The good news: Despite being submerged in water 3/4 of the way up the tire, Pimp is running A-Ok.

The all-right news: Despite having said water up to my shin, the interior seems to have absorbed a good majority of said water.

The kind of sucky news: Despite the absorption, Pimp’s still carrying about 2 inches of standing water.

The sucky news: The detailer hasn’t called me back yet.

The really sucky news: Unless Pimp needs new carpeting, the cost of the detail likely won’t make my deductible.

As if it couldn’t be any suckier: I have a ton of clean laundry in Pimp that’ll need to be washed all over again.

The worst news: As I was going out to move Pimp from Lake Woeisme, my left Croc got sucked in by the submerged lawn and may have disappeared forever. And I paid $30-something for the fuckers.

[UPDATE at 7:15 p.m.: My left Croc was found safely nestled in the mud that used to be the parkway.]

a letdown. I wouldn't say I wasted two hours of my life on it bad, but seriously, the Grey's Anatomy finale was not all I'd hoped it was. Totally contrived, total pandering. About the best thing that happened was Denny finally died, and they handled it well, and there were some excellent acting moments. But a prom? And the cliffhanger being Meredith having to chose between Derek and Fin? Weak.

Unlike Kalisah, however, I didn't see anything disturbing about Callie's bangs.

If I have to hear about 1) the rash Mother got under her boobs from using Tide with fragrance; 2) the rising cost of her medication/NIPSCO/everything on God's green earth, or 3) how black people moved into her building and ohmiGOD, how is she going to ever use the washer and dryer again one more Goddamned time, I swear I'm going to throw myself onto 80/94. Fortunately, she did not regale me with these inanities during my birthday dinner this evening, but give it a day or so, and I'm sure she'll be back to it. And I will kill something. Hard.

The ol' birthday was pretty low-key -- thanks to all y'all who remembered to wish me one. Not quite sure how I'm feeling about the ass-end of 35 (aka 36), but I don't feel any older or anything like that. There are just some ages for me that feel more right than others, and any age with a 6 in it usually doesn't make the cut, even though 16 was all right for whatever reason. Anyway, got an iTunes cert from Tara, which I will use happily iff'n iTunes will ever let me log in and use it, and some cash toward a new shower curtain from Mother, which I'm still trying to find one I actually like. (You know, from last year.) Should've thought to look on eBay first, because I've found several I could live with, and all for under the $75 that it would cost me to buy the Lilly Pulitzer I fell in love with: Lookit. I'm also itching to get a new bag, and it's looking like it's going to be either a red Balenciaga or a gold Botkier -- also off eBay, of course.

and spouted off about this again?

Eeeeeeyeah. Another one of my not finer moments.

This is an open apology to the Moxie women; I was entirely wrong to say they had anything to do with anything. And based on what I know now about shit? They never did. Christ. And no, I'm not trying to curry favor or anything. I'm just saying I was wrong and I'm sorry.

Carry on.

It's off to audit I go (at 1 p.m.)...

Wish me luck, yo. I'll let y'all know how it goes when it's done

but then it became not, which is great, because now I'll have plenty of time to work on my Sunday centerpiece due tomorrow as well as my piece for Time Out Chicago, also due tomorrow.

Didn't tell you about that one, did I?

I'm doing a feature on, of all things, the local auto racing track, or where I spent my Saturday night. No, you won't see me wearing a Dick Trickle leather bomber -- a t-shirt, maybe, because "Dick Trickle," heh -- but I say that I do have a new appreciation for the sport now that I understand a bit better how it works. I'd explain it here, but that's kind of the point of my article. I'll post it after it runs. Oh oh oh oh! And Tara's going to be doing a feature on blogs coming up in September, and, as one of the few bloggers existing in NWI, she asked me to do a sidebar for it about why I blog. You know, because NWI is still just that behind on the whole technology thing.

Also, tonight is the night Cousin Crackhead's supposed to go to the station and "clear her name." (yawn) We'll see. Like I keep saying, I hope the detective is savvy enough to catch her, because she's never going to give it up on her own. B-Dubs and I talked about it when I saw him on the 4th, and he of course questioned me as to whether or not I was sure it was her, perhaps I might've been dreaming or something. And that's a perfectly valid point. It doesn't apply because I was wide awake when it all went down, but a valid point nonetheless.

Yet another reason why I should never have children: There are four boys playing basketball in the cul-de-sac, one of them a wee one of about three or four. One of the older ones either knocked him down or wouldn't let have the ball or whatever, so now, the little kid is wailing as if someone's beating him with a 2x4, and I'm like, "I'd LIKE to be the person beating him with the 2x4, because shut the hell UP already! Christ. I mean, if the little siren-like wails aren't bringing your momma out to you, get your ass off the grass and GO. TO. HER. How hard IS that!?!"

The following is going to become much more relevant in the next few days ...

because I just got off the phone with a boy named Turtle, and ohmiGOD, the CUTENESS. For anyone who's ever heard his momma talk, y'all know how cute that is. But coming from a 5 year-old, and an articulate one at that!?! Holy shit. He told me he's taking care of Newbie now and that tomorrow morning, he has karate and that he's really good. And since I know his momma's going to raise him right. I think I could wait the, oh, 14, 15 years it's going to take for him to cook. Because guys dating older broads is the in thing, after all.

S'anyway, back to the thing I posted about blog rules the other night: Zoot also talked about people she knows are reading her but don't tell her. You know, because she can't figure it out or anything. I get some of that, too. (I especially love the ones who come to me through anonymizer; it's like, "Dude, what do you think I'm going to do to you if I know who you are? Come to your house and shit on your porch? Although there are some people (cocks eyebrown and scratches chin mischievously) ...") Seriously, though, like Zoot, I have stats, and I may not know who all of y'all are by looking at you, but I can sure figure it out, so why not just lemeno you're there? It'll make you look a lot less creepy and weird.

Why oh why is it that every time Daily Candy sends me a link to a Web site with pretty shoes, all the shoes are out of my price range right now?

So, the die is cast, and the appointment of doom has been set for 1 p.m. July 19. She asked if I wanted 8:30 a.m., and I was like, "Oh, honey that'd be waaaaaaaaay to early to deal." Surprisingly, she had a sense of humor about it. Now, my accountant is going to go through my files and see what we need, and then at some point we're going to meet and do a "mini-audit" so I know what to expect. But again, I'm really not that freaked out about it. I mean, I usually never have a reason to go rooting around in the files once my taxes are done for the year, so other than a few things, I don't think it's going to be a mad dash for anything. Laugh if you want, but having Greta organize my shit for me is the best thing I ever do for myself. Seriously, girl should pimp that shit out as a business.

Meanwhile, not much is going on here in Chez Broad, other than catching up on sleep. Tuesday was a big nightmare on several fronts, among them Mother hunting me down at the paper to make sure I remembered that I had to take her to pick up her eyebrow pencil. (!) Lemme tell you, nothing like feeling like you've got a noosetether tied to your neck. I mean, good Christ, I had people at the crib last weekend, and the woman had no food in her house so I had to send Snidgey to run errands for her. It's like, when do I get to have a little peace and quiet, huh!?!? A life? Shit. And so what does she do when I go off because of frustration? Pulls out the ol' "When I'm gone/I wish I were dead" drama, to which I tell her then why not just do it already? I'm sure I've told y'all that before, so don't be all freaked out or anything, but seriously, what are you supposed to say to that? Yeah, I KNOW she's depressed. Yeah, I KNOW she probably needs a change in medication. Yeah, I KNOW she needs to spend more time with her psychiatrist than just a 15-minute med check every three months. I KNOW she should be in a widow support group. I KNOW all that. But I can do only so much before she has to take some of the responsibility, and she won't.

I know she needs me, and it's not that I don't want to help, because I do, but boundaries, people!

Here's the part of the job that annoys me: I've got two major stories I'm working on -- one a Biz centerpiece for Sunday and the other a Lifestyle centerpiece for next Sunday -- and yesterday, it was all calls, all afternoon, and I was getting everything I needed. Today? Zippo. So now, I'm chained to my desk waiting for people to call. Not that I had anything major to do today, but what'll inevitably happen is I'll start decompressing, and THAT'S when people will start calling, and I'll be all, like, "Why did I call you again?" thus looking like a retard.

Although, I suppose now would be a good time as any to get me a club chalupa ... aiyeeee yee yeee!

What's up with people not letting me sleep in? I have to be at the Proescuting Attorney's office in Crown Point tomorrow at 10 ayem because a group of people are protesting the PA's continuing to pursue the death penalty for a cop killer. Yeah, that doesn't sound early, except it was SUPPOSED to start at 11. Weh ...

Other than that, can I tell you how moist the new MT is making me? No? I can appreciate that, then. But speaking of moist, I suppose I should've told y'all that the title of yesterday's post is actually the title of a skin flick Wad and I laughed about when we stopped by the porno store during our travels Saturday night.

Still not feeling like rehashing the latest Mother debacle from last night other than to tell y'all that according to the silly git, the reason both my families act the way they do is MY fault. (If y'all can figure THAT one out? Please, share with the class, because I, I ... gah.) But to cheer myself up I decided to do a little shoe shopping, because I need a pair of cool new sandals for the summer. So far, I like these, but I'm also enjoying these and these.

Plus, I heard "Squeezebox" by The Who on my way home tonight, and how can that song not make you smile?

Going over my last week of entries, I noticed I was kind of crabby, as in, like, a real killjoy, so sorry about that; I'm not usually that negative.

Oh, wait. I kinda am sometimes, but I hide it pretty well. No need for despair, however: I've already told Kaffy and Tara (who, incidentally, is GETTING MARRIED MAY 1st, so send your congrats to her. Oh, and she and her man have just bought a big crib, too) that if I ever reach the bitter proportions of either the bio-fam or Mother to please, PLEASE kill me until I'm so dead, I can't be resurrected to be killed again.

In the meantime, the weather was GOR-jus today, so I broke the windows wide open and napped this afternoon before going to Greta's niece's birthday party, where Greta, her sister and I barbecued a buttload of burgers and soaked in the air. THAT was totally cool, even if they didn't let me put my super-special seasoning on the burgers (they're fussy eaters, remember). Should've gotten my bike out to ride.