It’s official and everyone can rest easy: I have in fact done my civic duty and voted my freakin’ ass off. And you know what the best part was? Voting a big fat NO! to retaining Diane Boswell as a judge. I swear to God, I have NEVER seen such screwed up sentencing as I have from that woman, and I sincerely hope the victims who were hurt by her far outnumbered the criminals who got off with slaps on their wrists. I also completely threw caution to the wind and voted for whoever’s running against Van Til and Philpot (for the NWIers in the hizzy), even though I know NOTHING about their credentials other than they’re Republican. And I ALSO voted for our incumbent governor, if you must know. That’s a horribly unpopular choice for many Hoosiers, but love him or hate him, no one can deny he’s actually DONE stuff, and a good portion of said stuff hasn’t been detrimental to the state. If Long-Thompson gets in, however, I won’t be disappointed as long as she keeps to her word about getting rid of tax abatements for incoming companies. (They don’t NEED them!)

In other news, I will be spending my evening at Lake County Guvmint Complex reprising my role as STAT GIRL! (na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!), which I love. Hell, since the major networks will no doubt be there in full force to see what Lake County does, you may even see me slinkin’ around. I’ll try to wear something bright and festive so you don’t miss me.

Did it not occur to you that when you yourself write a missive talking about your son, you kinda throw plum out the window the right to threaten anyone with legal action if they mention his name? I’m guessing you didn’t, because you called the paper all fired up over it, but yeah no, honey. You don’t get to do that without looking like a total nutjob. And YOU, PVT, calling me from home and stuff. Not sure what you wanted, but my story was correct: You were reprimanded, and rightfully so; I mean, just because you HAVE the influence doesn’t mean it’s appropriate to throw it around. And I know how that is—people ask me to “wield my influence” (such that it is, and believe me, all MY influence is going to get you is an eyeroll, if you’re lucky) all the time, but that doesn’t mean I do it. But you know, y’all can go ahead and hire an attorney if you like. You’ll LOSE, but whatever.

Lessee, what else ... Girlie had a pregnant Hooters waitress wait on her when she took her daughter there for lunch Sunday. She said it was pretty horrifying.

to comPLETEly piss up my rope and all but ruin everything else: Last week, I went on eBay and found the exact Waterford champagne flutes I bought my sister 10 years ago for her wedding (they’d gotten smashed in a moving or some other incident), so I bought them for her anniversary coming up and sent the seller HER address along with my payment. Well, the seller asked three different times to resend the address, which I did, but then something told me to go look at the listing to make sure it got paid, etc. What did I find? The seller RELISTED THE FLUTES. Oh. It is SO. ON. NOW. MOTHERFUCKER. I comPLAINED on your stupid ass.

(ahem)

I know y’all have been waiting with bated breath to hear how my 20th went. No no, it’s all right. I mean, it’s huge stuff, so you don’t have to front. I gotcha. So, does Awesome.Freakin’.TASTIC tell you anything!?? Now, my feet are still swollen from standing all night despite wearing flats with no support in them whatsoever—good thing I didn’t wear the Manolos—but I’m Ok with that because it was such a good time. Ann hooked me up Friday with a super-hot outfit when we went shopping Friday afternoon and then blew out my hair Saturday while I had my car detailed; my fake eyelashes didn’t end up somewhere else on my face by the end of the night; and I saw and talked to all the people I wanted to talk to—even the ones I might never have talked to anywhere else.

There were, naturally, observations:

1) Either my weight gain or new hair color (dark, dark brown) threw people off or they like the rest of the world just don’t recognize me without my glasses, but I kept getting these glances like “Who IS that?” for about the first 1/2 hour;
2) While everyone talked with everyone else in the hallway where the open bars were, once we got inside the banquet room, it looked exactly like the lunchroom Senior year, with all the cliques congregating at their various tables. Not sure why I thought it would be different, and I guess I really didn’t, but it was still funny to see; and
3) Centennial Park is a just a spectacular place to hold an event, landfill and cancer-causing agents* be damned.

I also have to say that the women in my class look amazing for our “advanced” age. Guys are guys, but the broads looked HOT.

So I did something Wednesday that I haven’t done in, oh, something like two years, I think. Ready?

I am now the proud owner of a current valid drivers license.

This comes as no shock to my crew, who’ve had to haul my ass around and hold their breaths while I get carded since I finally admitted my lack of license (don’t worry—I may not look like I’m approaching 40, but I’m still not cute enough to pass as under the age at which it’s appropriate to card), but it shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of y’all, either, because truth be told, I’m kind of an asshole when it comes to stuff. Here’s what happened: I got dinged for speeding in late February or early March 2006 (twice within a week, as I recall); paid my tickets and was told I needed to go to defensive driving. Thing about that was, having gone through DD before several years ago during my last spate of speeding infractions, I seemed to recall the cost as being something like $90, which I didn’t have at the time. And then I forgot to sign up, and then I forgot I forgot and so on and so forth until my license was suspended (and yes, they DO send out the paperwork). Fast forward to April, I was heading down to my accountant’s for the annual buttrapemy taxes when I got pulled over. And the officer discovered my suspended license. Said officer was kind enough to NOT impound my car and wrote me a ticket far less than my actual speed. But did that prompt me to reinstate my license? Of COURSE not, because now that it was suspended, I figured the fee was MUCH more than $90 and I had to prepare for that kind of coin.

Then my first court date in August came and went—it was deferred since I was still a scofflaw—and I decided I’d better take care of this nonsense, so I called downstate to find out what I needed to do to become legal again. The lovely gentleman told me all I had to do was take the DD course I’d put off. “Really? That’s IT!??” I said in utter shock. “Yep, should cost you no more than $50.” Well, hot PISS! I thought, I can do this right quick!

Except I didn’t and deferred two more court dates before sitting my ass down at the computer to TAKE THE COURSE. Hey, I told y’all I was an asshole about this stuff.

In what has to be my punishment for being such a dick, y’all can rest assured that the picture is horRENdous—my face is too small for my head and my hair is HUGE on one side because I made the mistake of pulling it outside my collar (first mistake: wearing a collared shirt in the first place) without benefit of a mirror. None of that, however, compares with my Peter Griffin butt-chin, which is more prominent than I’ve seen it in forever. But you know, now that I have my license back, I kind of feel all out of sorts, like it’s not normal to not be a scofflaw. Is that weird?

Next up: getting my license plate renewed. Then I’ll be COMPLETELY legal (It was due in August.). The question, however, is will I still be the exciting, mysterious rebel I’ve become by having a suspended license all this time? Only time will tell, I reckon ...

Last night, the boys and I settled in for the night with jammies and blankies and stuff when I promptly fell asleep after watching the first half of SNL (yeah, I know, missing two of the best skits, but I already caught Mary Poppins, and that one’s tons better than Lawrence Welk. I about died with that one). And then I woke up about 1:45 a.m. to what I thought was the sound of someone knocking on my sliding door.

Which leads out to my balcony.

ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE BUILDING.

But I wasn’t sure until I heard it a second time, and yeah, it was distinct knocking followed a few seconds later by a kick to the window, maybe? So I did what any normal person would do and FROZE THE FUCK UP ON THE COUCH FOR AN HOUR, not moving a muscle because both my phones were out of reach, and since the blinds to the balcony were open, I didn’t want who- or whatever was back there to see me. So I waited patiently for doom to fall when tired got the best of me and I got up and went to bed, where oddly enough my window was opened and I can usually hear what’s going on in back WHEN I’M AWAKE. But there was nothing, and I fell asleep after an hour of wondering if it’s illegal to get my hands on some barbed wire to wrap around the balcony railing. Oh, and wondering why, if the person didn’t know me, they would knock (unless they DO know me, in which case, I would think she’d have learned that yes, I DO call the cops on family members).

Now, I’ve got the blinds closed and everything on extra-super lockdown, which I hate because it makes me feel closed in. Seriously, though, who the hell would knock on the door of the person they’re trying to rob or worse!??

Forget the obvious politics here for a sec, but there’s something about Putin’s head here that just kinda makes me giggle, especially when you put with it either the theme from Jaws or “The Imperial March” from The Empire Strikes Back:



[Ganked from tailfeather at ButterCup Punch, who in turn ganked it from BoingBoing]

Lookit.

Guess it’s a good thing I work in a crap-paying industry, or I’d REALLY be pissed about the money I’m getting screwed out of.

So lately I’ve been trying to determine which presidential candidate was responsible for the whole “I want to be able to have a beer with the common man” shtick. Was it Shrub? Clinton? As far back as Reagan (for me, anyway; I was only 10 when he took over)? Further than that? Whoever it was, he deserves a swift punch in the throat. If I wanted my leader to be so accessible that he or she would join me at G-Town for a couple beers, I’d run as a write-in, ferchrissake. I mean, I don’t know about y’all, but there isn’t one person with whom I have drunk beer in the last 20 years that I would want running this country, so how did that even become a consideration?

(And yes, I DID read the Salon-Paglia opus on Palin. To that I say unequivocally: Any woman who posits that rape is a biological male imperative does not and WILL NOT represent me EVER.)

Aaaaaaand ... let’s stop talking about this.

Instead, let’s talk about why I’m wide awake: For the first time in I don’t know how long, Poppy and I took the Peapod for a bike ride this evening. I KNOW, but it’s not like the 80-some collective pounds we gots to lose prior to our 20th in October ain’t gonna melt off by themselves. (Heh) Yep, Pop has agreed to go. She’s much more zen about it than I am—I’ve been going back and forth between, “Yeah, whatever,” and “Wow, do you think maybe they’ll think I’m cool now? Do you? Do you?” much to Poppy’s delight since she’s been making fun of me about it ever since I turned in my check. I’m annoyed, though, that the ensemble I planned to wear has already been seen by another classmate, but how was I supposed to know a former classmate was going to show up at the Bang-Bang grand opening, which was super-fantastic as only Ann and Ben can make it? I suppose it didn’t help that, upon walking in and seeing her chatting with Ben, I had to go up and hug him, as if she gives a shit that he and I are tight. Probably could’ve gotten around it unseen. Crap.

who *I* just interviewed. Steph’s going to send me a pic, so I’ll post it, good or bad.

In the meantime, I found this really funny:

Ever eat so much meat that you’re just, like, “GUH, that’s a little gross”? I know that kinda sounds like heresy, but man. I need to get thee to the farm stand stat.

So yeah, the tornado. First off, a big sloppy mashfest with tongue to the peeps who checked to make sure I wasn’t dead—I sure wished I were at times, what with the no power and the out-of-control mother and looking like I smelled for the better part of a week (well, Ok, I didn’t REALLY wish for death, but shit’s hard when all you can do is take a washrag to your bits without freezing them off), but you know, that which does not kill us makes us stronger, except for groin injuries, etc. Since I’ve told the story to, like, a million people, I’ll keep it short: I was sitting here wrapping up my story for the night when Mother calls: “The siren’s going off! What should I do!??” I, not hearing the siren, told her I didn’t hear it and that I would call her back in five minutes when I finished my story. Soon as I hung up, what do you know, I hear the faint roar of the siren across town. Huh, I thought, so I called the desk and said, “Hey, my ma just called and said the siren was going off. Is something coming?” Night Desk Chief and buddy JG said, “Well, let’s take a look ... tornado warning for (town four miles away) ... (next town over) ... (MY TOWNOMFG) ... yeah, something’s coming.” “Oh, wow,” I said. “Well, I just sent so I guess I shou—vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvt!”

(That was ‘hood’s power going out.)

True to form, the little guy headed for the hills, so I knew there was no wrangling him, but I couldn’t find Rube, so I just left the back door open because any time the door’s open, he thinks it’s a big party and goes running for the hallway. I made my way down the back stairs to the basement, which was pitch black, and thought “Hell NAW am I going down there alone without a light apparatus,” so I sat on the steps and watched what I could from the backdoor window. As you can imagine, it was quite a storm—constant, violent lightning and the wind whipping the trees all around for a good 10, 15 minutes until all of a sudden, the wind. just. stopped. Well, I thought to myself, that’s got to be the tornado, except I didn’t hear the giant locomotive-like roar you’re supposed to hear with twisters, so I stood there trying to see if the big cat made it downstairs and waiting to get wiped off the face of the earth. About a minute later, my downstairs neighbor called out to see if I was around, and I headed up to her crib because she had beer and lit candles.

After the first beer, I call Mother back, and her machine didn’t pick up so I knew her power was down and that I’d better get over there to make sure she hadn’t gotten wiped off the face of the planet (also: to assess her mental state to see what kind week I was in for). It had stopped pouring, so it was safe in that respect even though there were no streetlights for miles. First thing I noticed as I zipped through the shortcut I usually take, aside from the water puddled in the potholes that swallow small children, was an overturned semi cab and roofing shingles scattered about. Then I looked over to my left, saw a lit-up police car in front of the subdivision nestled behind the crib. Got to Mother’s—her power was out and she was all twitchy, of course, but no worse for the wear—then went back out to the subdivision. (You knew that was coming.) Got out of the car and walked through the blockade to be greeted with the first house that had its front sheared off. Started reporting straightaway, the end.

Yeah, that wasn’t really a short story, was it? Alas, they never are where I’m concerned. And I ain’t even STARTED on the nightmare that fixing my shower became. THAT was even worse than not having power (but not as bad as not having cable).

Still here; STILL without cable/neenernet. Hope to regale y’all with all my complaints later this eve.

Have a little excitement going on up in these here parts, but because there’s no power, posting my version of events is going to be light (Doing ANYTHING computer-related is pain at the moment; I’m over at Ogger‘s as we speak, and I dictated all my storm coverage last night. In the rain). Tell you what, though: I think I need love my big storms at a distance.

Allow me to state for the record here that I absolutely HATE when women use their monthly as an excuse for being pissed off, but since I’m sure some jackass out there will think it, I thought I’d save you the trouble. (And I DARE YOU to ask me about my meds. Do it. PLEASE.)

Earlier today, a company in town had its big send-off for the almost-to-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty it created for one of its biggest accounts—you know, music, free food, a zillion balloons released into the air, 30 (!) semis leaving the lot and hauling the statue, traveling with police escorts all the way to Missouri. A real feel-good, family thing I was covering, except it wasn’t JUST a big feel-good, family thing because also at this hootenanny, the company’s owner announced which municipality would be taking the statue once it comes back. What’s go great about that, right? Well, considering that the real statue’s in NYC and there’s no other replica anywhere else (never mind that not everyone may make it to NYC or even see the real one if they’re there; I know I’ve been there twice and haven’t seen it yet), this thing has the potential to draw a whole lot of people to NWI. Oh, did I mention it’s made of STYROFOAM!??

So I cover this thing; covered it all week and sent in the photo request, like, 10 days to two weeks ago like I’m supposed to for this admittedly feel-good but pretty important and highly photogenic event. But a photog from MY paper was nowhere to be found. See, they had to go to the beach today to wait to see if a dead kid washed ashore from a drowning yesterday.

Are you KIDDING me with this!??

First of all, no credible paper, even with the industry’s current horrific state, is going to risk running a shot of a dead, bloated body unbagged, so what? You’ve already shot rescuers searching for the kid, and you’ve gotten the poignant “crying relative” shot and the “concerned onlooker” shot; why the hell would you waste the photog’s time on something that MAY NOT HAPPEN when you have a huge event THAT IS!?? Un. real. And I’m sure I’m going to hear the “Bleeds/Leads” crap—NO. It was a piss-poor call. Hell, *I* could’ve taken the shots. My camera’s not that great, but it sure would’ve beat leaving a good photo op with its dick hanging out.

And while I’m at it, could someone please tell me why there’s another drowned kid!?? Park officials don’t close swimming at the beaches for their health; they do it for OURS, so why would anyone think moving to another beach = No Undertow!?? It’s not In-ground Pool Michigan, people. No, the kid didn’t deserve to die. What he deserved were guardians who wouldn’t let him and his brother go out in dangerous water.

Last year during BUS DEMOLITION! season, I volunteered to contribute to the drinkage supply, and having just been introduced to the nectar of my people, I wanted to, ahem, share my cultural heritage with them. And lo, it was wondrous and painful, with throats burning and heads hurting, and threats of further wretching this year at the mere suggestion of Serbian Moonshine gracing the cottage table. But LFitz forgot to pack the leftovers, so that was that. We thought we were safe.

But then another among us—as payback for the burning or just as a lark, I’ve not a clue—brought his own spirit concoction he’d concocted: Bacon. Vodka. Yes, bacon vodka. I just kind of looked at him like, “Huh. Whodathunk?” He said that he put bacon in the vodka (yes, COOKED bacon, lest he run the risk of trich) and stuck it in the freezer for some amount of time, then removed the bacon and strained the liquid through a coffee filter to, gulp, remove the fat from the liquid. Afterward, he threw in a jalapeno—you know, to give it more flavor. He insisted I take a shot.

My friends, I’m here to tell you that I’ve now been bested, because that. shit. BURNED. worse than ANYTHING. EVER. Not even the shljivovitca comes close. But if it weren’t for the burning, I can’t say it was ... horrible, exactly, though I do kinda wonder how it got a GREEN hue to it. The homies said it made for fantastic morning Bloody Marys, though.

My downstairs neighbor once again went to get her colored and has once again asked me to help her “fix it.” Yes, there will be beer and food for my trouble, but one of these days, her hair is going to plum fall out of her head, and then I’m going to feel responsible. How it HASN’T happened yet, I’ve no clue.

But at least there will be beer.