these people can't be serious

dear gentle reader(s)

2008-12-12T13:30:00.002-05:00

I have an important question, but first, here's what I've learned in the past two months:

a) Pets are better than babies for many reasons.

b) It is impossible to be inconspicuous while pushing a double stroller.

c) Wal-mart continues to uphold its reign as undisputed monarch of the evil empire.

Now then. To be short, Bad Influence Girl is, while I love her dearly, on extended hiatus for the next, oh, possibly forever. Does this mean I'm irrelevant? Do I have nothing of value to say? Oh wait, that assumes I ever did. If I continue to delude myself into thinking I do have something of value to say, in what venue should I say it?

OK, these are probably just the questions I'm asking myself, but feel free to weigh in.

post to no one in particular

2008-11-05T01:25:00.002-05:00

Tonight I got teary watching McCain's heartfelt and most gracious concession speech, and Obama's equally heartfelt and inspiring acceptance speech.

Sure, much of that was because of the hormones still coursing through my body, but mostly, I believe for the first time since I was a little girl that anybody can grow up to be anything they want to be, and that anything is possible, and that if enough people want something truly good to happen, it will.

And I'm very happy that I can tell Corndog and Tater Tot those very things, and not feel like I'm lying, and that maybe, just maybe, they will believe me and will grow up to be community organizers or something equally heinous.

And a tiny little part of me just has to throw in a hearty "Fuck You" to anyone who sincerely believes (this means you, Baby Daddy) that the world is an awful, fucked up place into which no new human lives should be brought because what possible good could come of it? I hope you and your ilk die a lonely, bitter death watching the rest of us make this a better place.

Today's pressing question

2008-10-30T00:38:00.002-04:00

If I eat asparagus, then breastfeed, does the babies' pee smell funny?

Also, I'd like to note that in the past week, I've actually had the following questions asked of me in a completely clinical setting.

"Can I see your nipple?"

"Is it OK if I touch your breast?"

The sad part is, I didn't even bat an eye and it took me days to realize how funny that was. And I wasn't even drunk. Although the vicodin might have had something to do with that.

So this is how it's gonna be

2008-10-30T00:26:00.004-04:00

Jerry, you asked "what's next?"

Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I got a pretty good clue Sunday morning.

I threw open the front door at 9:30 a.m. to greet the day in my cozy robe (thanks, Nora!) and sheepskin slippers from the State Fair, about half my hair back in a ponytail and the other half sticking out at crazy angles.

At that exact moment, Miss Adventure was walking up my front steps, looking like freaking Audrey Hepburn. She had a jacket for me on a hanger in one hand and copper-colored elbow-length gloves in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish 'do, and she was wearing sunglasses, a black coat with a fur-trimmed collar that matched the gloves, a sequined skirt, black tights and the cutest damn pumps I've ever seen.

"Are you on your way to church?" I asked, knowing damn good and well Miss Adventure is as much of a godless heathen as I am.

"God no, I'm on my way home," she replied.

And so begins the Year(s) of Living Vicariously.

and just like that

2008-10-17T03:30:00.000-04:00

B.I.G. is a mom.

Corndog and Tater Tot made their worldly debut a few minutes before midnight on Thursday, Oct. 16. They're early, of course--33 weeks instead of the full-term 40 weeks--but weighed in at 5 lbs. 3 oz. and 5 lbs. 4 oz. Big beefy kids. They're in the neonatal intensive care unit and will be for a while, until their lungs mature, but they're all there and they're beautiful.

I'm loopy from all the drugs in my system, plus I just, you know, gave birth to twins, so I'm out. Pics later.

here we go!

2008-10-16T23:17:00.000-04:00

OK, I had this great post written about how I miss the days when men would talk to my breasts instead of to my face, because now they just talk to my belly, which I think is worse. But before I could post it, my water done went and broke. So instead, I'm here in the hospital and they're getting ready to give me a spinal and wheel me to the OR. Wish us luck!

Oh, and no worries....Nora's here and taking lots of pictures.

This is why I moved away

2008-10-11T23:54:00.005-04:00

My sister came to visit me this weekend, and to provide some much-needed help around the house, specifically, cleaning the massive amounts of fur off the floors, which I haven't been able to reach in weeks.

She also proved invaluable in helping to teach me some of that patience I'm sure I'll need as a parent. Within minutes of her arrival, she offered the keen observation, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen making myself a snack, that "You look like Leadpipe."

I don't believe I've officially introduced Leadpipe here. He's our father, who in his last years of declining health was forced to give up everything in life that gave him happiness, except food. He had to be buried in one of those jumbo-sized extra-wide caskets, his suit jacket cut up the middle in the back so it would button in front.

Apparently I'm acting more like Leadpipe these days too, because I offered her a heartfelt "Fuck you" in return.

Later over dinner, after she loudly asked me if I'd be able to squeeze into the restaurant booth, she helpfully pointed out that I am not in my 20s anymore and that "You know, your body's not going to bounce back from this."

I politely informed her that she was not, in fact, helping me.

"Well, it's not. You're going to sag all over the place. Maybe you'll make enough money to get some corrective surgery."

I suggested that our mother, who gave birth to me, her fifth child, at age 38, didn't look all that bad.

"No," she countered, "Mom was pretty droopy."

Well, I said, I guess I'll just start having sex with the lights out. Assuming I ever again find someone willing to have sex with me, given my grotesquely deformed body.

She took the hint, changing the subject to how she can't believe I'm not freaking out, because she would be if she still had as much to do as I do before the babies get here. And how actually, she wouldn't be freaking out because she'd have her husband, but if it was just her with no husband, she'd be a mess.

Much better.

Today we went to the dog park. As she watched me struggle to get up from the picnic table to pull the Monster off the back end of an eager-to-please golden retriever, she said, "You know it's not going to get any easier."

Seriously, would a "Only a few more weeks" have killed her?

Back home, I tried to help her out as best I could, taking frequent breaks on the couch to admire the skilled tradesman with the cute turned-up nose and the long curly hair installing new windows in my living room. (Side note--this is an unexpected fringe benefit of working for The Man, that I can afford to have attractive men come work on my house.)

She examined the new double stroller, which Crazy Cat Lady and I successfully assembled with only minimal cursing. Noting its heft, she suggested "You'd better start working on those back muscles."

OK. Should I start my new workout regimen now, when I can't bend or turn at the waist, or perhaps wait until I'm recovering from a C-section while simultaneously trying to feed and take care of two newborns?

Blessedly, she had to leave after less than 24 hours. She called later to tell me she made it home and threatened to come to Indy to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. I wonder if my therapist has Sunday appointments?

Open letter to residents of Central Indiana

2008-09-30T12:48:00.002-04:00

Would you people just get the fuck out of my way? Really, we’d all be much happier. Do you not see the orange “slow-moving vehicle” triangle on the back of my shirt? Did you somehow miss the “Wide Load” banner across my belly?

Well, they’re there, if only implied. It should be fucking obvious that I’m having enough problems getting around without trying to navigate the normal-sized-person hole you left between you and that wall/post/other person/display. And another thing—because my fingers have turned into snack-sized sausages, I will drop whatever I’m carrying on the floor, from whence retrieval will take me approximately 10 minutes, so just stay the fuck out of the hallways at the office, too.

How, you ask, is all this your fault? It just is, dammit. So fuck you.

Oh, and while you’re at it, I am aware I am a (barely) mobile freak show, so spare me the cute knowing smiles and the unsolicited comments. I do not believe you really care how I’m feeling, I know I do not care about your friend/sibling/cousin who’s knocked up or who had twins, and frankly, if I had the energy, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.

So unless I know you and like you, please just go back to your useless, pathetic excuse for a life and leave me alone. Thanks for your cooperation.

bitch is goin DOWN

2008-09-20T23:38:00.002-04:00

So, I left work early Friday for one of my increasingly frequent ultrasound/checkups. I have to take a shuttle bus from my office building to my car, a half-mile away.

I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.

She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.

One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.

Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.

But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??

It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.

As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.

The Bat Man Cometh

2008-08-18T21:51:00.005-04:00

Sunday, the Bat Man (background) showed up in the Silverado Bat Mobile. I was a little concerned about his superpowers, since he has a hunchback and a little bit of a limp. Heck of a Gal said he looked more like an organic farmer. Fortunately, he had his trusty sidekick, Bat Boy, with him.

I even got a glimpse of their secret weapons.

Before I left for one last trip to the State Fair, the Bat Man warned me that despite his best efforts, I might have one last visit from a bat or two that refused to be evicted. Sure enough, there was one flying around the bathroom last night. This morning, I found it hanging out in my closet. I think it's still in the house somewhere. I hope it crawled into a hole and died.

Nonetheless, today I found myself worrying about the bats. I mean, they've been living here for at least the 7 years that I've been here. What happened this morning as dawn broke and they headed back to the roost for a well-deserved day of sleep after a long night of bug-eating, only to find the locks changed? Where did they sleep today? Where will they go? Will they find a new home in the neighborhood? How far will they have to travel to find a new belfry? Will some of them perish in the transition? The babies are barely out of the nest!

It's dark outside, and I don't hear the familiar squeaking. I hope they're OK.

Pregnancy Fun Fact #63

2008-08-14T21:51:00.004-04:00

“Pregnancy can make skin tags and moles change and/or grow. Skin tags are small tags of skin that may appear for the first time or may grow larger during pregnancy. Moles may appear for the first time during pregnancy, or existing moles may grow larger and darken during pregnancy.” --Your Pregnancy Week by Week

And suddenly, there was discomfort and chafing where none had been before. That's all I'm sayin'.

So I went to a dermatologist earlier this week to have what felt like a few bits of sandpaper removed. The dermatologist seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of removing moles from a part of the body that, I'm guessing, dermatologists rarely have the need to examine, much less perform excisions on. Apparently his solution was to share the discomfort.

There I was, in the office chair, barely covered and in a most indelicate position, when the dermatologist started probing more than my skin. It was the most unpleasant experience I’ve had with a man between my legs since I was married.

“So…..twins. Were you taking fertility treatments?”

WTF? First of all, it’s not like there’s 6 of them. Second of all, isn’t that kind of like accusatorily asking a cancer victim if they smoked? "No."

“Didn’t your chart say you’re divorced? Are they the ex-husband’s?”

Oh, no he didn’t. I started incredulously at the ceiling. “Um, no.”

“Oh! Whose are they?”

“It’s probably best not to go there.”

“How are you going to take care of two babies all by yourself?”

“Welfare and the charity of strangers.”

I wish that last one would have been my actual response. It wasn’t. Then again, it’s difficult to think of a snappy comeback when someone's holding a scalpel mere inches from your private parts.

How many more weeks till the aliens release my body?

overheard, state fair edition

2008-08-11T21:34:00.004-04:00

*** updated 8/14

Holy carp (as in the fish at the DNR building). The switch has flipped--I have completely lost interest in any food that is not fried and any drink that is not heavily sweetened. And lumberjacking is my new favorite sport. God bless Indiana, and its wonderful State Fair.

Props to Nora for helping to flesh this out. Submissions welcomed.

(On the tractor shuttle, getting ready to cross the new covered bridge) "Omigod, we're going through the barn! We're going to get stuck in the barn! We've got to get off now!"
"Just don't look, Beth!"

"Where's the Midway?" (young woman to ticket taker entering gate directly in front of the Ferris wheel)

"He's an eater, Grace, he's an eater! That boy can eat!"

Mother at hand-washing station: "Wash only your hands, J.D. It's not warm enough to get your hair wet."
J.D.: "Can I get my face wet?"

"Earl, don't put that baby down--it ain't wearin' no shoes!"

miscellany

2008-08-03T01:56:00.005-04:00

Well, I still haven't figured out how to blog properly on a Mac, and I haven't loaded on the program that will let me get pics off my camera to post. I've also lost access to a scanner, so I can't show the ultrasound pics that prove the two feti in my uterus are a boy and a girl (Corndog and Tater Tot). Needless to say, that news makes me very happy, largely because it greatly reduces the changes I will mix them up.

Anyhoo, in lieu of a good story I'll just throw out some mental snapshots into B.I.G.'s summer of '08.

*Poison ivy covering approximately 30 percent of my body, and not being able to take the prednisone that will stop the itching....MY GOD THE ITCHING!!!!!

*Joining Big Head Dog as he stands in the bathtub, which seems as good a place as any to hide from bats.

*Attending classes with names like "Bow Wow and Baby" and "Marvelous Multiples." And enjoying showing up with my sister and Nora in tow at the swanky hospital in the cushy suburbs and sitting among the assorted "cop/schoolteacher, lawyer/event planner, hospital technician/nurse" husband/wife couples.

*Going to the Jackson County (Ind.) fair, where the swine barn has lots of signs that say "Enjoy Pork Often!", a Belgian horse tried to eat my hat, and I saw the scariest religious-inspired "art" I've ever seen.

*Getting Asshole Joe liquored up on my front porch.

*Stressing out about all the things necessary to make sure the authorities don't get called about my mothering skills and wondering if it's really so bad for babies to sleep in dresser drawers.

*Playing with Big Head Dog in the creek on a hot summer day.

*A bathtub sitting on my front porch.

*Telling the ex about the twins, and then having him call a week later to say he had a gas range for me. It reminded me of a Derby party at the farm when I was 18, where a guy bragged that he'd bought all his ex-wives a washer and dryer.

*Bingeing on Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries for days on end. Ahh, the sweet sting of the roof-of-the-mouth lacerations...

*Watching various parts of my body below the waist disappear from view. I hope they'll still be there in a few months and functioning as I remember them.

*In related news, wondering for the 1,000th time what the hell is wrong with women who say they love being pregnant.

*Teaching my sister how to catch and remove bats from the house.

*Listening to the ultrasound technician, after several minutes of trying to scan a shy Corndog, exclaim with glee, "There's his junk!"

*Mouth-watering anticipation for the State Fair, which this year will feature a giant walk-through colon named Coco.

There, aren't you glad you asked?

bumper crop

2008-07-10T22:57:00.003-04:00

Yep, here I am, holed up in my room with the dogs for the fourth night in a row. I've admitted defeat. The fucking bats can have the house till they're done with it, I'll just stay here from dusk till dawn every night, emerging only to pee (which I have to freaking do every 30 minutes or so), fishing net in hand, creeping hunched over in case a bat flies around the corner at me.

At first I thought I'd try sleeping on the couch with the lights on (bats are nocturnal--they hate light, right?), the A/C cranked up (they hate cold too, right?) and avoiding the upstairs, which is logically where flying creatures should be. That didn't work. That experiment ended with me on the front porch in my p.j.'s at midnight, front door wide open waiting for a bat to find its escape route, dogs seizing their chance at freedom and running the neighborhood.

Back in the day, I'd just come home after tossing back a few bottles of liquid courage and chase the fuckers down, fishing net in one hand, oven mitt on the other. Notsomuch now. So here we are in the Batfree Cave, waiting for the damn bat babies to get their flying sense about them and successfully find their way from my belfry to the great outdoors. I broke down Monday and called the Bat Man (not to be confused with Batman), who'll be coming out to batproof my house for a mere 2 gazillion dollars. Worth every fucking penny.

Oh, and thanks be to The Man for making this outrageous expenditure financially feasible.

oh yeah, I still got it goin' on

2008-07-08T21:53:00.004-04:00

Last week I met Deputy Joe for a few drinks at the friendly neighborhood tavern.

I hadn't talked to him since December, ever since I changed his entry on my phone to "Asshole" to remind me why it is not a good idea to stop by his house when I'm drunk and it's 2 a.m. (Because he has a girlfriend he's never bothered to mention.)

Since being un-deputized in the November election, Asshole Joe has been unemployed. He just started a new job and wanted to get together "to get my input on it."

Translated: "Let's get drunk, talk business and politics, then get naked."

He's my kind of guy, really.

He's also the first MIF* who'd learn my B.I.G. news. This is not, incidentally, a topic covered in popular maternity literature, unfortunately. I was trying to decide at exactly what point I'd tell him, when he beat me to it approximately 3 minutes after we sat down at the bar.

"Why aren't you drinking? Are you OK? Are you sure? Everything's alright medically? Are you pregnant?"

First of all, I love that people are that concerned about my health when they notice I'm not drinking.

Anyway, he took the news well (probably because there was no chance the twins are his). So well, in fact, that we ended up making out by the dumpster. Pretty sure if I'd asked, he'd have stopped by my house on the way home.

Unfortunately, I'm sober these days, and therefore could think of all the reasons why that would have been a really, really bad idea. (it was late, we both had to work, the girlfriend issue, and call me old-fashioned, but does it seem a little weird to anyone else to have sex while knocked up, with someone other than the father? Maybe it's just me.)

He just sent me a text saying we need to hang out again soon. WTF?

*Man I've Fu....um, Found in my bed in the morning

In a family way

2008-06-29T21:51:00.002-04:00

I spent the weekend at the farmhouse. Saturday night I went to my sister's high school reunion with her. The school is so small, they decided to wrap the 30-year reunion for three different classes all into one. That means one of my brothers was also there, along with a slew of our cousins, so it was almost like a family reunion.

Highlights:

* A family friend outed me as being pregnant in front of a large group of people while I was holding a Miller Lite Tall Boy (hey, I'd been looking forward to my weekly beer for days).

Larry (loudly, to everyone and no one in particular): "She's carryin' twins!"
Me (choking on beer, looking up to see my high school psychology teacher, now the school principal): "Uh..."
Larry: "It's OK, she's married!"
Me (as quietly as possible while feeling 20 sets of eyes boring a hole through me): "Actually, Larry, I'm not. I've been divorced over two years."
High School Teacher: "Yeah, that'll happen."

* My brother-in-law at various times promised to get the twins, to use while they visit: car seats for the golf cart, tricycles, bicycles, go-karts, and a pony. I never had a pony. What's the weight limit on those things?

* My sister's friends are calling her grandma. She's 10 years older than I am. It's pissing her off. Hee hee hee.

* Apparently twins run in my family more than I knew. I thought I just had one cousin with twins. Nope, my great-uncle Willie had a twin sister who died at birth, and my grandfather had twin sisters. Yet something else I can blame my dad for.

* I asked my cousin with twins (now in their mid-20s) for any helpful words of wisdom. Her advice was, "Try not to lose your mind. Heh heh, just kidding." I don't think she was.

overheard, 'hood edition

2008-06-22T20:48:00.003-04:00

Snippets of actual conversations I heard from my front porch this weekend, in chronological order:

1. (from the next door neighbor's yard)
Fat Crazy Sister: "You are an AIDS-carrying nicker!"*
George: "I ain't a nicker! I'm an Indian!"

*"nicker" was not the word actually being used

2. (from George, sitting on my front porch swing after inviting himself over)
"My sister was born on this swing."

3. (from two teenage girls fighting in the street, surrounded by a crowd, just before the cops showed up)
"You have my hair!"
"I don't have your hair! I ain't never had your hair!"

Sometimes I think traveling is overrated.

B.I.G.'s Big Adventure

2008-06-19T23:58:00.003-04:00

*cough*

Jesus, it's dusty in here. Somebody open the windows and air this place out! It's musty as hell from being shut up for so long.

J. you're absolutely right, people who don't update their blogs shouldn't be allowed to have them.

OK, then, here's an (admittedly blurry) photo to clue the two readers I have left in to what's been going on:

What is that? I'll tell you what it is--it's an ultrasound picture of my uterus. And those two round circles in the middle of the picture? Those are heads. Two heads. Of two fetuses (feti?). In my heretofore unoccupied uterus.

Holy fucking shit.

This, by the way, is what those in the journalism profession would call "backing into the story." It's generally not a good way to tell a story. But I'm all about the shock value, really. Seriously, let me get some joy out of this.

Anyhoo, turns out I brought more souvenirs back from March's trip to Austin than I'd intended to. As Heck of a Gal said, most people just buy a t-shirt.

More details, I'm sure, will follow. Until then, I'll just be sitting around, incubating.

What a tease!

2008-05-21T22:45:00.002-04:00

Where the hell have I been? Good question. Wrapping up an old, crappy job, starting a new job at which finding my desk made for a successful second day, getting ready to go to Alabama to be in a wedding this weekend.... More to follow, I promise, including the Big B.I.G. News, heretofore unannounced on this blog, which shall change Life As We Know It.

Have a lovely holiday weekend, may you not have to hock your jewelry for gas money.

First Saturday in May

2008-05-04T20:08:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby, and here I was, stuck in Indianapolis. Sure, I had great friends visiting and had a wonderful time, but still, it hurt knowing I was missing the party.

My sister sent me an e-mail Friday morning saying she was leaving work at 1:30 to get started. She was probably 1 of about 5 people working in Louisville that day (Oaks Day) anyway. Friday night I got a joyous message from a friend who was standing outside in the rain watching the B52's and having a great time anyway.

Because no one can prove who I am when I write this, I will say it loud and proud--the Kentucky Derby is the only race in May that matters. That's right, the Indianapolis 500 sucks. This year's Derby wasn't the best--Big Brown's trainer is an ass and the euthanasia of Eight Belles is downright tragic, but the overriding fact remains: Compared to the Derby, the 500 is little more than a souped-up demolition derby. And here are the Top 10 reasons why:

10) The Derby Festival customarily kicks off 2 weeks before the race with a all-day air show and fireworks extravaganza on the riverfront. Beer flows freely and the Chow Wagon opens in all its deep-fried meat-on-sticks glory.

By contrast, the 500 Festival kicks off--on Derby Day, no less--with a freaking 13-mile foot race. What the fuck? How is anybody supposed to celebrate anything while or after running 13 miles? What part of "Festival" do these people not understand?

9) In general, the Derby Festival includes far more events that not only encourage, but really revolve around, sitting in a lawn chair drinking beer. Take the Great Steamboat Race, for instance. Nevermind that the "race" is clearly fixed judging by the near-even win-loss record when one of the boats is about 50 times larger than the other. Have you ever seen steamboats move? "Lightning-fast" is not an adjective one would use to describe steamboat motion. The purpose is really to provide an excuse to sit on the riverbank for a couple of hours and yes, drink some beer.

The closest the Indy folks can come up with is the tortoise race at the Zoo. Not only does the big tortoise always win, but you have to pay zoo admission to watch it. And they don't serve beer.

8) Efficiency. According to a recent article in IBJ, the 500 Festival comes in just behind the Derby Festival in terms of size as measured by staff and budget. My question is, what in the sam hell are you people here in Indy doing with all that manpower and money if you're not coming up with events that people actually want to go to?

7) The Derby Festival parade doesn't charge people to sit in the bleacher seats, unlike the 500 Festival. Charging anyone to see a freaking parade--ever--is just wrong, wrong, wrong. And the Derby parade is on Thursday, meaning that if you work in downtown Louisville, it's not only recommended, but almost mandatory, to leave work early. Even if you don't watch the parade, you have no hope of getting out of downtown before nightfall otherwise.

6) The Spring Meet at Churchill Downs. In the weeks leading up to the Derby, it is customary to host "meetings" and entertain clients at the track. Sure, people do that in Indy, too, but in Louisville, they have real races going on, not just practice. And you can bet! AND, you don't have to freaking wear earplugs or risk permanent hearing loss.

5) For the entire week leading up to the Derby, the kind folks at the Festival there open up several Chow Wagons around town for those who want some company while they sit around and drink beer. Chow Wagons are nothing more than a fenced-off area of a parking lot, furnished with picnic tables and a fine assortment of fair food and American swill beer. Classic rock and country cover bands play at night. It's a scheme that keeps all the rednecks contained in a few small areas, which really benefits everyone.

4) The Kentucky Derby inspires people. To wit, the following excerpt from a column by Red Smith, the legendary sportswriter:

This is the week when dear little old ladies in Shawano, Wis., get to know about sports figures named Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster. Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster are thoroughbred race horses, and there are vast and sinless areas in this country where they and their like are regarded as instruments of Satan 51 weeks a year. Then comes the week of the Kentucky Derby, and sinless newspapers that wouldn’t mention a horse any other time unless he kicked the mayor to death are suddenly full of information about steeds that will run and the people they will run for at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May. In cities all over the land stenographers invest their silver in office pools, in cities and towns and on farms the sinless old ladies study the entries and on Saturday almost everyone tunes in on television.

I defy anyone to present anything as well-written about the Indianapolis 500. Go ahead, I dare you!

3) Race day. First of all, while races are run all day at Churchill Downs, the Run for the Roses is held at a hangover-friendly late-afternoon hour. More than once, personally, I've had to have someone wake me up so I wouldn't miss it. It's televised, and it lasts just over two minutes--the perfect length of time for an attention-deficit drunk. When the race comes on, everyone at the party gathers around a television, screams, yells and shouts, then quickly goes back to their lawn chair and resumes drinking.

The Indy 500, on the other hand, requires one to drag one's ass to the track at an ungodly early morning hour if one hopes to catch a glimpse of it live, since the penny-pinching bastards refuse to televise it. And then there's the earplugs factor again. And it lasts, what, like 10 hours or something? Honestly, who can give a crap about anything for that long?

2) Betting on the Derby is not only legal, it's its raison d'etre.

1) Aesthetics. The Kentucky Derby is an explosion of tradition, color and beauty. Jockeys attired in artistic silks sit atop gleaming thoroughbreds that prance through a sea of tulips, all hoping to wear the blanket of roses in the winner's circle. The stands are filled with smiling people dressed in the finest haberdashery--dresses, hats, colorful silk ties--sipping a cool refreshing bourbon drink.

The Indy 500: Oy vey. An explosion of sunburnt flab, misshapen tattoos, underwear as outwear, and crushed Bud Light cans. Maybe it's just me, but I know which crowd I'd rather spend a day with.

Family outing

2008-04-27T22:17:00.010-04:00

Today the boys and I made our annual trek to the track for this fund-raiser, which is always fun not only because it completely wears out Big Head Dog and the Monster, but also because dogs of every size, shape, color and behavioral level show up for it. In short, I am guaranteed to NOT have the worst dogs in attendance.

This year was no exception, not that the Monster didn't try for the top Bad Dog spot. His attempts to hump every dog in sight were thwarted by the short leash. I forgot to tighten his collar beforehand though, to account for his skinnier neck now that he's lost his thick winter undercoat of fur. Twice he wiggled out of his collar and became a fugitive, but fortunately was caught both times before wreaking serious havoc or escaping to the nearby golf course.

On second thought, I kind of wish he would've stirred up a couple of foursomes.

As usual, the Monster was a big hit at every water stop for his pool antics. I guess it's time to bring out his own baby pool from winter storage in the garage.

Here are the boys nearing the finish line, with the famous pagoda at IMS in the background. Big Head Dog is just happy to be there, having been forced to skip last year because of his butt surgery. If you look closely, though, you'll see that the Monster has apparently just spotted a potential humpee, judging by his obvious excitement and the lecherous look on his face. If he could speak, I'm pretty sure he'd be saying, "That is a fine-looking ass on that bitch. Sure wish I could get me some of that...heh heh heh."

And this was going to be my Christmas card photo this year. How embarrassing.

Oh, and some freak didn't get the memo and brought some sort of miniature equine. The damn thing is wearing shoes AND a hat, for dog's sake! Here Big Head Dog is moving in to give the horse his condolences for being made to look a fool. Or maybe just to sniff its butt.

Crazy Cat Lady, Lizzie and I finished off the afternoon by consuming far more calories at Mug N Bun than we burned off walking 2.5 miles, then the boys and I came home and slept it off. The boys and I are happy, sleepy, and in dire need of baths and some grooming.

Suck it monkeys, I'm going corporate!

2008-04-25T14:22:00.001-04:00

That headline will make no sense to anyone who didn't watch 30 Rock last night, but I don't care. Tina Fey is a genius, btw.

I got a job offer today! No, not as a result of this clusterfuck of an interview. The result of another interview that obviously went much, much better. One in which I wore clothes that fit, sucked up, successfully evaded questions I didn't want to answer, and stuck to my "key messages," none of which involved sarcasm, cursing, or my love of booze and men.

Today, I think of when I was a young journalism student, full of spirit and idealism. I was going to expose wrongdoing, motivate people to care about things they should care about--change the world, in short. No matter if I would never get rich, the satisfaction would be its own reward.

Fuck that. I'm officially selling out. I can feel the corners of my soul curling up and turning black. It doesn't feel so bad, actually.

Today the HR dude called with the offer. He told me the salary, which exceeds my "wow, wouldn't it be great to make this much" hopes by several thousand dollars. "Of course you'll want to think about this, it is a big decision," he said.

"Yes, of course, I need to think about it," I replied. "In the meantime, may I come to your office and kiss your feet? Or anything else that might need attention?"

Life is looking good right now. I hope I don't get hit by a truck this weekend.

Was there ever any question?

2008-04-19T09:00:00.001-04:00

What Beer Are You?
	You are Guinness. You are brooding, bitter, and often in a dark, pensive mood. You are an intellectual and a dreamer, but your passion and emotions can sometimes get the better of you.
Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com

Home sweet %&$#! home

2008-04-13T20:48:00.007-04:00

This weekend I went to southern Indiana to open the farmhouse for the summer. My oldest brother was in town, so all 5 of us siblings were getting together at the ol' homestead for a cookout Sunday.

I got into town late Friday night and stayed at my sister's. The plan Saturday was to turn on the water at the house, make my semi-annual trip to Wal-mart to stock up on supplies, clean the house, take a nice hot shower and spend a cozy Saturday night next to the wood stove, listening to jazz on WFPK and writing, the dogs at my feet.

Saturday dawned, and I use that word loosely, December-gray and windy. I finally mustered the energy to head to the farmhouse around 12:30. I couldn't find my keys. Finally, I found them in the ignition, which I'd left turned on the ACC position all night, so my battery was dead.

This, as it turns out, was an omen of things to come.

After my brother-in-law jumped my car, I went to the farmhouse and unloaded my stuff. I headed down to the cellar to shut the valve on the water heater before turning on the water at the meter.

Here's where I start wishing my camera had made it out of my bag. I opened the cellar door (one of those that sits on top of the ground, next to the house, looking like it might just lead to the gates of hell when you open it) and saw water up to the second step from the bottom.

Fuck.

I walked down the steps as far as I could and pushed open the wooden door at the bottom. Wood and miscellaneous debris floated around in 10 inches of water covered with an oil slick from the (long inoperable) oil furnace. The water heater, which normally sits about a foot off the dirt cellar floor, was resting at a precarious angle, its back edge sitting in water.

Double fuck.

I tried to call my sister. No network coverage. AT&T is officially my sworn enemy. I loaded up the dogs and drove to the top of a hill a mile up the road. Her neighbor, she thought, had a pump. She'd try to call him.

I headed to town to get rubber boots. Tall ones. And some coffee. Back home, I tracked down Bubby, my brother who lives next door to the farmhouse, on his lawnmower and asked if he had a submersible pump.

"Yeah," he drawled. "But it don't work. The drain's probly clogged. Did you reach down in there and try to clean it out?"

Here's where I should mention that I have always had an irrational fear of the cellar. As a child, I'd be dispatched to the cellar to retrieve things for dinner, like potatoes or canned vegetables or, way back in the day, lard. As a teenager, when desperate times called for desperate measures, I'd siphon out some of my dad's homemade wine (rocket fuel) from the big barrels.

In all cases, I'd take a deep breath, open the door, dash in, grab what I needed to, and get the hell out before whatever scaly subterranean creature lurking in the dark corners had a chance to grab me with one of its 10 taloned arms. Although I've never actually seen anything more sinister than salamanders, spiders and an occasional mouse down there, I figure that's just the monster's food supply.

The presence of nearly a foot of water covering the floor merely served to introduce the possibility of a tentacled swamp monster living in the cellar. So when Bubby asked if I'd reached in the water to try to clean out the drain with my hand, I responded with an emphatic, "FUCK no I didn't!!"

Long story shorter, I drove to my sister's to get the pump. Brought it back, plugged it in. Nothing. I took the dogs for a walk in the woods to calm down, and for the first time ever, thought about how nice it might just be to tear down the farmhouse, with its aged roof and rotten windows and archaic electrical wiring and monster-spawning cellar, and start all over in a few years. With a farmhouse-inspired cottage, that would have the same real woodwork and big windows, but with a dry, concrete basement, draft-free windows, a real laundry room, screened-in porch....

I drove to town--again--to rent a pump from Home Depot and to buy a powerful monster-repelling flashlight. By then it was dark outside. I took the long way home to swing by a party, where I picked up my niece's house key so I could at least take a hot shower before bed. She was at a fancy new house, with lots of stone and wood, on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River, where a small group of exceedingly friendly people had gathered to watch the big fireworks show in downtown Louisville. I showed up at the front door in my muddy overalls tucked into rubber boots, with my torn flannel shirt and fur- and dirt-covered barn jacket. Her hosts insisted I come in to say hello. I proved that even in southern Indiana, I can redneck up a place.

My sister and brother-in-law ended up coming by to check on the pump and start a fire in the stove for me, but mostly I think just to make sure I didn't abandon hope and head home to Indy.

Today, the water mostly pumped out, Bubby cleaned out the drain and declared the water heater junk (based on the high-water mark halfway up its tank). I turned on the water to discover that the pipes to the washing machine had frozen anyway and were leaking a steady stream of water into the basement (where, at least, it drained).

Picking up limbs in the yard, my sister suggested we pile them on the porch and start a bonfire, then claim it was an accident when the house caught fire. It didn't sound like a bad idea.

Inside, I sat on the hearth by the stove, eating and talking to my family crowding the small living room: Two of my three brothers (Bubby had taken his drain snake and gone home), my sister, their spouses, a nephew, two nieces, a great-niece and several dogs. Almost the whole family. And I thought of all the times last summer that there'd been a similar crowd under the shade trees, and how hard it is to get us all together anywhere else, but how easy it is with the words "Cookout at the farmhouse this weekend."

By the time everybody left we'd made plans to get together there again in a few weeks. My brother-in-law would help me clean out the cellar and haul off the old fuel tanks to sell for scrap, my brother would fix my pipes, and my sister would help me paint the windows and sort stuff to put in a yard sale she's having. They all knew how frustrated I was with the place today and probably guessed I was wondering if it's worth the trouble. Their answer, of course, is that it is.

This could be the year

2008-04-06T16:45:00.004-04:00

Very few things make me feel truly homicidal. Generally speaking, I'm more of a "make love, not war" kind of person. Hell, I'm more of a "make love, not dinner" kind of person, truth be told.

Yet here I sit on my back deck, on a gloriously warm and sunny spring day, wishing like hell I had a gun. An extremely accurate, high-powered rifle of some sort. With some of those fancy bullets you can't get legally.

Why, you ask?

The fucking motorcycles. They're back. And they're tearing down the busy street from which I am separated only by a back yard, an alley, and a row of houses that do little to buffer the noise from those hideous, small-penis-compensating machines that make it sound like the Formula 1 race is back in town and in my 'hood.

So here I am, sitting on my deck enjoying a gourmet dinner of mac n' cheese and Diet Pepsi, watching Big Head Dog and the Monster stalk squirrels, listening to the birds chirp, and suddenly it sounds like Mad Max and the Hells Angels have joined forces to usher in the apocalypse.

Maybe it's just the peyote talking (thanks for the suggestion, Flipside), but I am picturing myself in full camouflage and face paint, hiding in a bush between the neighbors' houses behind mine, picking off each and every one of those damn things with a well-placed shot in the gas tank, then laughing maniacally at the explosions, the carnage, the riders running down the street afire and screaming before they collapse in a smoldering, quivering heap. Ahhh, what peace that would bring me....

And I'd also be in good shooting practice for when the fucking ice cream trucks start up.

Word constipation

2008-04-02T11:37:00.002-04:00

As this diagram clearly illustrates, writers are dependent on caffeine, nicotine and alcohol. I am in the process of mostly (in the case of caffeine) or entirely (in the cases of nicotine and alcohol) eliminating the three bottom rungs of my food pyramid.

As a result, my cranial version of the gastrointestinal system, through which letters become words and words become sentences and sentences become witty and entertaining, is suffering severe blockages. If--and I say if with some doubt--it becomes unblocked, I have no doubt that a torrent will spill out. Does anyone know of a good mental laxative?

Boot series

2008-03-26T22:59:00.011-04:00

I love boots. But while I've had some noteworthy pairs of boots, I've never had a pair of really kick-ass, in-your-face, chock-full-o-attitude cowboy-type boots that I can wear damn near everywhere. Maybe I'm not sure I'm cool enough to pull them off.

So in Austin, I started looking at boots, what people were wearing and how they were wearing them. No better place for a boot study, I figure.

It started with Susan Cowsill's boots. "Now that," I thought, "is not only a great pair of boots, but a damn fine way to wear them, with patterned tights."

And then taking pictures of boots became a minor obsession. I walked into a couple of places that sell boots:

But I got intimidated pretty quickly by the price tags, plus got a little bit of a buzz off the leather smell, so I didn't stay long lest I start whipping out the credit cards. Then, I just started taking pictures of people's feet. Kinda like a voyeur version of Nora's foot series.

Yep, it's all about the attitude. (Although a musical instrument doesn't hurt, either.)

I didn’t even get a gift!

2008-03-25T14:33:00.002-04:00

This was on the sidewalk in front of my house the day before Easter. Maybe somebody told the kid she had the holiday wrong and she threw down the card in disgust, or perhaps, as Big D suggested, the kids engaged in an argument about how no one really knows for sure when Jesus was born, and the card was lost in the shuffle.

Whatever the reason for the season, it was a really good day. It started with breakfast at noon with Heck of a Gal, her dad, and Big D. Then I ran out of gas, for maybe the first time since I was about 17.

I stopped by the ex’s sister’s house to say hello, then went home. Easter ended in the Greek (un)orthodox tradition, with a hot Greek man making me dinner and carving a black cherry-scented candle to resemble a phallus.

I’m still sorting through Austin pics. Until then, Happy Birday, Jesus.

Hire me! Please?

2008-03-18T13:41:00.003-04:00

This is me yesterday at my job interview. Wouldn't you hire me to be the public face of your organization?

OK, maybe I just felt like that. All in all, it went about as well as you could expect it to after driving 16 hours and getting home at 3 a.m. Which is to say, it coulda gone a hell of a lot better.

Made it!

2008-03-17T03:11:00.002-04:00

I'm home. And fucking freezing my ass off. It was 30 degrees warmer than this in Texas today. Stupid Midwest.

The numbers: Departed my house at 2:28 a.m., Thursday, March 13. Returned 2:49 a.m., Monday, March 17. Beginning mileage: 26,774. Ending mileage: 29,063.

That's 4 days 21 minutes, 2,286 miles, and a world of difference.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Wheeeeeee!

2008-03-15T10:53:00.006-04:00

Wow, I need to stay longer. I woke up this morning realizing that today, I want to go shopping, see about 20 different shows, and start heading back toward Indiana.

Yesterday was, well, fun. A lot of fun. It started out with a breakfast date, except we never really got around to breakfast, so how could it be a bad day after that?

Once I got downtown, I started wandering around looking for a place to grab a bite to eat, a beer, and figure out my plan. I saw a place called The Ginger Man, an old brick building with a shaded (it got up to 90 degrees here yesterday) beer garden out back, and some nice tunes coming from behind the fence. So I went in.

Hand to God, Steve Poltz and the Cynics were scheduled to play there in an hour. I had no idea. I said hello to Steve and reassured the Truckee Brothers that I was not stalking them.

A very nice couple who lives in Austin asked if they could sit at the picnic table across from me. I said sure, it makes it look less like I'm sitting by myself.

Cynthia and Tim are from New England. They've been in Austin for 10 years, and still haven't lost their New England accents. They are Ginger Man regulars who took off work early to see Steve Poltz. I told them what a great time I had seeing Steve and the Truckees in Indianapolis.

Poltz and the Cynics started playing, and sounded great as usual. From left: Steve, Christopher/Cady, and Patrick/Peat.

They only played 5 songs and then had to rush off to another show. They played "Bombs," Steve's song that includes the line "Our Pres-ni-dent, he talks so wrong." I thought it was pretty cool that he played that in Texas. A few people in the crowd looked a little uncomfortable. Hee hee!

Patrick ran up to me and gave me a big hug. Cynthia and Tim looked puzzled. "So, do you know them pretty well?" Tim asked a minute later. I explained they were all really nice and talked to everyone after the show in Indianapolis, and that Patrick bought my friend Heck of a Gal's Assbag painting. I did not use the word "groupie."

I stayed and listened to a couple more bands, and Cynthia and Tim's friends started showing up. They were all great and gave me some good tips about shows to see and places to go.

Oh, and while I was at The Ginger Man, The Greek called. He's on his way to Indianapolis. I'm not even going to think about that right now.

I left the Ginger Man around dusk, deciding it might be time to finally eat something to soak up the 5 or so IPAs I had. I stopped at a place near the Convention Center and drank about a gallon of water and had an appetizer. And then I hit the wall big time. My foot started hurting (I twisted it jumping off a table, where I'd been taking pictures of a band at the Ginger Man) and the sleep-deprivation started kicking in.

I went back to my hotel to change clothes and rest a while, but soon realized I was not going to make it back out to see AJ Croce at 1 a.m. Sleep, sweet sleep. Aaahhhh....

More later, but I've got a lot to do today, including buying a peace offering for my sister to make up for ditching our plans this weekend (except that I know her, it will actually take the rest of my life to make up for this. I sent her a text yesterday and just now got the response. It just says, "Bite me."). Peace out.

Which way to the fun?

2008-03-14T10:10:00.002-04:00

I made it. I hate Texas' access roads. That has to be the state's worst contribution to society EVER. OK, second worst.

Must go spend quality time with maps now.

More later!

Near-death experience No. 268

2008-03-13T14:45:00.001-04:00

As I write this, I’m in Arkadelphia, which I’m pretty sure means “the city of brothers who love ark-building.” And lemme tell ya, I’m happy as a pig in shit to be here.

I’ve had some close scrapes before (slideoff on Blunk Knob Road, anyone?), but this one might just rank at the top of the list. I was tooling along on the highway between Memphis and Little Rock—which SUCKS, btw, because it’s busy as hell with semis and mobile home movers and crappy ass cars towing other crappy ass cars (there’s probably a story there)—minding my own business, being pissed off at all the slow fuckers on the road, violating about 50 safe-driving rules.

I might have been speeding, and following a little too closely, with responses dulled by lack of sleep, and driving an unfamiliar car. Those probably would have been surmountable had I not been resting my fucking left foot on the dash. Yes, on the dash, about 2-1/2 feet off the floor where it’s supposed to be. Jesus, I’m a fucking idiot. I might as well have been huffing ether, too.

So, when I glanced away for a second (no, I was NOT texting, at that moment, anyway) I was caught by surprise to see brake lights and the back end of a PT Cruiser heading rapidly for my front bumper. The fucker.

I swerved into the right lane, and over-corrected, and ended up skidding across both lanes of traffic (did I mention how busy that highway is?), waiting for the awful “CRASH” sound and everything to go black, and then into the median, where grass and dirt began flying into the car through the open window, until I slid to a stop with the right front wheel of the car half buried in the dirt.

The worst part about me dying in Bumfuck, Arkansas would have been that I had just passed an exit where the only business was a sketchy as hell looking adult bookstore, with a ginormous sign that just had a huge XXX on it. So whatever halfwit TV crew that would have showed up to cover the fatality would have doubtless shown the big XXX sign in the background, behind my mangled rental Chevy. And then my friends and family would get a copy of the tape, and their final memory of me would forever be linked with an adult bookstore. And that’s just tacky.

But as it turned out, the car and I both emerged without a scrape. Well, the front license plate used to hang straight, and now it doesn’t, but that’s only a flesh wound, really. Funny thing is, the car (and what a brave little soldier it is) was pulling to the left before. Now it’s not. I did Hertz a favor, I figure.

A pickup truck full of good ole’ boys stopped to make sure I was OK. After they got my car pointed in the right direction, they shook my hand and wished me a safe trip. One of them, as he turned to walk to his car, looked at me earnestly and said, “You know, Jesus Christ saved my life.”

Hey, you don’t have to tell me, brotha, I’m definitely a believer today.

Lest you get the impression I’m not having a good drive because of that little incident, I’ll leave you with this picture of the car sitting outside the Wendy’s where I’m having lunch right now. (I hear your question, Lizzie, and no, it is not a picture of my rental car.)

ROAD TRIP!

2008-03-12T01:35:00.003-04:00

Load up the bottled water and bags of Cheetos, it's time to take a road trip, boys and girls!

Destination: Austin, Texas, home of South by Southwest.
Departure: early Thursday morning, March 13.
Return: Hell, I dunno. Maybe Saturday, maybe Sunday.

I've lost my ever-lovin' freakin' mind.

Stay tuned for details. OK, some details. Not all. Sorry.

Half my life

2008-03-08T11:54:00.004-05:00

This morning I participated in a 5-mile trail run. For me it was more of a 5-mile walk/occasional jog, as I haven't really trained and my pre-race carb-loading yesterday consisted of several pints of Blue Moon and 2 pieces of toast, with about a pack of cigarettes thrown in.

On my way to the park, Writers Almanac came on the radio and Garrison Keillor reminded me that today is March 8. It's the anniversary of my mom's death. A couple of months ago I realized that this year is the 18th anniversary, meaning that my mom hasn't been there, at least not physically, for half my life.

Shortly after the race started, I passed two women who were hurriedly walking back to their car. Both were crying, and one was on her phone, telling someone they would be there as soon as they could. She hung up and wailed, "We should have left yesterday!" and they both broke down sobbing. Today's going to be somebody else's anniversary, too, I thought.

I choked back tears, remembering the day my brother called my dorm room and told me I might want to come to the hospital. There was no urgency in his voice, and he told me to be careful and not to hurry. When I got to the hospital 2 hours later and got off the elevator on the second floor, the door to the room where my mom had spent most of the previous 3 months was closed. A nurse met me and told me my mom had died and that my family had gone home.

To this day, I don't know what time she died, whether or not I could have made it to the hospital in time to tell her goodbye. I don't want to know, and I'd already told her everything I needed to, knowing every time I left her to go back to school might be the last time I saw her.

For the rest of the walk this morning, on the snow-covered trails along the river, I thought about her, playing that "What would she think of me?" game. It's hard to imagine what it would be like to have her in my life now, to imagine what our relationship would be like.

A few months ago, I ordered some hand lotion from Avon. As soon as I opened it, I realized it was the same kind my mom used to use. It smells like her. It's rare to find those tangible connections to her anymore, something like the car she drove or the purse she carried or the lipstick she wore. Mostly she's just there in my memories, which fade and blur with time.

In the years before she died, my mom and I butted heads a lot, as do many teenagers and parents. I got her wide smile, bright eyes and brains, but my dad's stubbornness and appetite for mischief. That poor woman. I know she grew exasperated with my pretty much constant trouble-making. I didn't do anything that the older 4 kids hadn't done before me. It's just that I did everything all 4 of them did.

There were lots of fender-benders and ignored curfews and coming home tipsy and suspicious stories about where I'd been and who I'd been with and how exactly my back ended up covered with poison ivy. She'd never grounded any of the other kids, but as a result of her mostly unsuccessful attempt to control my behavior, I spent most of my senior year of high school grounded. It didn't really slow me down much. With school, sports and a 30-hour-a-week job at the grocery store, I wasn't home much anyway.

In the year or so before she died, our relationship had begun to mature. On nights I had to work (which was most nights), she'd make a dinner plate for me and leave it in the fridge so I'd have something to eat when I got home around 10. Sometimes she would get me little gifts. Nothing much, just trinkets like a keychain or a book of cookie recipes. I loved them all--they made me feel very special and very loved, at a time when I mostly felt awkward and unhappy. I never left the house without giving my mom a hug and telling her I loved her, even though my family didn't do that kind of thing.

She was my biggest, and sometimes only, supporter. I was a monumental underachiever, and she kept encouraging me to reach higher. At the end of my completely dismal first semester of college, I told her I thought it might be best if I came back home. My grades were awful, and she was getting sicker. She told me to tough it out one more semester, that she'd talked to lots of people who said the first semester at my school was really hard. I remember being surprised that she talked that much about me with other people.

At the end, after the cancer had spread to her brain and she was on a morphine pump, I spent a couple of rough nights at the hospital when the doctors weren't sure if she'd make it till morning. Most of the time I had to sit in the waiting area just outside her room, because whenever she'd wake up a little and see me, she'd ask me what I was doing there, and tell me that I needed to be at school and I should go back.

At about mile 4 this morning, I decided that if she were still around, things probably wouldn't be much different between us. We'd still butt heads sometimes over how I live my life, and she'd still be my biggest supporter, the one encouraging me to make use of my talents and to not just coast through life just because I can.

Toward the end of the walk, the sun came out a little and the wind died down. It turned out to be a great morning to take a hike and clear the cobwebs out of my head. And although it might have looked like I was by myself, I wasn't. It was nice to have the company.

Word for the day

2008-03-07T14:51:00.003-05:00

E-do (eee-doo)

The cyberspace equivalent of phone sex, characterized by increasingly steamy, detailed e-mail exchanges over a period of hours or days.

As in, "I've been e-doing this hot musician for a week, he's very good at painting a lyrical picture, if you know what I mean."

Origin: 2008, by Crazy Cat Lady ("Are you still e-doing him?")

Biggest advantages of e-doing someone: Unlike other forms of sex, you can safely e-do someone while at work, providing much-needed distraction throughout the day. Also, the participants need not be present at the same time. And, it lasts much longer.

Biggest disadvantages: The urge to drive/fly great distances to hook up with the e-doer; alternately, the urge to ask random men (i.e., waiters, store clerks, neighbors), “You, me, in the closet, now?”

Focus....focus....snap

2008-03-05T22:34:00.003-05:00

Yeah, it's a crappy, blurry photo, but do you know what that is? It's the sun setting tonight at 7 p.m.! Despite the snow and the bare trees (check out the burn pile I'm gonna have, Jerry!), spring really is coming! Woo hoo!

My Sunday freak-out finally broke on Tuesday. Turns out I've had all this...um...energy that I...uh...haven't had the appropriate, well, outlet for. So I've managed to channel it into all those things I need to be doing. Like work, and looking for work, and writing shit that I do not get paid for, but which I have nonetheless promised to do.

Next Thursday I have a job interview at a place that may very well require me to do TV interviews for early morning newscasts. You know the kind (from what I've seen) where the perky TV news reporter is someplace in the pre-dawn hours where nothing is going on except crickets chirping, but man, in a few hours, is this place going to be hopping!

I would be the person trying to convince the 3 viewers at 5 a.m. that they should come out for all the excitement. I'm pretty sure I do not possess that level of enthusiasm for anything. Not anything I could talk about on the news, anyway.

On the bright side, I could just go straight to work after a night out if I had to. The job interview is at 8 a.m. Crazy Cat Lady said I should probably just bow out now. I told her I figure my prompt arrival (or lack thereof) will be the biggest test.

B.I.G. overdrive

2008-03-02T14:17:00.003-05:00

Christ. It's 2:15 on Sunday and my weekend has been a complete waste. My house still looks like a furry mammal exploded in it, I have no clean clothes, no food in the house, and I just remembered I volunteered to draft a letter of support for a worthy neighborhood organization over the weekend. That's in addition to the work for the jackass self-absorbed lawyer who wants to pay me to write an article about him that will only be published on his website, and the freaking hell-project that I need to print and organize at work because it turns out the freaking governor's actually reading it and so the president of the company has decided maybe he should see what it says. And, oh yeah, parts of it may not actually be finished, because frankly I figured it was going to gather dust on a shelf at the Statehouse and no one would really notice if tiny little soul-sucking chunks of it are missing. I figured wrong, apparently.

Fuck.

However, the part of me that would ordinarily be doing all of those things has been engaged all weekend in a Sisyphean struggle with Bad Influence Girl, meaning that what I've actually been doing is listening to a lot of CDs and wishing I were somewhere else. Because there are far, far better places to be.

Right now, in fact, I'm having beer for lunch, because really, why the fuck not? (and yes, while I have no food in the house, the beer fridge is well-stocked. Christ again.) In a couple of minutes, I'm going to go to the gas station on the corner and get a pack of cigarettes, because I've smoked all I have and it's a nice day to sit on the porch and have a beer and a smoke, and if I have a couple more beers I'll be buzzed enough that it'll be out of the question for me to get in the Jeep and drive somewhere like, hell, I dunno, Boston or New York, maybe. And maybe I'll actually be productive and make my 8 a.m. appointment tomorrow and get everything done I need to do today.

And maybe monkeys will fly out of my ass.

overheard

2008-03-01T05:37:00.002-05:00

I ended up in Broad Ripple tonight. I was sitting on my sofa, in my jammies, dicking around with my guitar and petting my dogs, when CK called and summoned me.

You know, when you're relatively sober in Broad Ripple at 2 a.m., you hear (and more important, can remember) some good stuff. To wit, the following conversation, as heard by me in the bathroom stall. And I am not making this up.

Girl #1: What was up with Lindsay, buying everybody all those drinks?

Girl #2: Oh, Lindsay... when we were in college her stepdad...

Girl #1: I'm 2 months pregnant.

Girl #2: You are not.

Girl #1: No, really, I am. I'm 2 months pregnant.

Girl #2: No you're not. If you were you wouldn't be drinking.

Girl #1: I'm drinking myself into oblivion.

Girl #2: When Lindsay and I were in college, her stepdad died...

Girl #1: Oh no!

And then I stopped paying attention, because really, who gives a shit about Lindsay and her stepdad after hearing that?

You know I stuck around to get a look at drunk pregnant girl. She stood next to me at the mirror and told me how she hated the highlights in her hair. I took out my lip gloss and put it on.

"Oh, that's my favorite lip gloss! I love that stuff! You know, if you put like 2 drops of clear nail polish in it, it like lasts a really long time!"

I'll bet it does.

I had to post this so that the next time I start thinking my life is kinda fucked up, I'll have some perspective.

Wait....does this make us groupies?

2008-02-28T16:49:00.007-05:00

Allow me to apologize in advance for any semi-congealed thoughts or incoherent babblings. I don't know who the hell I think I am, but if I don't get some sleep and quick, I may have to be hospitalized for rock-star-like "exhaustion," which, if you have neither the fame, fortune, talent nor notoriety of a rock star, is pretty much just sad and pathetic. Come to think of it, it's sad and pathetic even if you do have those things.

To the recap. Monday: As I said earlier, I went to a show--Steve Poltz, with the Truckee Brothers opening. Seriously, it was more fun than should be legal. So much great music, so much energy, such cool-ass guys who were pretty convincing that they were having a good time talking to everybody. Peat bought C's Assbag painting, which is a great story--but her's, not mine, so she'll have to tell that one. All of us--Nora, C and I--were in such a great mood we couldn't go to sleep till the wee hours.

Tuesday: Tired. But happy. At least 2 coworkers thought I must have gotten me some based on the goofy grin plastered on my face. Nope. Just still buzzing from how much fun I had Monday.

A guy who joined the company not long ago and who mostly works out of his home e-mailed to ask if I wanted an after-work beverage. I said sure, because in this company, it's damn near grounds for getting fired to not drink with the new guy. I walked into the restaurant's bar--nice place, not too swanky, not too beer-covered--and immediately got a bad vibe. It could not have been more obvious unless there had been candlelight and a string quartet that I had just walked into a date ambush. Fuck.

Gotta give the guy props for guessing that if he just kept ordering booze without asking me if I wanted another drink, that he might get somewhere. And he might have, had he not, oh, relayed tales of his experience with federal law enforcement authorities, or, maybe, not broken down into tears at one point. Suddenly, it was 1 a.m. and I was trashed and telling him "No" in about 50 different ways and at least 3 languages.

Side note: Lizzie, what is it you said once about my love life being feast or famine, saltines or Ritz crackers, top shelf vodka or Natural Light? Yeah. It's baffling. Must be the sap rising in the trees.

Wednesday: Still tired, and now hungover to boot. C and I had been mulling going to Dayton to see Poltz and the Truckees again, just because it was so much fucking fun seeing them Monday. (Not sure if I mentioned how much fun it was.)

But that would be crazy, right? Nobody in their sane, rational mind would drive 2 hours to see a show they just saw on Monday, right? On a weekday? C and I weren't sure what qualifies as groupie behavior. She said if we'd maybe been Ratt groupies in high school, we'd know. I pointed out my high school wardrobe of flannel shirts and yellow Chuck Taylors probably wouldn't have gotten me backstage.

So yeah, long story short, I said, "Fuck it, I can sleep when I'm dead," and we got home from Dayton at 4:30 this morning. All day various parts of my body have been wigging out/shutting down from lack of sleep and solid food. Was the show good? You know it. Did I get what compelled me go to Dayton out of my system? Not even close.

Oh, and the CFO called me into his office today to "start a dialogue" about what I'd be doing at the company now that this soul-sucking, creativity-sapping, alcohol abuse-fostering project I've been working on is wrapping up. I was too tired to even try to spin it. I told him I was already looking for something else, because in another couple weeks I'd pretty much just be taking up space. The good news is that they don't have a date for kicking me out. So, anybody know who's hiring? Flexible morning arrival time preferred.

Smelling "rain fresh"

2008-02-26T16:42:00.004-05:00

Today I pulled up to a neighborhood association planning meeting on my lunch hour and thought, “Shit. I still reek of smoke and bar from last night.”

I’m way past the point of caring about that where I work, but these people are my neighbors, for god’s sake. My part of the ‘hood needs way too much help for them to be thinking I’m a drunken sot who hangs out in bars all night. That’s only partially true, anyway. Last night, for instance, I only had 3 beers and was home by 1:30. I just had such a freaking great time at this show and was so keyed up that I couldn't fall asleep till 4 a.m. Thus, no shower this morning.

So, I rooted around in the Jeep floorboards and pulled out a can of Febreeze air freshener. Without giving it a second thought, I sprayed it on me like it was Aqua-Net and I was a beehive hairdo.

And then I went inside and started talking about crime and code enforcement and shit.

The fact that I even carry around a can of air freshener, much less that I’m willing to spray myself with it, may quite possibly be some kind of sign. I'll put that on my list of things to think about.

The best laid plans to get laid

2008-02-24T20:13:00.005-05:00

The NFL Combine was in town this weekend.

For die-hard football fans, the Combine is a chance to get the scoop on new talent, see which teams are looking for what, and probably a bunch of other shit I don't really care about.

For myself and hundreds, nay, thousands of thirsty women, it means the streets of downtown are crawling with men with big fat expense accounts.

Frankly, I consider it nothing more than Hoosier Hospitality to extend a warm welcome to visitors to our city. Especially tall, athletic male visitors who may or may not have access to Colts tickets when their team plays here.

Thursday night, it was a guy from Minneapolis who got my number and said he'd call Friday. He didn't. No matter. Friday night the bars downtown were absolutely packed with eye candy the likes of which I've never seen.

CK and I hit a trendy nightspot, the kind I generally avoid because I end up drinking vodka, which is not my friend. The last time I went to this place I woke up the next morning naked on the floor of the Westin. I took the Walk of Shame through downtown, which was packed with clean-scrubbed families in town for the state high school basketball championships, all looking at me like I was a living, breathing cautionary tale for their youngsters.

But I digress. Not long after the Nike guy brought a bottle of Grey Goose to the table, I went looking for Gunther, a hulking linebacker of a guy who works for some sports-related company in Chicago. Things were going well for a while, and then not long before closing time, the conversation deteriorated. And I realized, "Wait a minute. These guys, expense accounts or not, are still dumb jocks. So much so, that I can't even make it to the next morning without realizing what idiots they are, even after 6 vodka tonics."

To hell with the Combine, anyway. That's just tragic.

The best laid plans to NOT get laid

2008-02-24T18:24:00.008-05:00

So, I had a date with the Chocolate Polisher last night.

I'd been dreading it for days. It was time to let him know in no uncertain terms that his chances of ever polishing my chocolate, so to speak, were slim and getting slimmer.

He's a really nice guy, so I didn't want to be brutal. I'd discussed strategies with C. She suggested I tell him he reminds me too much of my brother and therefore, I could never do him. I filed that away as Plan C.

Maybe, I said, I'd try to scare him away. I've done that plenty of times unintentionally, it should be easy enough to do it on purpose. I could bring up my views on marriage as an outdated patriarchal institution that everyone should nonetheless try once. I mean, that didn't work on Bob Sanders, but he's a freak. It should work on a normal man.

C mentioned the Chocolate Polisher gets really riled up about politics. Ding ding ding! If there's any subject about which I have more opinions, I don't know what it would be, except maybe how other people should live their lives. My hope brightened.

At 7 p.m. sharp, the fucker showed up at my door with flowers and a bag of goodies. Not goodies from the chocolate polishing factory, goodies. Maps, for god's sake. If there's one thing I like as much as flowers, it's maps. Eventually I hope to know how to get anywhere from everywhere, sort of like a human GPS system.

He'd picked up a bunch of shit about Alabama--maps, travel guides, etc.--from the Boat, Sport & Travel show last week, because I'd told him that I'm driving to Alabama for a wedding in May. He also brought me a copy of a CD of the bluegrass band we went to see a few weeks ago. And a pair of gloves, free from the travel show, because "a spare pair of gloves is always handy."

What the fuck? Does he have some kind of sixth sense about getting dumped, or was he just thinking that he might get lucky if he showed up bearing gifts? And what the hell is wrong with me? A guy like this shows up and I'm just going to kick him to the fucking curb? My conscience (I think that's what it was, anyway) rose from its slumber and starting gnawing at the inside of my skull.

Nevertheless, he still had to go. The fact is, I have no desire to see the man naked, and eventually he was going to try to disrobe in front of me and I'd just end up yelling "Ew!" and running out of the room. Best to end it before that happened. I mean, shit, I do have a (bad) reputation to protect, after all.

I can't remember who brought up politics first, but I jumped on the opportunity. Turns out, we fucking agree on everything. Gay marriage? Yep. The presidential race? Check. Indiana State Rep. Pat Bauer's toupee? You betcha.

I was completely unprepared. The trouble with politics is that I have such strong opinions that I can't lie about them. How fucking likely is it that someone agrees with me?? Jesus!

Sigh. I soldiered on. After dinner and drinks I invited him into my house for a beer. We sat on the couch and talked.

"Chocolate Polisher," I said, "I just have to say that while I like hanging out with you, I can't promise that we'll ever be more than friends. I don't want to hurt somebody who doesn't deserve it, blah blah blah, don't want to lead you on, yada yada yada, don't really know each other, etc. etc."

"Yeah," he said. "That makes sense."

And then I fell asleep on the sofa with my head on his shoulder while he stroked my hair. Fuck. Where did this all go so horribly wrong? Why couldn't something familiar and easy to deal with happen, like, I dunno, a cute 28-year-old boy who works in politics being all into me? Instead I get a 46-year-old guy who's been polishing chocolate for 27 years bringing me flowers and maps.

The Chocolate Polisher left me a message earlier today to just say hi and see how I was doing. C suggested I start using racial slurs. If I thought I could, I might just try it. If I squint a little, he could resemble my brother...

Thanks, it's BEAN a wonderful time!

2008-02-21T20:45:00.002-05:00

Before you even start, I know. I've been lax in posting. Thanks to all the readers--OK, reader--who reminded me that my audience awaits a Chicago post. Crazy Cat Lady, here ya go.

As an aside, I just have to say that the only thing that could make the new downtown library better is if it served beer. OK, and was open till midnight or so. But then I guess I'd be sitting right now in a bar with books, and not the library.

Anywhich, they gots Herman Miller chairs and I think I could work here if I weren't afraid someone would steal my laptop every time I got up to pee. I just picked up a book called "Dead Dog." that promises to be "a riotous road trip from an Arizona trailer park to hell." I love this place.

Chicago, as it turns out, was just what the doctor ordered for the post-holiday funk. I've had bloggers' block on what to say about it, and I just can't think of one damn thing negative to say, which means I'm just gonna post some pictures and tell you I had a really, really good time.

Here, of course, is the main feature of our trip. Behold, the bean: (cue angels singing)

How cool is that? On a snowy-but-not-frigid day? Are you kidding? It was like buttah. Here's C and I geeking out (and her brother with his girlfriend, who were slightly taken aback by our geekiness) over our reflections:

And what I can only say must be the bean's butt, as seen from the underside:

That is one awesome piece of polished stainless steel, lemme tell ya.

Eventually, we were able to tear ourselves away to go have a snack and a drink at the nearest bar, conveniently located underneath the Bean in Millennium Park and adjacent to the skating rink, all the better to watch people bursting their arses.

Then we went to the Art Institute. Fabulous. Masterpieces by every Famous Dead Artist you can think of, all up close and personal. My favorite thing? The dolphin ride:

I don't remember what it's really called or who did it, but when I get rich I'm going to have an artist make me one of these for my yard. It was all I could do to not jump on it. (In my defense, it has been a while since I've ridden anything. I mean anything.)

From the Art Institute, we went to another bar and had some more drinks and an appetizer. We picked up my good friend from his Printer's Row condo (ooh la la) and headed to Chinatown for dinner.

I do not have a picture of this, but trust me when I say the restaurant served deep-fried pigeon. There was a picture on the menu. I am about 90 percent certain that they went out on the sidewalk, kicked a pigeon in the head, plucked it, took it inside and dropped it in the Fry-Grandaddy, beak and all, fresh to order. I did not order that, nor did I order the duck tongue entree. The spicy green beans were delicious.

Sunday, we had a fabulous breakfast of Chinese leftovers with eggs (sans whole pigeon or parts of duck) and went shopping. Of course, we started with a brief repast at Quartino (where wine is cheaper than water), then hit the stores where dresses came sized conveniently in 0-8 and cost more than my first car.

After shopping, we were thirsty again. We found a friendly looking and clean-smelling place called Mike's near our parking lot, and had a cool refreshing beverage. Apparently it's the kind of place that wants to make sure their patrons can always wash their hands. Or dishes, or whatever:

Annnd, there you have it. That was Chicago. We'll return shortly to our regular bitter, sardonic posting schedule.

goddammit, would you just DIE already??

2008-01-28T15:30:00.000-05:00

More on Chicago later, complete with photos, but first, this interlude.

On the ride back with my friend C, she asked me the last name of Dead-to-Me. Knowing that she and he have mutual friends, I reluctantly told her.

As many of you know, Dead-to-Me became, in theory at least, dead to me after prolonged periods of ignoring me during our 5-month relationship. Finally he sent me an “It’s not you, it’s me,” e-mail one Tuesday morning in June saying he was sorry it wasn’t working out, he runs like hell when he gets close to someone, I’m a smart and intelligent woman who deserves better, hope we can be friends, blah blah blah.

I responded and said that as someone with more than a few commitment issues of her own, I thought his were a little extreme. I suggested that he perhaps hand out a card on the 3rd date, saying something to the effect of “don’t get used to the flowers and quirky gifts and massages, because I’ll only start ignoring you soon enough.” I also said I’d like to be friends, because his friends seemed like great people and I could only assume he treats them well.

When next I saw him, in addition to me looking absolutely fucking stunning, I told him he’s an idiot. Seriously. Who in his right mind gets rid of an (his words not mine) attractive and intelligent woman who’s “not too demanding and seems to enjoy a good rogering”?

Since then, DTM has taken on a Zombie From Hell-like tenacity in refusing to remain dead. There is an entire section of the city that I can’t seem to go to without running into him, and there’s one otherwise fabulous music venue where I know he’ll always be at the end of the bar, just hanging around being emotionally unavailable. When I do see him, I am unable to resist talking to him, and it usually ends up being the funniest, best conversation I have all night.

He’s even on the growing list of people (men, more accurately) whose houses C and I plan to egg one night when the weather warms up.

So then. Last night I told C his last name. She went on to tell me that several months ago, some of DTM's friends told her about how he’d been driving his friends crazy by moping around after breaking up with this woman he’d been seeing, and how he’d finally found a really cool woman who was good in a not-his-usual-stupid-skank way, and he fucked it up. And she said, “Was that you??”

And I said, “Yep, and he did completely fuck it up, and he’s an idiot.”

I mentioned how I love DTM's cool old house. C said she can’t wait to see how it looks with egg on it.

mojo risin'

2008-01-20T15:24:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's the cold weather, maybe it's the funk I've been in, maybe it's the 20 extra pounds I'm toting on and around my ass, but I just haven't been inclined to be very bad lately. My attitude about boys lately might best be summed up as "eh, whatever."

Friday night, I went with some friends to a great concert. I got all gussied up--for me, anyway--and pulled from my closet a skirt/blouse combo that miraculously managed to accentuate the curves and de-centuate the lumps. I'll be wearing that at least once a week now.

After the show, we were having a great time at the friendly neighborhood tavern when God* spoke to me. He said, "B.I.G., you've been good lately, maybe too good. Here's a little gift," and He gave me a gentle nudge.

I turned, and God* had placed a young, hot, foreign man on the barstool to my left. This man is not just hot, he's smoking hot. Should-be-dating-a-Brazilian-model hot. "I'm beginning to sweat, I can't see straight, and the left side of my body is twitching" hot.

Even though I'd already had 3 or 4 Guinness, it still took me a while to work up the nerve to talk to him. But I said to myself, "Self, God* has smiled upon you, you'd be an ingrate and a heathen to not take advantage of this opportunity."

The poor foreign boy was jet-lagged from his trip back from visiting a friend in Italy, which probably worked to my advantage because I think I looked a little blurry to him. He claimed he was so tired his "eyes are burning, and I feel like .... is it fainted or fainting? I know that's not very romantic, but there it is."

Is "romantic" really the word he meant to use there? Who cares? Saturday night my informant texted me that he was at the friendly neighborhood tavern again. The place was packed when I got there and I only talked to him for a few minutes, but that's OK. I'll be back.

In the meantime, I feel like myself again. I should make a commercial.

"I was feeling listless, bored, and tired," I'll say with a concerned look on my face. "And then I asked my bartender about Flirting. Now, I feel like I have my life back," as the camera cuts to a shot of me playing with a dog while a voiceover warns of side effects.

"Flirting may not be for everyone. Excessive Flirting is not recommended, especially with multiple partners simultaneously or if you are in a serious relationship. Studies show that Flirting while consuming alcoholic beverages increases the risks of waking up in a strange place, losing articles of clothing, and SRIs (Sex-Related Injuries). Consult your bartender or other qualified professional before attempting Flirting."

*I could be mistaken about which supernatural/spiritual force and/or Higher/Lower Power was actually at work there.

I'm un-pickling!

2008-01-15T07:50:00.000-05:00

I've worked out four times in the past 10 days.

The dogs have been walked regularly.

My diet has been loaded with fruits and vegetables, and whole grains.

Last Friday aside, I've drank with moderation and not smoked.

And already I'm starting to see results. As near as I can tell, my tonsils have been replaced with two baseballs, which are lodged in my throat and threatening to close off my voice box and airway. Any minute now, they're going to explode, which frankly would save me from what I'm pretty sure is pneumonia settling into my lungs.

Yeah, I'm really fucking glad I'm trying to be all healthy and shit.

I hear you skeptics out there, pointing out all the places I could have picked up germs. But consider this: The pain from the baseballs in my throat was enough to wake me up and send me to rummage through the medicine cabinet at 3 a.m. Every box of cold medicine I had expired at least a year ago. Why? Because on the Coffee, Beer, and Cigarette diet, I never got sick!

So really, screw all y'all and your germ-covered, antibody-killing "healthy life." Gimme a six-pack of Leinie's and some Kraft mac n' cheese, I got some teevee to watch.

A note about proper training

2008-01-13T22:45:00.000-05:00

OK, I've spent the entire weekend recovering from a serious case of Barstool Back.

You know! It's like Tennis Elbow, only different. As so many people do at the beginning of the year, I did not seek the advice of my doctor before jumping into a strict regimen, and I overdid it.

Tuesday, the red metal-framed chairs of the Red Key. Wednesday, hard wooden barstools at Alley Cat and OPT. Thursday, there was a twinge in my lower back every time I rose from a seated position, and my hamstrings were sore. But does Peyton Manning leave the game every time he's a little sore? Hell no! I kept going. I'm a trooper!

Thursday evening, another hard wooden barstool, this time at Locals Only. Then Friday, the playoffs--Daddy Jack's, the Vogue, and the Pawn Shop.

Much like the Colts, I got my ass kicked. On the bright side, it's been a good weekend to stay home and do nothing.

Thank you, may I have another!?

2008-01-08T13:41:00.001-05:00

By 9 a.m. today, here's how my day had gone:

1) I weighed myself for the first time in months. It was alarming and dangerously close to a number where I begin thinking of myself in terms of "old fat woman" instead of "young hot sexy thang."

2) Upon attempting to exit my bathroom, the doorknob broke off in my hand. Thinking perhaps I'd somehow landed in a Three Stooges skit, I quickly turned around to see if a 2 X 4 was coming at my head. Then I pulled a MacGyver, using a plastic comb and a pair of scissors to escape from my own bathroom.

3) On my way to work, all the gauges on my Jeep quit working. I spent the rest of the drive wondering if it was worthwhile to try to get that fixed. I decided that if the "low gas" tone and light still worked, I could probably get by without the speedometer, tachometer, and battery, oil pressure and temperature gauges.

Inexplicably, I am in the best mood I've been in for weeks. I think it's because at least my day hasn't been boring.

The dog’s got my bat…er, back

2008-01-07T22:24:00.000-05:00

Wow, how ‘bout this weather?! It sure is unseasonably warm!

Warm enough to turn off the furnace last night.
Warm enough to sleep nekkid.
Warm enough to wake up a hibernating flying mammal, in fact!

How can I be so sure? Because one of the fuckers was flying crazy-ass loops, as bats are wont to do, around my bedroom at midnight.

It was one of those rare instances that I had an eensy, teensy amount of regret for kicking out the Man of the House.

As I lay in my bed, under the covers, screaming like a little girl, my new hero sprang into action:

Yes, that is a look of proud victory on the Monster's face. In this picture, he has just made use of his hunting-dog genes to help me tag team the bat. While I was locked in the bathroom shrieking and getting dressed (because the only thing less dignified than running from a bat screaming is running from a bat screaming and nekkid), he was keeping an eye on the bat.

When I emerged, fishing net in hand, he helpfully led me to the intruder, which was being all freaky and shit hanging upside down from the top of the window. When I knocked it out of the air, again and again, he pounced on it, and kept nipping at it till it rose no more.

Me, I can't kill anything bigger than a mosquito. But it's OK if the dog does. That's just nature taking its course. Like the freaking Discovery Channel, right there in my hallway. Hey, that's why I keep their rabies vaccinations current, right?

Oh--and where was Big Head Dog, the vee-cious 10-headed beast, while his master and cohort were bravely doing battle with the 5-ounce dragon? Cowering in the corner. Then he went to hang out in the bathtub for a while. I'm sure, though, if it were, you know, a person attacking me, he would be all over it. He just doesn't do bats, I guess.

Exhibits A and B

2008-01-04T17:38:00.000-05:00

Evidence that I really need to get out more: The only two things I've been excited enough about to post pictures of in almost a month are comfortable shoes and a cordless drill.

Well, duh!

2008-01-04T16:33:00.000-05:00

For a month or more, I have done absolutely nothing very exciting or out of the ordinary (Bob Sanders was a little more than a month ago, and believe me, THAT was out of the ordinary). (Oh, and I drank myself to the point one Thursday night that when Deputy Joe called, I forgot why I hate him, so he stopped by the house to say hello for a couple of hours at 2 a.m.)

OK, for the past 3 weeks, I have done absolutely nothing very exciting or out of the ordinary. As someone who hadn't seen me for a few weeks told me in the friendly neighborhood tavern, "You've been like a nun! You're either a nun or a whore!" I think that's a little extreme, but the point is well-taken.

To recap, Christmas -- nice. I wasn't much in the mood to do shots of Wild Turkey with my nephews, I didn't take many pictures, just kind of sat around.

The week between Christmas and New Year's: I tested the theory that the company I work for wouldn't even notice if I was there or not. They didn't. I just flat out didn't show up for 2-1/2 days, and no one called, no one e-mailed. I slept. A lot.

New Year's Eve: Couldn't even muster up the energy in a bar full of people, with a kickass party band onstage, to go find a guy to kiss at midnight. Or 12:30. Or 1 a.m. Sure, I was wearing a feather boa, but I wasn't really feeling it...I wasn't being the boa. I went to Steak n Shake with Nora and told her sob stories she's probably already heard some other night when I was drunk.

Brand-new 2008: Bleh. In the depths of a full-blown funk. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, things suck, but no more than usual. And yeah, the stable is empty, doors clanging in the cold bitter wind, tumbleweeds blowing through and piling up in the corner, but really, it's fine, because boys have been getting on my damn nerves anyway lately.

Finally, last night over coffee (that's right. Coffee. Because I'm not drinking, so that I won't be tempted to smoke, both of which I really, really, really love to do) with a friend, it came to me: I am, quite literally, bored to tears. Being good is boring! And makes me cranky and depressed! Fuck this!

So, in a couple of weeks, I am going to Chicago. I have not taken a road trip anywhere besides southern Indiana (Kentucky doesn't count) in more than a year. No fucking wonder I'm bored! Have you been to this state?

Just like that, presto! Funk begone! Today I boughts me some new shoes to trek all over Chi-town in:

Ooooh, yeah, they kick ass!

Crazy Cat Lady and Elizabeth asked me today where we were going on the road trip, and if they were invited. I said, "Sure, if you think you can keep up with me." I don't know for sure what I'm doing, but it will involve art, and the Giant Bean, and lots of walking and public transportation, and CB2, and Goose Island, and great pubs with boys with cute accents.

A Very Special Southern Indiana Christmas

2007-12-31T14:05:00.000-05:00

I promised myself I wouldn't blog until I'd finished a column I had due. Last time I make that mistake. I can barely remember Christmas by now.

So, the highlights. The Saturday before Christmas, my Jeep wouldn't start. Instead of finishing my shopping and wrapping presents, I spent the afternoon resolving complex logistical issues of getting to work that evening and to Southern Indiana the next day.

On Sunday, a Christmas Miracle! The Jeep healed itself and started right up. My brother-in-law sent me to NAPA with a parts list. I spent the morning of Christmas Eve under his tutelage and under the hood of the Jeep, giving it a good tuneup. My hair kept getting caught in the wheels of of the creeper and I ended up with approximately 1/4 of the motor oil in my oil pan in my hair.

FYI, use dish soap when removing motor oil from long hair. Regular shampoo will not work.

I got lectured about how worn my spark plugs were, how much corrosion was in my distributor cap, how the oil looked like molasses, and how the battery terminal cable was probably falling off every time I went over a bump. My BIL did not buy my story that the guys at Jiffy Lube must have backdated the oil filter.

The best part of the trip was Christmas morning. My sister had warned me that she wouldn't be getting me much for Christmas, which is fine. She usually has her husband help her out with buying Christmas gifts, but since he was still paying off medical bills from when she ran over him with the golf cart, she wasn't about to ask him for any Xmas cash.

Imagine my delight, then, when just like the parents in "A Christmas Story," my sister and BIL told me there was one more gift that wasn't under the tree. They brought it out, and there it was, my own version of a Red Rider BB Gun:

You see, one day this summer my sister was visiting me when I was putting new steps on my deck. I threw one of my two shitty drills across the yard when it refused to work. Contrary to popular belief, apparently I WAS a good girl this year!

And yes, it's entirely possible I will put my eye out.

Better late than never, the Christmas meme

2007-12-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

Checking in after days away, I discovered I'd missed Nora's meme. But it's still Christmas, right? I apologize for the lack of pictures that could illustrate these answers better, but that would put me an extra day or so behind. I'll post more about A Southern Indiana Christmas later.

1. Wrapping or gift bags? I usually try to wrap (badly), although I'll use gift bags when time or oddly shaped gifts dictate. Sometimes I'll wrap oddly shaped gifts just for the fun of it. This year, for instance, I did a Family "Heirloom" White Elephant gift exchange for my niece and nephews, using random crap from the farmhouse.

I call the farmhouse the family museum, because it's full of 50 years worth of worthless stuff that I can't bear to throw away but which no family member will take. So this year I wrapped, without boxes: 2 child-size football helmets, circa 1965, one with the number 47 plastered on with black electrical tape, the other with a Gemini V space mission sticker on it; a stoneware Daniel Boone whiskey jug; and a small white statuette of a dove. The kids (ages 18 to 26) were thrilled, as you can imagine.

2. Real or artificial tree? I'm on the fence. Growing up we had an artificial tree. Every year I begged for a real one. When I got my drivers' license, I took matters into my own hands and showed up one day with a real one. From then on, I, and then my ex and I, had a real one. Last year, daunted by the prospect of acquiring, wrangling, and disposing of a real tree by myself, I decided not to get one. At the last minute, after the episode known as "Losing My Shit in Crate and Barrel," a couple of friends and I decorated the fake ficus tree in my dining room.

After Christmas, I bought an artificial tree for $10. I set it up this year and was chagrined to discover that a) when I took the tree out of the box, it almost exactly resembled the size and shape of the Grinch. The time it took to make it resemble a tree made a real tree seem like a lot less trouble; and b) instead of a pine-fresh Christmasy smell, my living room was filled with the aroma of a Chinese plastics factory. My floor is already covered in dog fur, pine needles suddenly don't seem so bad.

3. When do you put up the tree? Late, usually around the 15th of December, except for last year (see #2).

4. When do you take the tree down? Again, late. Part of my rationale for getting an artificial tree (see #2) was that I would not have to load up the tinderbox of a tree in March and cruise country roads looking for a suitable place to dispose of it (I don't really think it's littering if you dump a real tree in the woods--it's more like returning it to its natural habitat).

5. Do you like eggnog? Omigod, yes. This year I discovered Traders Point Creamery eggnog, and drank an entire quart in one sitting, in a stupor over its organic creamy, eggy, custardy goodness. It's one of a few beverages I do not think is improved with the addition of alcohol.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? It's a toss-up between the Fisher Price cash register with the big plastic colored "coins" that rolled out when you cashed out a sale, and the pink gingham jewelry/music box with the tiny plastic ballerina inside that twirled when the music played. I enjoyed both of those well past the age-appropriate time.

7. Do you have a nativity scene? Not unless you count the polyresin blob that plays "Silent Night" and shows the Holy Family in bas-relief. There's a plastic disk attached to the back, with gold stars painted on it, that you spin to make the music play, so it looks like there are "stars" in the "sky" above the nativity scene. The disk also has a red arrow, which will not come off, indicating which way to spin it. It was a wedding gift. For my October wedding.

8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Probably the engagement ring from my boyfriend when I was 16. That one could have ended with me being a Trailer Park Queen by age 19. For the worst Christmasy gift given for another occasion, see #7.

9. Mail or e-mail Christmas cards? Mail, although I'm much worse about that than I used to be. I have boxes of unsent cards to serve as evidence of my good intentions.

10. Favorite Christmas movie? A tie, between "A Christmas Story" and "Bad Santa." I giggle the entire way through both of them.

11. When do you start shopping for Christmas? This year was early--the first week of December. I do the bulk of it around the 22nd and 23rd, though.

12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? For breakfast? My favorite thing is the summer-sausage-and-cheese tray we always have on Christmas Eve. I don't eat much meat, but I will beat family members away from a stick of summer sausage given half a chance. For breakfast--homemade cookies!!

13. Clear lights or colored? The old-fashioned big ole gaudy colored ones (C7 bulbs). Nothing matches their sheer festiveness.

14. Favorite Christmas song? "A Christmas Song," by Nat King Cole. It was my mother's favorite, and my sister and I still sing it, loudly and off-key, while we're doing our Christmas baking.

A close second is the story of Christ's birth from the book of Luke. We sang that every year in the Christmas Eve program at my Lutheran school/church. It's a tricky song for grade-schoolers and we'd start practicing it in October, sometime after we got done celebrating the Reformation. I still know all the words, having sung it countless times from grades K-8. "And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Au-GUS-tus...that....all the world...should be taxed...." There's a couple of really high notes when the angels tell the shepherds to "FEAR not! For be-HOOOOOLD!" Ask me sometime, I'll sing it for you. Really!

Favorite modern Christmas song: "Lloyd the Reindeer" by Otis Gibbs. I listen to it year-round.

15. Travel at Christmas or stay at home? Travel, to Southern Indiana. Christmas Eve is the one mandatory family holiday. One day I hope to put a new furnace in the farmhouse so we can have Christmas in its rightful place again.

16. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Is Sneezy a reindeer?

17. Angel or star on the top of your tree? Angel.

18. Open your presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Christmas Eve, although my siblings and I don't really do much in the way of gifts anymore--a bottle of wine, a nice candle. My sister and I get each other additional gifts, which we open on Christmas morning.

19. Most annoying thing about this time of year? Work. It gets in the way of me properly preparing for Christmas.

20. What do you leave for Santa? Some dog fur under the tree.

21. Least favorite holiday song? Any of those melodramatic modern easy-listening supposed-to-be-tearjerkers involving the Christmas star falling from the sky and landing in a child's eye or some shit like that.

22. Do you decorate your tree with any specific theme or color? All of them at once.

23. Favorite ornament? The little ceramic reindeer with my mom's name on it. It's still in a box at the farmhouse, waiting for the return of Christmas to its rightful place (see #15) and its placement in a position of prominence on the tree.

This is supposed to be where I "tag" seven other people, but to be honest, I'm kinda new to this whole blogging thing, and Nora's already answered and tagged most of the blogs I read. So I'm flaking out on this one. Maybe next year!

Trust me, I'm a professional

2007-12-19T00:14:00.000-05:00

What the hell is up with all these people wanting me to do actual WORK the week before Christmas?

Unfortunately, the quality of work turned in to those who run the word mills was set at 8 a.m. Monday morning, during an interview for a profile of a local sandwich shop.

This particular sandwich shop is open till 4 a.m. on weekends, nestled as it is among abso-fucking-lutely horrendous clubs with words like "monkey" and "sharks" and "shaft" and "beaver" in their names. The owner regaled me with a tale of a customer who, in a misguided, alcohol-fueled, late-night attempt to draw in more patrons, lifted up her skirt in the middle of the sandwich shop, removed her unmentionables, and placed them on the banana tree on the counter.

The owner, being the respectable AARP member he is, couched the tale in euphemisms and giggled whispers. We laughed. He then began telling me about an annual competitive-eating contest the restaurant stages to raise money for a worthy charity--none of which has anything to do with drunken whores hanging panties on banana trees.

"Did you like that segue?" he asked. "From the banana tree to..."

In a display of unjournalistic rudeness, I finished the sentence for him, eyebrows raised, smirk on my face. "To pickle-eating?"

I reached into the air to grab the words as they left my mouth, to no avail.

His eyes widened, he began laughing nervously..."no, no, don't go there..." Which, of course, I already had. And while that would have been the time to apologize profusely and blush in mock demureness, that is not what I did.

Instead, I offered, "And this is just on coffee--you should see me after a couple of drinks!"

The journalism profession is filled with courageous individuals who expose government coverups, report from war zones, ferret out corporate corruption. Today, I say to them, "Yeah, but have you ever tried to salvage an interview after making an oral sex joke?"

Is that a Ritz or a saltine?

2007-12-14T22:57:00.000-05:00

I got called a cracker this evening. While I was walking the dogs, down the street from my house.

Is that really still a valid racial slur? If so, what the fuck does it mean exactly?

Everytime I see a Cracker Barrel, I imagine the restaurant was built to house what must be the epitome of crackers. Maybe that's why I was so pissed. I am NOT a Cracker Barrel kind of person.

The girl must have been about 12 or 13 (ah...happy times of hormones, anger, and feelings of helplessness...I remember that age fondly). I threw out the baddest B.I.G. attitude I know how and said, "WHAT did you say?"

Her friend sold her out. "She called you a cracker."

"That's what I thought. You better watch that mouth!"

Honestly, it sounded more menacing than it reads. Really. Maybe. Probably not. My instinct was to add "you fucking bitch" to the end of it, but I figured someone should be the adult.

I hope it's Ritz. I really like those little peanut buttery ones.

why didn't I get one of these?

2007-12-07T14:22:00.000-05:00

If I'd received one of these letters before my Halloween party, I could have been properly prepared for Bob Sanders' visit, and saved myself a lot of grief. Thanks to Flipside Sports for its outstanding coverage. The story doesn't say anything about hiding your wine, but then again, that was probably unnecessary for an elementary school visit.

And yes, I did feed him popcorn when he stopped by a few weeks ago. Big mistake.

"the (miniature) glow of electric sex"

2007-12-07T10:32:00.000-05:00

To reward myself for starting my Christmas shopping early (Dec. 5), I bought myself a present.

As a bonus, I walked into the Indiana History Center gift shop just in time to watch the arrival of the leg lamp on the A Christmas Story continuous loop, complete with Ralphie trying to feel up the leg.

This is going to be the best holiday season EVER! I can just feel it! (Cue ominous foreshadowing music.)

It snowed this much...

2007-12-05T13:33:00.001-05:00

...by 8 a.m. this morning.

Not quite enough to hitch the dogs up to my sled and try to get them to pull me down my street (it's not as if that worked last year, anyway), but it's a good start.

Yay, snow!

what the hell happened?

2007-11-30T12:17:00.000-05:00

Mark Knopler said it best: "Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug."

This is me today:

As I type, I'm "working from home," while a plumber replaces my entire kitchen drain and garbage disposal. I knew the fuckwads who used to own this house didn't install it right, which is why periodically my sink turns into a foul-smelling, brackish, grease-film-covered cesspool. Like it was this morning when I went to make coffee. I hope he puts a big-ass red bow on it when he's finished, because it's my six hundred and forty fucking dollar Christmas present to myself. Ho fucking ho!

And then there was the meeting last night of one of the groups I volunteer with, at which the discussion suddenly and horribly turned to Deputy Joe .... and his girlfriend. That's right, girlfriend. With no small measure of effort, I stifled the urge to yell, "Girlfriend??!! He doesn't have a girlfriend!!!"

Oh, but he does. I tried to maintain composure while one of the members of the group recounted her conversation with the two of them at a Function a couple of weeks ago, in which Deputy Joe told of his plans to return to some impoverished third world country with her for a few weeks after the first of the year. Another member of the group, a contractor, piped up to add that the girlfriend called him about getting a quote on some work at his house.

His house?? The one that may or may not still have a pair of my underwear lost in it? The one with the floor from which I collected my clothes at dawn a matter of weeks ago???

That mother fucking goddamn slimeball piece of shit.

Of course, while this was all going down, I was sitting directly across the table from Bob Sanders, and therefore stifled the urge to begin violently stabbing my notes with my pen.

Since I'm "working from home" today, I had the chance to do some research on this...person. She's a member of a Family of Note, is an incurable do-gooder who loves children in third-world countries (which, I'm sure, she helps with the Family Money, because her teacher's salary isn't going to finance all those trips), and--get this--wears pigtails. Low on either side of her head, braided. Maybe Piggy only did that once, but even once past the age of 13 is completely unacceptable, particularly when there's a camera in the vicinity.

It's noon now. I think it's beer o'clock.

Next on my hit list

2007-11-29T11:13:00.000-05:00

Things have been blissfully quiet lately, which means I've been spending more time in the 'hood.

Which means I'm bound to be pissed off about something.

I'm happy to report that Bad Influence Grandma has officially been cited by the city for the junk cars in her back yard. No doubt using her "but I'm just a sweet little old lady" wiles, she got an extension to get rid of them. She's due for reinspection Dec. 1. The cars haven't moved. She's running scared, I can tell.

So I'm turning my attention to the other house down the street that periodically has been the bane of my existence. Among other violations of common decency/criminal code, this house has been through more dogs in the past six years than I've been through men. So when I walked Big Head Dog and the Monster past this house, I wasn't particularly surprised to hear the scampering of doggy feet.

The front chain-link-fence gate was open, of course. Two pit bull puppies ran up to the fence. One ran out and jumped my dogs. No "hi, how ya doin'" butt-sniffing, no "wanna play?" tail-wagging, just flat out jumped 'em and went for the jugular.

The puppy went for the Monster, who's without a doubt the bigger pussy of the two dogs, and rolled 'im. Big Head Dog moved in and in no uncertain terms showed the puppy who's boss, and it ran off with its tail between its legs. The Monster cried like the girl he isn't, but was unhurt.

During this melee, I'm yelling, dogs are snarling. A chained-up dog in the back yard is raising ten kinds of hell. The lights are on in the house, yet no one is sufficiently curious to come out to investigate.

I considered dialing 911 to report a vee-cious dog attack. Then it became clear what I must do. Amass evidence. Photos, specifics, incidents. Then I will report them to the city's dog-fighting task force. I don't know for certain the thugs are into dog-fighting, but I like the last line of that press release: "all tips are investigated."

I like to think the investigators will arrive in SWAT team fashion, but that's probably too much to ask for.

Thanksgiving without a bang

2007-11-25T10:05:00.001-05:00

Keeping with the munitions theme...

Upon my arrival Wednesday night in southern Indiana, I called my sister, who reminded me that it's deer hunting season.

Crap.

In the 5 years I've had Big Head Dog, I seem to always forget to buy one of those safety-orange vests for my deer-colored dog. In case you've never seen one, a whitetail deer looks something like this (minus the shirt) running through the woods (or, I suppose, through my living room):

Big as he is, Big Head Dog is not deer sized. He also does not have antlers. Only a complete idiot or drunkard would do something so stupid as to mistake a 75-pound dog for a 10-point buck while holding a gun.

Ahem.

So, I searched the farmhouse for something sorta dog-sized and orange-like. And I hit the jackpot--a bag full of my clothes from the mid-80s. Florals, fuschias, oranges, day-glo....oh, the horror of it all was spectacular.

And so Big Head Dog ran the woods with his t-shirt proclaiming him a participant in the 1985 Lanesville Heritage Weekend 8-mile race.

Even though the Monster is not deer-colored, he looked so....naked. And unstylish. And he is a monster, so he deserves something heinous every chance I get. Behold, the hot-pink muscle sweatshirt:

Are they waiting at the door to go outside, or to run away from their cruel master once and for all? Who knows.

Thanksgiving with a bang

2007-11-24T23:51:00.000-05:00

It's difficult for me to pick just one post from Thanksgiving now that I'm back in the land of internet connectivity. It was a great 2-1/2 days.

I never used to care much one way or the other for Thanksgiving, being wedged in between my favorite holiday (Halloween), my birthday, and Christmas. But the past couple of years, it's worked its way up the list, maybe because my family dinner is always "if you're not doing anything else, stop on by" casual, or maybe because it's the only time I ever get a 4-day weekend to do whatever the hell I want without burning precious vacation days.

I think, though, that my favorite picture of many from the holiday is from the shopping excursion my sister and I made. Neither of us care much for shopping, and we sure as hell weren't going anywhere near Wal-mart on the day after Thanksgiving, but nonetheless, I had a few things to pick up, namely, RV antifreeze (to winterize the farmhouse) and firestarters (also for the farmhouse). (To start a fire in the wood stove, not to light the house itself on fire.)

So, after we burned off about 1/2 piece of pumpkin pie at the Y, we crossed the street to the liquor store for a 6-pack, then went to Tractor Supply Co. Words can scarcely describe my love for that store, but this should help:

That's right, 8 feet of empty (I think) Winchester shotgun shells, all festive and lit up for the holly-days! It's gonna be a helluva Christmas!

i had a ball!

2007-11-17T22:16:00.000-05:00

If you've stopped by Chez Pez lately, you know that Friday night was Tonic Ball.

The night went great. I poured wine at Tonic Gallery before the show and raked in $74 in tips to donate, which made me feel better since I couldn't afford to bid on the art. The music, as Jerry said, rawked. (It was great to meet you, Jerry!) I could do a post just on the music, but I suspect Nora will do a better job of covering that.

What I will cover is the men. Good god, they were everywhere. Deputy Joe, Bob Sanders, Dead-to-Me, plus a multitude of minor characters and some really great guys that I am lucky to call my friends.

One guy I'd never seen before walked up to me and started dancing with me (it wasn't even Drinky Bear), and--get this--could actually dance! Before I knew it I was being whirled, spun, and dipped all over the place. Then he bought me a Jagerbomb. With surprising clarity, I guessed where that whole scene was headed (nowhere good), and fled. After I drank the Jagerbomb, of course.

Deputy Joe looked super-hot with freshly grown stubble, but was in full self-absorption mode. Dead-to-Me was wearing a sling from having shoulder surgery. Nora accidentally hit him on his bad arm. Thanks, Nora!

And Bob Sanders fell down at my feet. Literally.

I first saw him outside Radio Radio waiting in line. He explained he was limping because he'd had an accident. Pressing further, I determined that "accident" was actually a euphemism for "bar fight."

The next time I saw him he was fubar. His friends, no doubt with a wisdom born of experience, had abandoned him. He said something, the exact memory of which was erased by what happened next, and I gave him a playful shove.

Possibly due to the injury from his "accident," but more likely due to mass quantities of alcohol, he fell on the floor in the bar. Nora moved in to see if it was time to kick him out. I helped him up and apologized. "My bad leg!" he shouted. "You owe me a blow job for that!"

Oh-kayyy...

Now, I stopped falling for the "you owe me a blow job" line sometime around 1988. That also might be the last time I heard it. Bob Sanders gets this month's "these people can't be serious" gold medal for shocking me to the point of speechlessness.

This morning I ignored a 9 a.m. (4 hours after I got home) text from him offering to make some "killer pancakes."

Let's take a moment to review what I now know about Bob Sanders: he desperately wants to marry and breed, he is "accident" prone, and he loudly demands blow jobs when he's really drunk. It's clear that any smart woman would stay far, far away from him. But me, well, I'd say odds are better than even that sooner or later I will sample those killer pancakes.

But back to last night. After the music wrapped up, I closed down a saloon in the bad part of town with some of Dead-to-Me's friends. Then I gave Dead-to-Me's neighbor (who also happens to be his best friend) a ride home, and a cop caught us making out in the alley in back of his house.

Making out with the neighbor/friend of a guy I dated for 5 months may seem like an odd thing to do, but a) he's hot, and b) it furthers my mission to prove that Dead-to-Me is an idiot. You see, his friends already like me a lot, and must suspect that Dead-to-Me was stupid to dump me, but now...well, now at least one of them has some idea of the full scope of reasons why Dead-to-Me will never do better than me.

all by myself

2007-11-11T11:57:00.000-05:00

One of these days I'm gonna have to figure out how to do all this fancy Internets stuff so I can pimp my blog.

Today, for instance, I'd hunt down an audio clip of that godawful song in the title.

You see, my house is empty today. The ex called while I was working my weekend gig Friday night to see if he could have Big Head Dog and the Monster for a few days. It took every ounce of self-restraint I have (which is about 4 ounces anyway) to not say, would it have killed you to ask me that a couple of weeks ago when the Greek refused to come to my house because my "vee-cious 10-headed beast" (that would be Big Head Dog) would've tried to attack him when he got within 10 feet of my bedroom?

And he's not even the guy who Big Head Dog bit in the ass.

Anyhoo, I kept my mouth shut, packed the boys' suitcase (actually an empty Trader Joe's bag) and took them to their dad's for a long weekend yesterday. And the roommate's gone for the weekend, too.

I'm shocked to find I'm completely discombobulated by all this. I don't know what to do with myself. There are no furry creatures interrupting me every 5 minutes for their favorite game, Inside Vs. Outside, and there's no one sitting on my sofa watching television and distracting me with valuable insights into the latest episode of America's Next Top Model. It's going to drive me to do something completely wacky, like clean.

I planned to get an early start on the day, but of course I didn't come straight home after work last night, like I'd planned to. I stopped by the friendly neighborhood tavern (it is, after all, on the way home), and it's a good thing I did. Otherwise, I would have missed the first meeting of the Crabby Club.

I also would have missed important discourse on topics such as programming home thermostats and whether or not the theme song to Baywatch had words, and if so, did David Hasselhoff sing them?

I also would have missed the Marines birthday party, where a bunch of ex-Marines, average age 68.2, drank a lot and periodically broke into increasingly distressed versions of "Halls of Montezuma." You couldn't miss 'em--they were the big group with the big red USMC flag duct-taped to the wall (Crabby Club--do we need a flag?). I actually got saluted on my way to pee.

warning: introspection ahead

2007-11-09T01:36:00.000-05:00

This morning I heard a poem on Writer's Almanac that sums up so much of what I feel like I'm going through, and what I'm hearing so much of from my friends.

There's more to it, but this is the part that nearly had me driving into the back of parked cars on my way to work this morning. It's called "The Necessary Brevity of Pleasures," and it's by by Samuel Hazo.

Prolonged, they slacken into pain
or sadness in accordance with the law
of apples.
One apple satisfies.
Two apples cloy.
Three apples
glut.
Call it a tug-of-war between enough and more
than enough, between sufficiency
and greed, between the stay-at-homers
and globe-trotting see-the-worlders.
Like lovers seeking heaven in excess,
the hopelessly insatiable forget
how passion sharpens appetites
that gross indulgence numbs.
Result?
The haves have not
what all the have-nots have
since much of having is the need
to have.

It gets at what I've been struggling with for the past two years, on and off (mostly on). All-consuming fire vs. numbing ice. Too much vs. not enough. The unsustainability of passion, vs. a total absence thereof.

I spent much of the last weekend remembering what I had forgotten, all the things I really liked about my previous life, when I was Good. There was a lot to like. Stability, peace, calmness. But when you're being Bad, it's no surprise when things go wrong and tears flow and hearts break. When you're Good and things go wrong anyway, it hurts much more.

oh, what a night

2007-11-07T12:40:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was Election Day. And while I don't want to get all preachy and shit, suffice to say things did not turn out as I hoped they would here in Naptown.

What made it ever so slightly better is that I ended up spending the evening with people of like mind. The friendly neighborhood tavern turned into the midtown satellite office of the county party HQ. As despondent as I was, there were people there with a whole lot more to lose than my tenuous connections in the administration.

With each glass of wine, someone would bring up something else.

"What about the arts? What will happen to the murals downtown?"

"Forget about ever getting the SuperBowl."

"What's going to happen with the stadium and convention center expansion?"

"Who the hell is going to run the city???"

If my head didn't still hurt, I'd be even more despondent today.

them's my people

2007-11-05T12:31:00.000-05:00

Saturday was my birthday. The first phone call was at 9 a.m., from my brother-in-law. I figured he was calling to wake me up and wish me a happy birthday. I didn't answer it, as I was still in bed and in no mood to converse.

Instead of birthday greetings, however, I had the following message. How could I not be in a good mood the rest of the day?

(delivered in a thick Southern Indiana drawl)
"This is your favorite brother-in-law. I don't know if your sister told you she broke my rib. She ran over me with the golf cart on Halloween night. I figured she might be too embarrassed to tell you. You should give her a call later today and ask her about it. Bye."

Wha? Hooo hooo ha haaaaa!

un-fucking-believable

2007-11-02T02:20:00.000-04:00

Mother of god.

To recap the past 24 hours:

The Greek and I did indeed get to share a glass of wine before he left, along with friends who were in a Halloweenie festive mood. The "and....um....uh" turned out to be some really great conversation after the friends moved on for the night, about art and life and our personal demons--all the good shit that makes me want to move somewhere like, oh, I dunno, Seattle and spend my days at a cafe drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and writing great literature.

Not that he didn't try to talk me into fucking him in the parking lot behind the friendly neighborhood tavern, but hey, I live here, he doesn't. I'm in that place waaayyy too much to have that kind of story floating around.

Wow, I DO have inhibitions! Who knew?

Anyhoo, what with the Greek hangover and all, I decided to blow off responsibility for at least another day and skip tonight's meeting of the group I volunteer in with Bob Sanders. I wasn't really in the mood to deal with that.

Of course, the group called me to see if I was going to be there. Dammit.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered that I was supposed to be bringing minutes from the last meeting to discuss, the ones with, oh, the group's mission statement and goals and objectives, you know, mildly important things like that.

I went in and sat down. Someone asked about the goals from the last meeting, then everyone looked at me.

I searched my mind frantically for a plausible and rock-solid excuse. Something like, "I've been called in by the head of the C.I.A. to work on a top-secret project. I'd love to tell you more, but I'd have to kill you. I'm fresh from a meeting with several heads of state, and that's why I don't have the minutes."

Nope. "I.....uhh.....I've had...um...... *sigh*.... I've had my head up my ass."

I'm pretty sure when they form the board, they will create a "Court Jester" position just for me.

As I was suffering through the rest of the meeting, I got a text message. From V.P. That's right, Pregnant Girlfriend Guy.

At least he texted. If he'd called, my phone (which I of course forgot to turn off) would have blared "Let's Get It On" at top volume, and I would have had to resign from the group immediately.

"Hey...I sent out a press release today...it should be big tomorrow...need some feedback...this is V. The one you had the most ridiculous sex with."

WTF? Seriously?? Does he have some kind of fucking radar? He entered my life last spring within days of when the Greek did. One week I was being wholly indecent in the front seat of PGG's SUV in a bar parking lot, the next week I was spending the most mind-blowing 24 hours of my life at the farm with the Greek. Is my life on some kind of fucked-up, twisted loop of foreign men with sexy bodies and the minds of 14-year-olds?

So I responded, "Why yes, I remember you...Looking forward to seeing the big news."

And then, "Is it good memories?"

Well, let's see. Good memories of what? The admittedly ridiculously good sex, or of the screaming matches in the parking lot of his apartment? The smooth, brown, sculpted chest, or the jealousy and possessiveness? The Sunday afternoons playing tennis and eating sushi, or the buckets of tears?

I opted for honesty. "Of the ridiculously good sex, yes."

Mistake. Subtlety is obviously not his strong suit.

PGG: "Where are you? Want some fun?"

No fucking way. I don't need this shit.

B.I.G.: "Fun for me tonight is jammies and puppies. I'm sure you'll find something to do."

PGG: "Like you?"

Mother fucker, he's persistent! Like a goddamn yapping chihuahua!

B.I.G. "Probably not a good idea."

Finally, silence. Sweet Jesus, it's been 14 months since I dumped him! Since then I've run into him exactly 3 times, once with a perky brunette on his arm. Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on a booty call??

In addition to inhibitions, I apparently also have some brains. It's just been a regular fucking day of mother fucking self-discovery.

I'll just be taking leave of my senses now

2007-10-31T19:52:00.000-04:00

And with the phone call, the Greek hangover begins:

B.I.G.: Hi. How are you?

The G: Running around like crazy.

B.I.G.: Trying to get everything done you should have been doing the past week before you leave tomorrow?

The G: (hearty Greek laughter...I swear it's possible to laugh with an accent) Yes. It's the Greek way.

B.I.G.: I'm a big fan of the Greek way. Are you going to be around the friendly neighborhood tavern tonight so I can send you off with a glass of wine and...um...uh....

The G: I would really like to be sent off with a glass of wine and...um...uh.... I'm going to try to, but I'm taking off early tomorrow....

B.I.G.: I know. It's a shame you're not going to be around Saturday. You know how last Saturday when you were driving me back to my car, and it was drizzly and dreary, and you said it would be a good day to lie in bed and watch bad porno, get up and make some soup, go back to bed and fuck, then watch more bad porno? This Saturday's my birthday. That would be a great way to spend my birthday.

The G: Oh no! I'm sorry I'm going to miss your birthday. Next time I'm in town we will do that. We don't need a reason to celebrate.

B.I.G.: No, we don't. We'll have another "one more time" the next time you're in town, then.

The G: Yes. I'll call you if I'm going to be out tonight.

B.I.G.: I hope you do stop by. If I don't see you, have a good trip.

I wanted to add, "Go back home, to your woman who loves you, and try not to break her heart."

But I couldn't bring myself to.

now THAT's frightening!

2007-10-29T12:37:00.000-04:00

Apparently hosting a party takes at least a week and a day out of my life, as I notice it's been that long since I posted. I was working on a post about neighborhood crazies showing up at meetings and disrupting speeches, but I suspect there's more interest in what happened at the Halloween party than in one nutty old lady's whacked-out opinions on creating walkable streets and more pedestrian-friendly communities.

So, on to the show.

First off, I went a little crazy at Costco. I've put off buying a membership there because I'm only one person, how many rolls of paper towels do I really need to buy at once, plus, it's clear up in suburbia hell, where I never really want to go, and furthermore, there's just a lot of crap there I don't need.

Like a 1/2 gallon container of minced garlic. Which I now have.

Or 4 cases of beer, 2 big bottles and 5 regular bottles of wine, some Captain Morgan's and some vodka. And a case of chicken broth. For the chili, you know.

It took 10 trips with the wheelbarrow to get all the groceries/beer/ice from the car to the house. Discover's fraud prevention unit called to make sure some raving drunken lunatic hadn't taken my card.

Nope, I said, this lunatic has her card right here!

Btw, I have a LOT of beer and chili left. Stop by for dinner sometime this week. Please.

All in all, the turnout was good for having given people a week's notice and having it on an evening when everybody and their undertaker is having a party. Zorro and the flamenco dancer were the first to arrive, followed by a vampire and the Crazy Cat Lady, who proceeded to creep the fuck out of everybody by doing things like standing in a corner alone, playing her recorder:

In short, hilarity ensued wherever she went.

Then the youngsters showed up, on their way out to the bars in Broad Ripple:

Hope made an appearance, the youngsters and Crazy Cat Lady/vampire left, and then Hope, too, was gone.

I was patting myself on the back for being a responsible party host, and having a party that ended at the respectable hour of 1:30 a.m., and not with me sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

That's when Colts safety Bob Sanders (or a reasonable facsimile) showed up, wearing his dreads and carrying the Vince Lombardi trophy:

Now, I know Bob from a neighborhood group I volunteer with. He's cute. And single. And he thinks my jokes are funny. Which is more than I can say for at least 90 percent of the men I come into contact with. So I opened one of the big bottles of wine and Bob and I sat down to get to know each other better.

I mentioned it was 1:30 a.m., right? Did I also mention I'd spent the previous 6-1/2 hours doing my part to reduce the overpopulation of beer in my fridge?

The bad news is that, unfortunately, Bob is not looking for a woman to date. He is looking for a wife to bear his children. Clearly, SuperBowl ring or not, Bob is going to have to look elsewhere. The good news is that by the time we got 3/4 of the way through the big bottle of wine, I seem to recall being quite honest about my voluminous emotional baggage, commitment issues, views on marriage being an outdated patriarchal institution, etc. I quite distinctly remember giving him my disclaimer, "I am probably way too independent to ever successfully be married."

So, I shouldn't have to worry about the bad news!

Sigh. It seems like just Friday night that the Greek was telling me that I'm hard to handle. I have no idea what he meant.

I just got an e-mail from Bob. He left the Vince Lombardi trophy at my house, and apparently I sent him home with a bowl of chili, because he wants to drop off the bowl and pick up the trophy. Yikes.

Opa!

2007-10-21T22:56:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I'm totally catching up on posts today. I'm sure that's impolite blog etiquette or something, but it's an excuse to lie in bed with the dogs on a Sunday afternoon, so I'm taking advantage of it.

Speaking of lying in bed with dogs, it's been an interesting weekend.

Friday night I had some weird-ass dreams. In one of them, my dog caught a mouse straight from the innermost depths of hell and there was a lot of thick, gloopy blood like oozes from walls in horror movies.

But even weirder was the dream in which I walked into a flower garden full of blooming butterfly bushes, gorgeous white and yellow butterflies flitting gracefully about as they sampled the glorious nectar, sun shining, sweet smell of flowers in the air.

Then, the butterflies attacked. It must have been a swarm of souped-up South American Killer Butterflies, because each of the suckers weighed like 10 pounds a piece, and they kept flying into me on purpose, hitting me about the head and face. It was awful! I woke up screaming and flailing.

The dream stuck with me all day Saturday. What was my subconscious trying to tell me, throwing out images about the blurry line between that which is good and pure and that which is dark and sinister?

By 7:30 that night, I had my answer, thanks to an informant. The Greek. Spotted the night before at a friendly neighborhood tavern near me.

By 10:30, my ass was on a barstool having naughty things about it whispered into my ear. I was working the phone trying to find some rather exotic cigarettes. If I'd had some notice, I would have been prepared, but that's not how this recurring fling works. We don't talk in between his visits. He doesn't call when he gets into town.

"If it is meant to be, it will be," he says. "Fate."

He does not know that Fate sends text messages.

He was talking big before I got there. "I've been living with this girl, and I've been faithful to her," was his story.

Then, to me: "I'm living with this girl, and I've been behaving myself since the last time I was here in town. ... Who am I kidding? I can't do it. What's new with you?"

"I've been forced to conclude that boys are scared of me."

"Scared? Of you? Why??"

"I think they think I'm trouble."

Hearty Greek laughter. Then head lowered, impenetrable dark eyes peering over the black frame of his glasses, eyebrow raised. "And are they right?"

"Maybe. But I don't see what that has to do with it."

More laughter. "Forget about dating. Just [edited for graphic content]."

We couldn't get the pay-per-view at the Super 8 to work, but I was not in a different part of the state when the sun came up this morning, as has happened before. Of course, that might only be because I had guests staying at the farmhouse. And the roommate was home this weekend. How is it, exactly, that I own two houses and yet had nowhere to take a boy last night?

There were other things, like weirdness with Dead-to-Me's friends Friday night, and the "accidentally hit the call button on the phone" call from the ex Saturday evening, which resulted in a 3-minute long message of his conversation on an apparent date with a woman who has a couple of kids. But enough of this lying in bed with dogs, I have things to do.

ch- ch- ch- chia!

2007-10-21T21:52:00.000-04:00

Hot damn! The grass has sprouted and my front yard is all, like, fuzzy and shit!

For the first time, I can almost--almost--understand the national obsession with lush verdant lawns. They're such cute little blades! I am SO proud of this grass, I am going to be the best lawn caretaker EVER! I will never let its waving blades be marred by dandelions, ground ivy, violets or crabgrass. I will fertilize twice a year, and I will never, never, allow it to grow so tall that I must cut off more than 1/3 of the blade height.

Unless, you know, I like, get busy and have a lot of other stuff going on.

Best damn lookin' porch in Southern Indiana!

2007-10-21T21:41:00.000-04:00

I can hear you asking, "what color did you paint the trim at the farmhouse, B.I.G.?"

No? That wasn't you? Oh. Sorry, must be the damn neighbors acting up again.

Anyhoo, here's what color I wanted to paint it:

Can't really tell there? How about here:

Yes, it is a lovely bluish-gray, thank you! Unfortunately, very little of it is covering the god-awful green, because Big Head Dog wound his chain around the entire gallon of paint, which my sister left open and unattended on the porch, knocking it over. When I returned to the scene, Big Head Dog was so happy to see me, he wound the paint-covered chain around my leg.

The resulting conversation went something like this:

Me: aaaarrrrrgghhh! You big stupid, you left the paint open!

Sister: Your big stupid dog knocked it over!

Me: You're the big stupid!

Sister: Nuh uh! You're the big stupid!

Me: Fuck it, let's have another beer.

Sister: Good idea.

Since the entire gallon of paint was then on the porch, we really had little option but to spread it out. So now the top-of-the-line exterior paint I bought (charged to my ex's account, whatever) is covering a concrete slab porch. I can't wait till the first time somebody tries to walk on the damn thing when it's wet--it's gonna be slicker than snot on a glass doorknob.

A guy walks into a bar...

2007-10-17T22:55:00.000-04:00

A good shouting match just ended in the neighbor's back yard. I couldn't catch all of it--that's the bad thing about arguments, multiple people tend to all talk at once. Plus, all the windows were closed, so it took me a while to figure out that the best place to listen was at the back of the house, lights out, window cracked enough to stick my head through.

What I finally got, though, was that the beau of one of the Crazy Sisters came home late. And really drunk. Once D got Crazy Sister in the house, I heard him pleading his case to the guy who's been over there painting.

Apparently he was out with a buddy and kept telling him he couldn't hang out all night. The buddy took him somewhere, and at that point, according to Drunken Beau, "I said, man, I can't leave you here, this is the ghetto hood! I ain't gonna do ya like that!"

In other words, his excuse for late drunkenness, or drunken lateness, whichever, was that he was in too bad of a neighborhood to leave, so he had to stay there and drink.

I've heard worse excuses. Maybe even made them.

All we are sayyyyy-ing.....

2007-10-13T03:01:00.000-04:00

Question: Who am I? "Well, I lost the bid to lead the free world in a highly contested election. I guess I'll just go win the Nobel Peace Prize."

I don't want to get all political and shit on this blog, but Christ! Has there ever been a bigger "Up yours!" in the history of political contests? Really, I'm asking! You can argue that Gore wouldn't have been the best president in the history of the country, and I might agree, but can anyone imagine Dubya ever--EVER--winning the Nobel Peace Prize? Snort! That cracks me up.

So that puts Gore in the company of Jimmy Carter. Another question: why can't Nobel Peace Prize winners make good U.S. presidents? If I had one right now, I'd light a fatty and contemplate that while listening to John Lennon.

hitting the wall

2007-10-12T19:07:00.000-04:00

It's been another crazy busy week, so today I took what some people might call a mental health day. I called it a "fuck you, I'm exhausted and I have too much to do to put up with your bullshit" day.

After 14 hours of sleep, I felt better. The weather suddenly turned from rivers-of-sweat hot to winter's-coming cold this week, and today's the first day my body caught up and quit shivering. I got out of bed at the crack of noon, had some coffee, took a nice hot shower, and then went to the paint store and charged $100 worth of paint and supplies to my ex-husband's account.

"Hi, you know KD? I'm the mother of his dogs, and I'll need to put all this on his account."

That made me feel much better. I figure in the grand scheme of things, he's still about $14,584 down, not counting the ongoing maintenance for the dogs, but I'll take the small victories.

Then Lizzie called and we decided to go to this new cupcake store. I know cupcake stores are all the rage in way-hipper places than Indianapolis, but frankly, I'm skeptical. Yes, the red velvet cupcake was tasty, and the gelato looked heavenly, but seriously? The decor looked like a 14-year-old girl decorated it. Pink and flowers and shabby-chic everywhere. And 5 bucks for two regular-sized cupcakes? I'd get more enjoyment from a bottle of 3-buck-chuck.

The constant stream of private-school kids getting their afternoon sugar fix courtesy of the nanny almost made me lose my cream-cheese frosting. Lizzie and I reminisced about how in our day, an after-school snack consisted of making yourself a bowl of cereal at home, not $2.50 cupcakes.

So now I've watered my grass seed, and almost dialed 911 when a thug picked up a bottle on the sidewalk and broke it and started walking toward a group of people, yelling. Apparently his intended stab-ee took off, so he calmed down. Police action averted. Dammit.

Now all I have left to do is write a column that was due Wednesday, so I can head to southern Indiana and paint the trim on the farmhouse. And I don't have a topic. Lizzie and I brainstormed.

"What have you done this week?" she asked.

I considered the possibilities. I whored around in Broad Ripple. Can't write about that. I listened to someone pour his heart out over an affair he's having. Nix that. I could write about the shooting behind my house, but I want new people to move INTO my 'hood, not OUT of it, so I don't really want to go there.

I had an interesting conversation with Deputy Joe Wednesday night about all sorts of pertinent matters, but if he reads a published recounting of our conversation, he'll probably never invite me over for, um, a nitecap ever again, and I sure as hell don't want to alienate the only reliable member of my stable.

"Have you done anything artsy-fartsy?"

I haven't.

"Wow, you're screwed."

Yep.

If you want something done right...

2007-10-10T00:05:00.001-04:00

So the loser I hired to "hit" the graffiti tags on the sidewalk reported back to me today. He stopped by Sunday morning, but forgot the friggin spray paint, so he went back home, then he got a phone call, and by the time he got back around to it it was mid-afternoon and he figured the thugs would be out, blah blah blah.

Now he's out of town for two days.

For fuck's sake, can it really be that hard to hire good help? It's a 10-minute job! All you need is a car, and a can of spray paint, and he couldn't get his shit together enough to get both of those things in the same place at the same time??!! I weep for the future of America! Jesus!

On the bright side, I was outside sowing grass seed (the legal kind) in the front yard when a car screeched to a halt in front of my house and a fuh-laming gay man jumped out waving frantically (or maybe it just seemed frantic because of the lack of wrist muscles) at me. He wanted to know how I like the neighborhood because he's *this* close to buying a renovated bungalow down the block.

Well.

Omigod, I LOVE it! I've been here 6 years and the neighbors are all WONDERFUL! There's this teensy weensy little problem down the street but we're working on taking care of that and it'll be gone soon enough and everything will go back to being right as rain!! It's a fabulous investment and, ha ha, oh yes, people told me not to move this far south, too, they're so silly!!

Ahem.

Yay! The gays are coming to my block! Finally! I've been waiting for this moment for 6 long years!

these boots ain't made for walkin'

2007-10-08T02:24:00.000-04:00

Bad Influence Girl hit the town Friday night.

When you're wearing these with fishnet hose, a little black dress and fuck-me-red lipstick, you don't have to look too hard for trouble, as it turns out.

I woke up at 1:30 p.m. (!) Saturday, with the taste of Red Bull in my mouth and a large blood blister on the bottom of my foot. Oh, and a numb spot on my tongue. I think I sprained it.

When I arrived at work for my bartending shift at 5 p.m., I was still dizzy. The hangover really kicked in around 8 p.m.

I wore the hooker boots to an early Halloween party. But the party fizzled out around 12:30. Do those look like boots that are ready to go home at 12:30?

In the end, the hooker boots had to be carried home in the pre-dawn hours. They promised big but didn't deliver, kind of like, well, a cheap hooker. Boot. They were still on my feet at 3 a.m. for last call in Broad Ripple, but my feet revolted soon after, as nearly as I can remember. The fishnets did not make it home at all. I'm afraid they may be in a pickup truck.

Someone asked me last night who is my bad influence, since I am known for being a bad influence on others. My answer was, I don't need one, clearly I do a fine job all by myself.

crime solved!

2007-10-07T05:17:00.000-04:00

The great thing about public records is that you just never know when you're going to unearth a gem among the pebbles.

The other day I picked up a copy of the incident report from last week's shooting behind my house. And there I found what is clearly the biggest clue in the case.

Never let it be said that the police here aren't thorough in their work.

At first I was puzzled. Who had been eating the Fritos, the shooter or the victim? Were they hoping to retrieve valuable DNA evidence from the Fritos? Is there a special room at the station for perishable evidence?

And then the light bulb went off. There can only be one answer, only one person who could be driven to commit such a heinous crime while under the influence of corn chips:

It all makes sense. After being dropped by Frito-Lay, Frito Bandito couldn't find work elsewhere and turned to a life of crime. There's nothing sadder than a mascot gone bad.

livin' da thug life

2007-10-04T11:18:00.000-04:00

I've put out a hit on the graffiti tags.

Someone from outside the neighborhood is going to drive in, paint over the tags on the sidewalk, then drive away. I bought the spray paint on my lunch hour (yes, I paid cash), and drew up a map showing precise locations.

Tuesday while I was at work, someone backed up to my garage and starting loading stuff into his trunk. My neighbor was outside lunching in her back yard, enjoying the lovely fall day. She yelled at him and he gave her some story about helping someone move some stuff. My neighbor called bullshit and then called the cops, god bless her.

I'm pretty sure that was my retaliation for hanging out and watching them Friday, because I don't keep anything worth stealing in my garage, and taking crap from my garage would merely annoy the hell out of me. When I got home, there was a box of trash bags and a quart of oil stacked near the garage door, and a box of golf balls by the back gate. Not exactly the kind of stuff that fetches top dollar on the black market.

Unfortunately, said thug did not take any of my ex-husband's crap that's still stacked in the garage. Perhaps I could put up a sign or something: "Please take this shit first. Thank you."

Oh, and I've declared war on an elderly woman. I'm not particularly proud of myself, but I've had it with her. Every few years one of her grandchildren gets sprung from juvie and turns her house into Thug Central. She refuses to do anything about it and doesn't understand why everybody's always calling the cops on her babies.

So yesterday, I filed a complaint with the city about the junk cars in her back yard. Every piece of trash, loose gutter and unmowed blade of grass is going to get reported from now on.

If it was illegal to "plant" fake plastic flowers in your front yard (which it should be), I'd turn her in for that, too.

uh oh

2007-10-02T20:20:00.000-04:00

Aw hell....

You know the neighborhood thugs? The ones I've been sorta kinda taunting? Turns out those gunshots I heard in the wee hours last Wednesday actually went INTO someone. In the house right behind mine.

That shit ain't cool.

I'm starting a calvary. Bring your horses, spears, legions (not lesions, please leave those at home), minions, and canteens to my house at oh-8 hundred Saturday. The crack should be wearing off by that hour, we'll catch 'em drowsy.

Maybe I'll recruit Patio Man. I haven't seen him lately, not since the rain got his chairs all wet. At least he's not a crack-slingin', ass-cappin' thug.

I was going to paint over their tags on the sidewalk this week. Maybe I'll wait till shit cools down.

today's gross injustice

2007-10-01T19:16:00.000-04:00

I can run, but I can't hide.

Today the IT overlords at the office tracked me down remotely. They'd warned me they didn't physically need my laptop, and they were right. Sometime between showing a co-worker my weekend Sorghum Fest pictures (see yesterday's post) and reading the latest news about Brangelina, my desktop image changed from this lovely smile-inducing Emma Overman painting from this year's Art vs. Art:

To the company logo:

Seriously, I have GOT to get a new job. "First they came for the personal photos, and I didn't speak up because I'm a crappy photographer...."

sweet as sorghum

2007-09-30T21:41:00.000-04:00

Friday night, on my way out of town, my neighbor down the street said to me, "You're a special kind of crazy. I like that."

He said that as I was parked outside of his house, 1/2 block away from my own, sitting in my rather distinctive vehicle (not too many on this street have a "Dog is my copilot" bumper sticker) watching the thugs. They kept looking at me like, "what is this crazy bitch doing?" I actually saw a real live drug deal!

Anyway, then I left town, which probably wasn't the worst idea ever.

I headed south to meet up with my sister and a couple of her friends. After some great directions, we found the Hancock County Fairgrounds just outside Hawesville, Kentucky, which calls itself the Sorghum Capital of the World.

There we sampled a lot of sorghum (yummy) and learned much about this plant, which comes in somewhere far behind tobacco and marijuana on the list of Kentucky's largest cash crops.

At the sorghum festival, a mule named Molly walked around in a circle to squish the sorghum juice out of the cane:

That is, until my sister and her friend told Molly she was a pretty girl, at which point the whole operation ground to a halt. Molly is such a slut.

The Kentucky Department of Ag trotted out Kentucky Kate for the event. Here you can see some young men developing their teat know-how by pulling the hell out of them and trying to squirt each other. Someday, some poor girl is going to have to spend hours un-learning that behavior.

And although I haven't milked a cow (R.I.P., Girly) since I was about 4, I found it's kinda like riding a bike, only ickier. For the record, Ky. Kate was giving only water, not milk.

Because I have more work to do than is humanly possible, I procrastinated by taking the scenic route home to Indy, which effectively stretched a 2-1/2 hour trip into 4 hours. Bought some mums, though, and wandered Indiana. It really is a lovely state.

Got home and used the rest of the daylight to work in the yard. The trip must have done some good--one of the thugs made fun of my car and I just laughed. But seriously, is "I don't know who would drive that thing" supposed to scare me? I scoff at you, thugs!

what day is it??

2007-09-28T13:21:00.000-04:00

Yeah, about that experiment.

Tuesday I went to a neighborhood thing at someone's house. They had so much wine, it seemed inhospitable to not have a glass. But, it was a tiny plastic cup. And then my friend wanted a cheeseburger, and well, it seemed inhospitable to not keep her company while she ate, and while they DO have Diet Pepsi at the Red Key, a beer really sounded good...

But, I did drink in moderation. So that's something of a victory.

And then there was Wednesday night. Geek Boy and I were supposed to be playing tennis, but he had a meeting that got rescheduled, and couldn't meet till 9. I didn't know of any public courts with lights, plus, it had been raining all day, and I hate playing with soggy balls, so Geek Boy suggested meeting for a beer.

I have known Geek Boy for a couple of months. We went out a couple of times. We get along incredibly well and have interesting, geeky conversations about subjects that would bore many people to tears. He's smart, he thinks I'm intelligent and attractive. As a bonus, we agree that we have an off-the-hook physical chemistry, as in, omg, did we really just spend an hour making out in the parking lot outside the bar, in semi-public??

Given all that, naturally (wtf?) Geek Boy decided he just wants to be friends. But "really friends, like, do stuff together."

Sex is doing stuff together.

Geek Boy didn't think that would be a good idea, for reasons that still mystify me. Something about just getting out of a serious relationship, blah blah blah.

Whatever. We do have a good time, so Wednesday we did stuff together that did not, unfortunately, involve sex. It did, however, involve darts and a hell of a lot of Bells Oberon. God, that's a good beer. And it was on sale--$2.75 a pint!! You can't beat that with a stick!

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that I should not try to keep up with Geek Boy in the drinking department. Because I can, but he's about 6' 3" and 220. I'm not, and should not drink like I am.

So I completely fell off the wagon. But, it was the full moon! Nora, I would claim that as your excuse, too.

All in all, however, I clearly didn't overindulge, because I am completely unrelaxed. Again, a small, empty, hollow, bitter victory.

This weekend, it's off to a Redneck Adventure Weekend with my sister and her friends. This installment of RAW is camping in southern Indiana (if you saw my sister's camper, you'd know there's not much adventurous about that. It has a stereo system, for god's sake) and going to the World's Largest Sorghum Festival in Hawesville, Kentucky. I'm not even going to pretend I won't drink my body weight in Miller Lite.

parched

2007-09-24T21:25:00.000-04:00

For reasons that I won't go into, my life is stressful. I know, I know, whose isn't, but there's just some shit going on right now that I'll feel a lot better about when it's resolved.

I don't deal with stress very well. I am not, as a rule, very pleasant to be around when my nerves are a little on edge. Additionally, I bottle up stress deep inside like any good German would. And, I'm a Scorpio. Not that I'm into astrology at all, but if some sources (or here, or here) are to be believed, friggin Mount Vesuvius lurks under this pleasant, sunny exterior.

For these reasons, relaxation is very important to me, and when I cannot achieve it, bad things happen, usually to me but sometimes also to my personal relationships. Which really sucks.

Which brings me to this week's experiment: relaxing without the assistance of alcoholic beverages. September seems like it's been one big blur, and not just because I've been busy, but at least partly because literally, things have been a little bit blurry much of the time. I haven't woke up in a different state (unless you count hungover as a state) or anything, but my behavior has been a little unhealthy even by my liberal standards.

This would all be much easier if I was able to release all that pent-up tension through, oh, sex, for instance. That hasn't been working out so well for me either lately. Generally the drinking leads to the sex, but clearly, I've been doing something wrong.

Maybe it's the 15 pounds I've gained since I quit smoking in June. Yeah, that's right, no nicotine to relax me, either. Not that I haven't cheated liberally when drinking (see above).

All the good stuff, in short, is gone. I'm left with exercise, eating right and getting a good night's sleep. For fuck's sake, what's become of me?

Oh, and I was going to post a picture of the neighbor's fucking outdoor living room, but apparently the IT overlords at work wiped the photo program off my laptop, and I need to reinstall it as well as my camera as recognized hardware. And it's hot and I'm cranky and I just don't feel like it.

Tonight we--me and Patio Man--had a kitchen window standoff, btw. I stood in my kitchen, shade open as it always is because I feel claustrophobic when it's closed unless it's below 20 degrees outside, in which case the numbness in my fingers overrules any claustrophobia, and fixed dinner. (A stupidly healthy dinner of fresh veggie stir-fry, fyi.)

Patio Man sat, his chair actually facing my house, and watched me. I had all the windows open, with Audioslave blaring at 11 on the volume knob. It got dark and I still didn't close the shade. For all I know he was sitting there pleasuring himself while I chopped red peppers--the oil in his tiki no-torch musta been running low because I could barely see him--but dammit, it's my window, my view, and I was there first!

just throwing some words out there

2007-09-24T21:21:00.000-04:00

**Correction: the one chair is actually green, not pink. If I could retrieve the picture off my friggin' camera, I'd prove it.

For a few years now, some people have suggested I start a blog. Mostly, this subject comes up when I talk about an article I've written for a less-than-edgy business publication, and I have to leave the best parts out of the printed story. Like the elk farm story.It was never enough to get me to start a blog, though. What was? The neighbors' "outdoor living area."

Now, I've been reading a lot of articles about the latest trends in outdoor furnishings, outdoor kitchens, bringing the indoors to the outdoors, blah blah blah. I am certain that two upholstered chairs--one pink and one homemade patchwork denim--on an unsheltered brick patio, with a tiki torch that's missing the stick that makes it a torch, does not qualify as an "outdoor living area."

Unless you're my neighbor. Some guy has adopted the patio, along with furnishings listed above, as his house, or perhaps room. Today, he rearranged the furniture. I guess he needed a new view.

This house was built in 1910 or thereabouts. From my big kitchen window--the best window in the house, incidentally--it looks a little like the house from Amityville Horror, which, if you don't associate horror with it, is a pretty darn cool-looking house. You know, the quarter-moon windows on either side of the big chimney and all. My neighbor Miss D. just got it painted a real purty creamy pale yellow color, and the house sits on a double lot, so there's probably 50 feet or so of lawn between our houses. An original brick patio runs the length of the house on the side facing my house.

Enter into this lovely tableau some guy sitting in a freaking stuffed armchair. He seems to prefer the pink one. The patchwork denim one, he reserves for guests. I don't even know who this guy is. He is not the owner of the house. He is not the owner's ex-husband, or boyfriend, or brother. He may be connected with one of the owner's siblings--Skinny Crazy Sister, Fat Crazy Sister, or Short Crazy Sister--but no one's sure. All I know is that when I look out my kitchen window, be it morning, noon, or night, there is a man smoking cigarettes and drinking Bud Light, sitting in a pink armchair, doing nothing.

If I wanted to look at that all day, I would have stayed married.