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:

And I am deVOURING World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War. Talk about your creepy political allegories. Man! JB gave it to me yesterday when I stopped by the office, and I’ve been glued to it ever since. Iff’n I hadn’t been so tired after a 5 HOUR COUNCIL MEETING last night, I’d have probably plowed through it, it’s that good. Wiki does a good job of outlining, but it’s a book about the aftermath of the zombie virus’ descent (yes, as in flesh-eating, living-dead people) on Earth 10 years out. The author, Max Brooks, wrote it as a compilation of the interviews he conducted with survivors from all over the world that weren’t allowed to be published in the government’s white papers on the incident, and it’s just unbelievable. The insight is amazing.

It’s a nice diversion, anyway, since Mother and I had another one of our knock-down drag-outs earlier. See, it looks like someone—and we suspect it’s her creepy forner neighbor who got evicted a year ago—tried to break in to her storage unit at her crib by taking a hack saw to the lock. They didn’t get all the way through, but there is a substantial chunk taken out of the hook. Anyway, after panicking enough to get me to rush her to the locksmith yesterday (because, you know, the would-be thieves were going to return within the one or two hours that I couldn’t get to her) we got a heavy-duty German circle lock that ain’t no one gonna break. And you know how people get flummoxed when they’re panicked? Yeah, Mother was on Defcon 5 and couldn’t get the lock on. So today, I go over and, well, lookee there, I get the lock on. Granted, the door on the locker is a bit warped, and it could’ve been tough for her yesterday since she was on Defcon 5, but it was on now and that was the point, right?

No. No, no. Because then, she insisted that I get the lock OFF to prove that she won’t have a problem doing it herself. And when she’s sitting there clucking and rending her garments, it’s never easy to do anything except pray for death, doesn’t matter whose. Long story short, SHE got the lock off, but is going to take it back because it’s too hard to get off and on when she wants to go in and, oh, put her Christmas tree away or look at the 50 year-old stationary bike she has in there.

When the whole ordeal started yesterday, I came into the office and unloaded on a couple of my colleagues, one of whom was kinda taken aback at my frustration. And when I later went back into her office to apologize and clarify that no, I really DON’T hate my mother even though it may sound like I’m going to throw her out of my moving vehicle, she of course said, “Be glad you HAVE a mother.” And you know, thanks, I get that, but I defy ANYONE to try dealing with her for one week and see if they wouldn’t be driven to drink after the first three days. No one has any idea how difficult it really is.

But you know the other thing I can’t talk about? That’s doing just fine, thankyew. So at least I have THAT going for me.

Get your scare on, yo.

[Pic ganked from Extreme Pumpkins]

Now I got Weird Al’s “White and Nerdy” stuck in my head. And I never even heard “Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty” before that.

Took the day off to take part in a market research study for Vox (another thing Zoot digs, so it’s all about Zoot today, it seems) and then took Mother to her post-op appointment for her second cataract surgery (which is fine, she’s fine, etc.). Gorged ourselves on faux Mexican, and then I came home to await my small brother’s arrival with the DVD player I bought off him. (Check it OUT, Tara! I’ve made it to the LATE ‘90s in terms of my viewing technology now. Woooooo!) He’s fine, if a little bummed right now because someone he considered a friend is being an asshole. It’s not like he’s losing tons of sleep over it, but still, it’s annoying. And he burned me his latest mix CD—he’s quite the mixer, much more talented with music than I ever was—so I need to pop that in the ol’ playa and see what he mixed up this time.

Since I’ve been shamelessly ripping offinspired by topics Heather’s recently covered, I thought I might bring another one over here to perhaps draw out the lurkers (because those stats I see in my cPanel everyday canNOT be all pr0n spammers). Last week when she was pimping out her friend’s book on good blog topics, she asked her readers what they consider dating dealbreakers. So I pose the question to you: What qualities/habits are so offensive to you in another person that you would run from the room screaming, figuratively or literally?

[UPDATED TO ADD: For our purposes, cheaters and beaters are going to be classified as “understood,” since they should be, anyway, and I know few people who would be like, “Yeah! I WANT my man/woman to cheat on/beat on me!"]

Ok, so I’m jumping on this bandwagon a little late, but about a month ago, Heather over at Dooce posted a couple pictures of herself in her teen years as an illustration of the term “bershon,” which Sarah Brown describes as the following:

What’s funny is that like Heather and Sarah, I too had heard the term bershon before, but I don’t know exactly where I know it from or under what context. What I do know is that it took me a month to find the following picture, which I think illustrates the term quite rightly. Behold:

thanks to mac the knitting goddess: sweater_de_la_sprog.jpg

You know, because little ladies need to think about appearances and shtuff. Besides, with all the stuff she got at her mom’s baby shower, it looks like Pink barfed in her closet.

Obviously hasn’t been placed on the RIGHT SSRI, because right now, I’m as twitchy with anger as I’ve ever been. Of course, if by saying “dulled emotions,” one means “being able to resist the urge to bludgeon something or someone with a baseball bat,” one has a point.

I’m not sure where it’s coming from—either there’s a show happening in a bar the next town over or someone in the ‘hood is playing their music really, really loud—but whatever it is, it doesn’t translate well from the distance from which it’s being played, and it’s killing my buzz, man. And now, whoever it is is playing that jangly surf guitar song from “Pulp Fiction” and yelling like an idiot. Faaaaaaaaan-tastic. Seriously, whoever you are, don’t give up your day jobs.

So, my weekend that I was going to tell y’all about—uneventful, but in a really pleasant way. Saturday was the partying with the bio-fam, which I enjoyed, and then Sunday I hung out over at Kaffy’s after spending most of the afternoon at the Gary Air Show chatting up VIPs on the grandstand while missing the LCCVB party going on in the Aquatorium for which I was given a special entry wristband by its lovely PR chick. (I know I’ve talked about how cool the air show is before, but this one was SERIOUSLY cool; the illustrious Thunderbirds made their first appearance, and they’re totally badass if you’ve never seen them). Unfortunately, I missed Kaffy’s sorta-annual croquet bash, but she and I got to spend some quality time drinking and smoking on her front porch, and that was just as nice. And lessee, Monday Mother and I grabbed dinner and went to the mall, and there must’ve been something wrong with me because she didn’t completely annoy the shit out of me, amazingly enough. The end. The best part about the whole holiday? Remembering how refreshing it is to not hate everyone. I went a whole weekend without getting crabby once.

It’s cool enough to have the windows wide open, the crickets are chirping, and I just finished putting together the boys’ between-set CD I said I would make them when I decided the ones they played last time didn’t rock my socks. I think it’s cool, you see, as does this guy, whose advice on putting together a good mix CD I sought earlier this week, but I’m sure Lenny will hate most of it. I told him so, too. Being their No. 1 fan outside of their wives, though, comes with privileges, like being able to give input without getting punched in the face.

The rest of my evening, meanwhile, was spent at a bio-fam Labor Day get-together with enough food to feed Nambia (such as this which ohmiGOD, were they freakin’ good) and excellent company (aka no fighting, snubbing or otherwise making each other uncomfortable—a plus in our ‘hood). Then Bee-Dubs and I spent about an hour and a half deep in conversation away from the rest of the crowd, which turned out to be really nice. And I? Totally made and brought food for the occasion: a peach trifle, a recipe Poppy told me to try involving peaches (deh), strawberries, angel food cake, vanilla yogurt and booze (rum, if you must know, since I didn’t think scotch would work). By myself, with no help. And? It didn’t suck. I KNOW, right? Chalk it up to the fact that just because I DON’T cook doesn’t mean I CAN’T. I’m actually a very good cook. Ask Kaffy; she knows.

Now if I could just figure out what the hell smells in my kitchen ...

Part 2: “I feel like I’m in a meth documentary.”

Remember how I was all worried about family members finding out about my little space on the innerbunny? Don’t gotta anymore, because they found me. Not sure how I feel about it; on one hand, I’m relieved, but on the other, I’m freaked out because I’m concerned that I’m going to start censoring myself, and that’s not the point of this exercise. Really, I’m hoping they’ll be like they know it’s here, but as long as I’m not talking about them (which the rule is, if someone tells me not to talk about him or her, they don’t get talked about), they’re not going to feel the need to be here. Or maybe they’ll grow to understand and maybe even enjoy my little rants against the universe. B-Dubs (aka my small brother) said he’s cool with it, and I can’t even tell you how moved I was by that. But either way, it is what it is.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming:

When the event you covered tonight could've been written from the press release and yet you STILL get a filet mignon dinner out of the deal? I call that a good day.

Good times were had Sunday during Chicago Pride, an event that there should be a law made saying everyone who's gay-friendly should attend at least once in their lifetime, and twice if they like it. B-Dubs and the Baby were my cruise directors, and everything was quite lovely for the majority of the day; the parade (which damn! three hours!), dinner afterwards and the first bar we went to after dinner were quite the barrel of laughs. But the Baby wasn't finding any wimmins, so we went to a second bar which was packed to the rafters with people dancing, drinking, sweating and spilling things on me, but it still wasn't horrible, though it was much more a gay bar than a lesbian bar and the Baby still wasn't having any luck.

It became horrible when the group (one of the Baby's friends and her boyfriend also came with) decided they wanted to go to a third club, and I didn't.

Now, I've discovered as I grow older that between my mental health issues and just generally growing older, slower and fatter, I'm not down with the huge crowd thing. Like, seriously not, and anyways after wearing my 3-1/2 inch wedges all day Saturday, my feet were already reaching bowling ball proportions before the day started. So walking another four, five blocks to the next club, which was also likely packed with people who would be dancing, drinking, sweating and spilling things on me? Nuh-uh. But I didn't really need to get home, either, and I certainly didn't want to ruin the day for B-Dubs and the Baby since it was their High Holiday, so my plan was to grab a Reader, go back to the car and hang out in solitude whilst they continued on. I mean, I wouldn't have tolerated them being out all night or anything, but a few hours, fine. So, they forged on ahead to the next club, and I turned the other way, thinking I'd use what little stamina my feet still had to get back to the car. Two minutes after they realized I disappeared, the Baby texted me, and I told her to tell the group to party on without me and to not worry about it.

Of course, as is my usual way, I realize I have no idea where we parked, so I decided to stop at the McDonald's across from Wrigley since it was well lit and easy-to-find when the group was done. I plopped myself down on this brick edge thingy and started to read.

A short time later, I checked my phone and found that the Baby texted me again, telling me that they were at the car, where the hell was I? and I told them I had gotten lost, was at the McDonald's and why weren't they out. She texts back



So I text her back: "I said go. Now ur going to blame me for cutting into your fun?" and I think she may have texted to call B-Dubs or whatever, but then I didn't hear from them, so I figured they ventured back out. Except they didn't, and then she texts me about an hour later to tell me they've been waiting for me at the car.

You can see the clusterfuck coming, right!??

For the first time ever, I present to the whole Innerbunny my sibs, or those who share DNA with me:

In fact, I would dare say dinner was a lot of fun. Seriously. The kids were just darling and well-behaved (though they got a little antsy toward the end, but there was Littlest Pets to be bought at Target, and that's a huge deal, y'all), and we were like two ladies who lunch -- nothing uncomfortable or nasty about it.

I'm glad I went.

I DID forget to tell y'all, save for a couple people, about the jackasses I encountered at the gas station this afternoon. I'm waiting for the tank to fill when these lunkheads -- Momma, Big Daddy and Junior on Spring Break -- pull up beside me in their 1995 Buick something or other. Momma was driving, and Junior was pumping the gas, and I guess he filled the tank when he wasn't supposed to because Big Daddy starts yelling and calling him a moron at the top of his lungs. Well, I start putting on some lipstick, and I guess I shot them a look of "whatever" because I found myself making eye contact with Momma, who I thought agreed with me until she said, "Makeup ain't going to help you, honey."

(Now, I should interject here that Momma didn't look to be a particularly petite flower and had fried, bleached out hair with a good two inches of dark roots, so it makes what comes next even more absurd.)

Anyway, I must've rolled my eyes again when Big Daddy starts yelling -- again at the top of his lungs -- "Hey have you called Jenny Craig yet!?? The number's ..." as I drove away.

Normally, something like that wouldn't get to me, but it got me to thinking: "Man, do I really look like I've gained that much!?? I mean, I know I have, but is it really that bad to other people!??" So I called Poppy about it, and of course she gave me the usual about low-lifes and how they'll go for the easiest common denominator, but then we started talking about how weight gain is viewed as a sign of weakness, whether it is or not, and if you're not stick thin, you're open to that kind of criticism. I mean, I remember when I was much lighter and a dicklicker called me a "fat ass" right before I got him and his no-boobs on a stick skank kicked out of the Cubs/Sox matchup. That was kind of depressing.

My sister, SC, has invited me to dinner with the kidlets and her tonight; she's even buying with a gift certificate.

This could go so wrong on so many levels, but I think the key for me will be to be cool and non-specific. And to pay lots of attention to my niece and nephew, who I finally met a couple weekends ago.

Ah hell, I might as just tell y'all about that now while I'm here, right? I got a second before I jump in the shower and get down to the guvmint complex for some more investigative work.

Yeah, so anyway, a couple weekends ago, I'd gotten my nephew, who turned 6 just this past weekend, his birthday presents and was all set to either mail them or give them to BFKAS to get to the young sprout when BFKAS calls me and tells me she's going to this fundraiser in her town with some friends -- do I just want to meet her there? Well, all right, I said, so I went and couldn't find her or her friends (not that I knew what her friends looked like, anyway), so I called her and was like, "Hi! I'm here and you're not." She laughed and said that she decided not to go because SC and the kidlets were there (which I knew they were supposed to be in), so I told her that I had the gift, and she said come on over.

Let me start by saying that the kids are JUST BEAUTIFUL and have now commanded every last discretionary dollar I have for things like this, which my nephew is SO GETTING. Well-behaved, sweet, articulate, just like kids are supposed to be. My sister, on the other hand? You could feel the drop in her demeanor the minute I walked in the door, you could say. I mean, she could've been tired from the drive, sure, and it wasn't like she was ignoring me or anything, but ... you could just tell there was something hanging there in the ether, plus a couple questions she asked me about certain things were put in a way that you could tell it was meant to sting. But whatever. Prior to this, though, she and I had been e-mailing, and at one point she said that we need to sit down and talk about our stuff and how we're going to proceed, and I agreed but said that I wasn't ready to go there just yet and that if I was going to end up getting the ass end of everything, there wasn't going to be a conversation at ALL, because there just won't be.

So, is this a trick to get me somewhere to talk, or is it an opportunity to put another pleasant experience behind us so that when we DO eventually talk, we won't want to kill each other? We're going to find out, because I'm meeting her at 4:30.

So yeah, dinner with my little (alleged) sister was a pretty damn good time. She's cute, funny and definitely has a mind of her own, so we got that in common. Plus, she's loud just like me, and if there were anything in this world that would serve as an identifier, it would be that. (Ok, not really. But still ...)

She also has a past that would make the toughest survivor cringe in sympathy/horror, and that unfortunately has left her very closed up while opened like a festering sore to the rest of the world all at the same time. If I in my two-parent white-bread childhood world thought my other sibs had it bad when they were growing up, I can at least take comfort in the fact that they didn't have it nearly as bad as Baby Girl did. Think, among other things, a multitude of stepdads (and a mother who isn't quite over the whole married thing yet after all this time), a sperm donor who gave up his parental rights so she could be adopted by one of the stepdads, drugs, a real live mohawk and multiple piercings, a failed marriage and her own daughter's death before the age of 20 (!), then a complete life turnaround by the age of 25 and you have the REAL A Million Little Pieces right there. In fact, a great story about the sperm donor: She was 17 and after having last seen him when she was 12, she gets shipped out west to visit him for what was supposed to be a three-week trip, right? Can't remember what day into the trip it was, but he takes her to Old Country Buffet for dinner, which is fine until he starts putting nine, 10 little bowls of condiments on the table and six glasses of milk, then proceeds to eat seven or eight plates of food BY HIMSELF and yells at her in the restaurant that her eating two plates of food "isn't getting his money's worth." And then there was the crackhead that showed up at his door at 3 a.m. and him being all like, "Uh, I TOLD you he doesn't live here anymore (wink, wink)," and the pot smell wafting from his room that really wasn't pot, according to him. Yeah, it took her four days of that before she was like, "I'm out."

No, she has not gotten herself into therapy toot sweet after all this, and that worries me, because underneath the bravado, her terror is palpable. But she seems to dig me; she says we have to be the same because we're both extreme smartasses.