M. Doughty is not M. Doughty

Questions:

1. WHY AM I SO HOT IN THE MORNING? is it something to do with biology? Do I need hormone therapy? Am I already my mom or something? Christ. I have to go into the basement every morning to put on my crusty ol' makeup, because the rest of the house is on fire.

2. Is it pretentious to reference music lyrics around people who obviously don't know what you're talking about, and then laugh to yourself and refuse to explain what you were referring to? Yeah, I thought so.

3. Do you think when I say things like "I'm taking an extra-long lunch today to drop off some paperwork at XXXX office," and the people I work with are all "TAKE AS MUCH TIME AS YOU NEED!! REALLY!!!!," that this means they consider me useless? Is it wrong to keep my internal fingers crossed a little bit that this might indeed be the case, so there are no expectations of me? So, in their eyes, I can only constantly improve?

4. I was going to ask a question about Stevie Nicks here, but then I changed my mind. It was embarrassing.

5. I love the question "are you gonna blog about this?" Cause the answer is: yeah, maybe.

6. Has anyone heard anything from Gnarls Barkley yet? Cee-Lo and whatshisname have a website up, obviously not working on my computer.

Miscellaneous:

1. MTV's "Made" report, 6/29/05: Last night was about a Jewish kid named Nile. He was from Minneapolis, and he wanted to learn how to freestyle. His two name selections for rap-batt'ling were Jew Unit and Dr. Dreidel, both of which I felt were relatively awesome. Unfortunately, the final decision by his rap sensei was "Blizzard." Said kid was son of the guy who penned disco-hit "Funkytown." Conclusion after watching show: Jewish dads are outstanding, and although I love my biodad, there is always more room for Dad-love in my heart. If you have a Jewish dad you are willing to let me borrow, write please. "Jewish Dads- always telling it like it is!" -- Nabob

2. Next week, me and my miscreant DC posse (read: lone person legally bound to/with) are heading to Chi-town. So, watch the fuck out Wicker Park, and uh, hi.

When I was still in the state university system, I made a promise to my very Catholic (full disclosure, Ms. Virgin Mary: I am not Catholic) godparents son (which makes him: my godbrother?) that should we reach forty, we would marry. Not because we were afraid of being old and alone, our promise was very different than what the rest of you made with YOUR godbrothers, internet (pervs! rlgs scndl!) Yes, yes, said arranged marriage was not so much horsey-teethed JR in "Best Friends Wedding," instead, much more "YOU REALIZE WE WILL NEVER BE GAINFULLY EMPLOYED, okay, so the first of us to get a job wins and has to take care of the other one." Basically, panic. We were relying on the fact that by the age of 40, the best we could expect between the two of us is: at least one of us would some sort of "job."

So, being exceptionally responsible and forward-thinking youngins' (albeit: the laziest and least scholastically inclined responsible and forward-thinking youngins' in the whole of the continental U.S.) we had a pact. A pact based on health insurance.

This all happened months before I met my now-husband, who was playing cards in a dorm room and wearing a baseball hat, backwards. Obviously, the hat alone made me swoon and here I am 45 years later with a mortgage and a fish and weekend plans that include Home Depot and matinees.

Anyways, Windbag City. Matt is now getting his ass all married up in an Illinois museum, and not to me. Fair enough, esp. since I broke that whole arrangement to shit already anyways. He ALSO has a job and is not yet forty, so to him I say: ACES! Bring on the open bar and the white tulle. I am not getting a real vacation this year, unlike past years where I have trolloped around the world, so Chicago - expectations. Plan to meet them.

Also in Chicago, I will be drinking with my mom, and going to the zoo.

The End.