrific, embarassing, you name it, so I’m not going to rehash them verbatim. Suffice it to say, I got sucker-punched hard (proverbially, y’all, not physically) by someone who meant a great deal to me and has for a very, very long time. None of it should’ve surprised me, and though most of it didn’t, it’s the vitriol, man—the level it reached is just off the charts when it didn’t need to be. It NEVER needed to be, but I’m being told that yes, it did, because I just didn’t get it otherwise, and anyways I LET it happen, so really, it’s ALL MY FAULT. Got it now!??

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeessss. It’s all my fault. Way to rationalize your own behavior, dicksmack.

As someone who prides herself on being fluent in batshit crazy, I’m well aware that that’s all it is—not wanting to be called out on the carpet for rotten behavior, projecting one’s own (many, MANY) demons onto someone else and so on and so forth. I get it. Yet there are days now when I run it over and over about how I not only failed him, but that I put myself in a position to be shit on repeatedly, and there’s no deciding which is worse. Luckily, they’re fewer and further between, and I can go for extended periods keeping it all in perspective and, more importantly, not flogging myself over that which I cannot control. It’s just the waiting for the day when the good just clicks on and stays on that’s maddening.

if you’re screaming like a little bitch and telling me you really, really hate me when I’m apologzing to you for saying something that wasn’t called for, I’M not the one who needs therapy.

Just a thought.

Oh, and PS: If my own family doesn’t get to dictate with whom I can and can’t associate, what makes you think you can!!?

How someone who’s in the exact same boat as someone else a) chooses to ignore the irony of the situation, and b) would rather beat the first person with an oar and throw her off the boat to drown instead of, I don’t know, having some fucking empathy.

So.

Yep yep, that's right, me mackin' with a dude in public. But before y'all get titillated and shit, there's a story behind it -- a sickeningly sweet, darling story, but a story nonetheless.

It was Mer's last night before returning to NYC, and after we'd semi-recovered from Tuesday night's terrible, horrible nightmare (which I'll share the whole visit shortly, once I get it sorted out in my head), we decided we were going to Johnny's Tap, the only real, true tavern in the town where we spent our formative years; it's like, we've been alive 36 years and we'd never gone to the place. So we go, and it's pretty much like we imagined it -- a bunch of guys (and one skanky broad) sitting around the bar after a long day of work -- except it was really, really tidy, even the bathrooms. We sit down and order a couple beers, and this guy comes up to us to ask if we had any particular preference for what he was going to play in the jukebox. I looked at him, and I said "[name redacted since we didn't talk about the blog]." He looked at me, and it took him a couple seconds before he said, "[Broad]," and I was like, "How the hell are you!??" We hugged, and I reintroduced him to Mer, who he didn't remember because she'd left the summer before high school. So we sat there and rapped about the people we all knew, and he said another couple guys we had in common hang out there, too (one I only knew by sight, and the other I was in love with in 8th grade). Then the one I didn't know walked in and joined us, and can I just say he's pretty hot. Reminds me of Nic Cage in a way. But before he got there, the first guy brought up what our connection was: I was the first girl he ever kissed, standing by our bikes behind the town library.

After a couple hours of rapping and (dare I say) the boys flirting with us, Nic Cage said he needed to get going, and Mer was starving, so we all bid farewell, but not before I said, "We have to get a picture of [redacted] and I to commemorate the occasion, because this is too funny." Behold: