dear gentle reader(s)

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

“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

*** 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

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

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

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

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

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

*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!

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

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

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!

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?

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

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

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

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

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!

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?

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!

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!

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?

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

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!

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

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

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*

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

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

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?

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"

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

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

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...