An Orwellian Era, as directed by John Hughes

My problem isn't so much Big Brother as it's Little Sister. The "bride" is a total bitch, as of late. At her request, I spent three hours looking for bridesmaid jewelry "without too many rhinestones." Um, how about none, for christ's sake? It's gaudy, never mind the fact that if you're going to have non-diamond "bling," it should be crystals because rhinestones photograph black. I'm the wedding veteran. She's been in one wedding. This will be my fifth. I'd like to wear it again, not take down airplanes on a sunny day or use it to signal my way out of a forest.

Any-hoo, she broke the already uneasy peace by suggesting I do my own hair for the big day. The only capable stylist in the town of 2000 would be focusing on her and the mothers of the bride and one other bridesmaid. Not me, apparently. I'm not lucky enough to get the coveted spot. That would have been a nice birthday gift. Guess I'll have to settle for a reenactment of 16 Candles.

Because I'm the mature one, I promptly called my mother. As an aside, she was furtively smoking outside the mall, hoping to avoid seeing HER sister. My mom is 54 and her parents are dead, so I'm not entirely sure of the reason behind this. My mother, because she hates me, helpfully suggested that my sister was right. She then told me my hair was short, so it didn't matter. They'd clearly discussed this issue already. Drat, foiled again. I tried to reach a compromise that would make no one happy: if my mom invited HER shitty sister to the wedding, I'd do my own hair for MY shitty sister's wedding. No deal.

With no option other than to stir the pot, I requested, via e-mail, that I be allowed to opt out of the rehearsal dinner so my stylist could do my hair and I wouldn't have to travel back and forth from the Magic City two days in a row. Bridezilla scolded me, denied that she ever suggested I do my own hair, and then said that, if I were to do my own hair, it would be fine because it's short. Now I'm sensing a conspiracy. Also, if I want to get my hair done, that's my decision and there are plenty of decent stylists in the town of 2000 people, available for one person at 8 a.m. on a Saturday. Way to later deny, in writing, what you said earlier, in writing. It's now very clear why I'm the lawyer and she's the CPA. I can't balance my checkbook but I can cover my tracks and recognoze when I've boxed myself in.

So, this is what's going to happen. I'm going to be stuck with Debbie from the Hair Cut. Euphemistically speaking, of course. You know Debbie: the 40-year-old bleach blonde in the small shop on main street with acrylic nails and a big mouth that gives at least four perms a week and allows her male clients to keep their mullets. She'll insist on "trimming" my hair while styling it, use a 2" barrel curling iron on my 1.5" hair, burn my scalp when the hair slips out, rip out my cartilage piercing, and pollute the environment and my eyes and mouth with at least two cans of Paul Mitchell Maximum Hold aerosol hairspray. I will then be charged $10 (she won't charge for the cut, she'll say graciously), tip her an additional $5, walk out the door sporting a short brown helmet and cry in the street. Why? Because there aren't parking lots in this town.

Then, in an eerily calm moment, I'll imagine myself shutting off my mobile, filling up with enough gas and diet coke to get me to the state line, and driving south for forever (also known as Kansas). It'd be like The Awakening. Without the suicidal undertones. The moment will pass, I'll crank up the ABBA, light a cigarette, and think of the singing WB frog and other things that are on the ALWAYS FUNNY list (including Collin kicking his shoe into the gutter in St. Louis trying to get a rock out of the sole - I'm laughing as I write this). I will focus my energy on my father's directive for the day, which has been previously conveyed to me as "suck it up." He'll be doing the same.

Later, whenever one of the 700 guests (not even kidding) makes awkward conversation about how great my hair looks, I'll die a little inside. Why do I think they'll comment about my hair? Because my helmet will be so obviously hideous when we bump into one another after the gin prevents me from avoiding eye contact quickly enough and they'll feel compelled to say something about it.

I really might slap the shit out of my sister. And Debbie. I'd much rather spend my 29th birthday in the clink than at the reception.

Stay tuned, the wedding may be broadcast on COPS. I'll be the one in the brown helmet. And the rhinestone neclace. And the handcuffs. With a satisfied look on my face.

The Name Game

The results are in and, although Mark Paul Gosselar pulled in a close second, the Dog's name is Huxley. Although, in line with Summer's thoughts, his official name is Duke Huxley Orwell G, or D.H.O.G. Close enough, eh? Eh...I really am to close to Canada.

In professional news, I will be arguing my first appeal before the state Supreme Court later this month. And I fully expect to be completely eviscerated. At least I'm expecting it, that should keep the tears at bay until I can at least make it to the parking lot. I really hope my boss doesn't come to watch, I'll crumple under the pressure.

Nothing else to report. It's still cold. I'm currently jamming out to the Gin Blossoms in my pajamas on an uneventful Saturday night. I have no idea why I'm single...

An Ode to M.O.M.

So, M.O.M. has totally badgered me into posting something new. This is a post under duress. M.O.M. is my oldest college friend and I love her. She is the same girl that was convinced she never threw up from drinking, and repeatedly told us so, until about a couple months after I met her. I think it came after drinking some rootbeer barrels, shortly followed by cartwheels in the Tommyland Quad. Later, I recall sitting in a dorm room with M.O.M., and we were both so drunk we weren't able to walk the 30 yards to our dorm. Actually, I think I wasn't able to walk and she stayed because of that. There was lots of puking, althoug think that was only me, not M.O.M. Perhaps her theory of puking hadn't yet been disproven. I was so beyond drunk that I could only stare at the TV for 3 hours, comforted by M.O.M. and given lots of water by the resident gentlemen. Finally, relief set in and I passed out,laying on the cold, tiled floor, covered by a thin, dirty rug. M.O.M. laid next to me, and we dozed off watching a Better than Ezra video. It was sweet relief after praying, begging even, for death to release me from my misery. Previously, the evening's awfulness was compounded by the fact that M.O.M. and I were hostages in the dorm room, unable to venture into the single-sex dorm hallway for fear of being bounced out into the cold. Fucking catholic colleges. So, I was relegated to throwing up for hours in a trash can that was regularly rinsed out and returned to me by perhaps the nicest young men I had encountered in my young life. M.O.M. and I woke up, cold and hungover on the men's floor early that morning and decided to make a run for it. Still drunk, no doubt, sprinting down four flights of stairs in fear of the R.A., and future priest, condemning us to hell. Later, I was asked how I like the "movie" we'd watched. Apparently, the three hours I'd spent "watching" TV was the movie, Heat. Can I recall one moment of it? Nope? Could I 10 years ago, shortly after it happened? No. I only remember M.O.M. sticking out the night with me and then wanting to actually associate with me in public again. That's loyalty.

Another random event from that night that I recall. It was the first time anyone told me I was beautiful. Ever. I was 18. He was wasted. I was wasted. That's where it ended. It was weird. I tried to brush it off like it wasn't a big deal, as if I'd heard that all the time.

More random postings later. Next time, M.O.M., it'll might be something less flattering. One word: Foofer. Althought, inevitably, that would be tied to another cringe-worthy word: Doody. Actually, I'm pretty sure there are less flattering moments about myself. But I'm not a priest. And I made out with Ben.

D.O.G.

He's a really good dog. He's currently curled up at my feet on the rug. The cats have handled it better than expected. There have been a lot of poofy tails and a little hissing, but all in all, a success. No barking, just curiosity. He doesn't really seem to like treats, though, so I'm not sure how I'll bribe him into being extra good. Oh, and he's real smelly.

His name may yet change before week's end. In a text to Summer, I referred to him as D.O.G. She thought that meant Duke Orwell G(sorry, stalkers, can't let the last name fly). That's pretty cute, so perhaps he'll be named Orwell. What do you guys think? Orwell or Huxley? Vote on my poll. Please note that any votes for names 3 and 4 will not be considered in the final tally. However, you can vote more than once.

Merry Maids

So, I just spent the last 13 hours cleaning and unpacking. Yes, unpacking. After seven months, I decided I'd probably stay for awhile. OK, that's not really the reason. I'm getting ready for young Aldous Huxley. And, as part of his welcome, I've cleaned out my spare bedroom as a retreat for my cats. I've also washed every rug and every towel, in addition to every piece of clothing not in a box designated a smaller size than I'm currently wearing. Despite all of this, the dishes remain piled in the sink. I just couldn't bring myself to do them. The cats have adjusted well to the new space, after a little fuss about the new baby gate. They thought they were trapped in the room by the 3 foot high enclosure. Estella Claire actually tried to pull herself over the gate. I broke out the wet food and, without thinking, she flew over the gate. The others soon followed and everyone was happy. The cat tree has reappeared, as well, albeit slightly modified due to some missing hardware.

It remains a deep freeze here. It's at least -10F right now. However, I've adjusted to it to the point of running outside in a sweatshirt and sweatpants to take out the trash. I still wish it was a good 20 degrees warmer. Is that too much to ask?

Das ist alles. Guten Nacht.

Brave New World

I'm getting a dog!!! Yes, I've relinquished my Miss Crazy Cat Lady Midwest title and now will be vying for the Miss Crazy Animal Lady Magic City this spring.

The dog: 3 year old male Shih Tzu named Duke. He was a puppy mill victim. He even has a number tatooed on the inside of his ear! While at his former home, he was almost always in a kennel, except when it was time to breed or go to the bathroom. Apparently, last time he was let out to do his business, he ran away and was gone for over a month. He eventually wandered back home and, upon his arrival, was introduced to a new mate. When he refused to mate with the new dog, his owner demanded her husband dump him at the shelter. Very sad.

He's remarkably socialized for being a piece of equipment instead of a pet. He is very mellow, quiet, and sweet. I played with him for awhile tonight and he came to me, let me pet him and pick him up. I had them put a cat in the room with us and he wasn't overly interested in her. He'd sniff her and back up, but that was it.

Duke definitely perked up when he was allowed to be around two female dogs while I chatted with Bamboo, Shanogropher and the Humane Society staff. He was chasing tail like a Colorado State football player. Needless to say, he will be neutered before he comes home.

His name is going to change, depending on how attached he is to "Duke." If he's attached to Duke, he'll be named "Luke." If not, I'm thinking his name will be Aldous Huxley (Huxley for short). I've enjoyed my soma holiday so much I'd like to honor the Brave New World author. Of course, poor Disco Steve had a few name changes until we both settled on one, so it may be awhile until he has an established name.

Duke arrives home Monday or Tuesday. And, he'll stay so long as, after a few weeks, the cats have grown to love him. OK, that's unrealistic. He'll stay so long as the cats have grown to ignore him, and he them.

Weather update

It's still really fucking cold. Air temperature: -14F. Windchill: It doesn't fucking matter, it's fucking -14F.

Cold Enough For Ya?

Inevitably, that phrase will be uttered by some jackass at some point today.

It is currently -6F. With the windchill, it is -29F. Are you F-ing kidding me?

I'm in a skirt suit with a tank top underneath (suit not designed for a blouse). And a shitty, expensive wool jacket that is paper thin. And no gloves. And mismatched knee-high socks tucked into my knee-high boots.

I'm going to be angry if I have to plug in my car.

So it's been a few days.

What of it? Shanogropher and Summer have irritated me into updating my blog. There's not much to say. I'm still fat. Maybe even fatter than Oprah. I'm off the diet, hard-core. I had a bout of nasty bronchitis last 2 weeks (thanks, again, Bamboo) and haven't been to see the LAW in almost 2 weeks. Or is it over 2 weeks? I'm not really sure. I'm almost positive I won't be getting any money back. Screw them, it's worth the $200 to not see their ugly mugs three times per week. I am serious about getting back into it. I even bought veggies and string cheese (diet staples) last night. Along with some cupcakes...

What else, what else, what else... Miss Nermal Havisham had a vet appointment today to investigate her nasty butt smell. She tried to blame New Jersey, but I had her checked, nonetheless. The vet verified that she, indeed, has anal gland secretion issues and drained them. One of the glands was "impacted." I'm not sure what that means, but it doesn't sound good. This is the second opinion I've received on Miss H's smell issue, thought I'd take another crack at it (ha, i said crack when talking about a butt) in the new "city." Last diagnosis: "She just has a smelly ass." God love Dr. L and her straight-talkin' ways.

Love life. Nothing new to report except that, since my last post, even more days have lapsed since my last intimate encounter. Ed is in Cairo until the end of the month. That also has little significance, really, since I haven't seen him since June. He could be in Taipei or Towner, it wouldn't matter. There were discussions of him coming out here for a weekend. I'll see it when I believe it.

Speaking of Taipei, my mother has managed to book me on the longest flight plan ever on my return from Maui in March. Don't I sound like the spoiled little rich girl? Yes, and I'm owning it for right now. Anyway, it will take me 21 hours to travel from Maui back to the Magic City. Which brings me to Taipei: that would be a shorter flight. It's only taking me 13 hours to get to Maui. Why the switch? So I can fly with my sister and her tool of a fiance (we live in different cities) into Minneapolis. OK, after spending 13 hours with them on the way to Honolulu and 7 days in Hawaii, I think I'll have had my fill. Really.

Happy 2007, everyone! I spent my new year's in PJs with a raking couch and a snotty nose hanging out with Bamboo & Shanogropher. I may have been close to knock, knock, knockin' on death's door, but I am the Scattergories master.

OK, I'm done with my stream of conciousness.