Month: March 2000

Be My Downfall by Del Amitri (that’s the song whose lyrics I’ve been quoting in the titlebar of my entries lately, if you were wondering), I did something really crazy and actually looked at the file options on Wave Player, and realized I could not only set a playlist but set it to play randomly. D’oh! Don’t I feel like a dumbass. That’s what I get for being a lazy-ass bitchypoo. Are bras the most torturous devices on the face of the earth, or what? I wish I was flat-chested and could go without altogether, but I always feel incredibly exposed any time I even try. Fred will tell you – I won’t even make a run to the McDonald’s drive-thru without a bra. However, there comes a certain moment every month wherein I cannot stand to be bound by the hideous thing one instant longer, and so I quietly slip my bra off, and hide it in a desk drawer. As long as I’m sitting at my desk, I feel safe. If I have to run out on an errand, I put it back on, then take it off once I’m back at my desk. I generally do this two or three days every month, then go back to full-time support once my PMS bloat has passed. Fred accuses me of always blaming everything on my menstrual cycle. When the cats act crazy, I suggest it’s due to the estrogen floating in the air, when I’m in a bad mood, I claim my period is only days away, and when it rains outside, I swear god hates it when I’m on the rag. What can I say? The sooner he realizes that the world revolves around my menstrual cycle and I, the better off he’ll be. Don’tcha think? ]]>

Here at casa bitchypoo, we believe in extremely lazy Sundays. We’re talking lazy to the point of coma. For instance, this morning I slept until well past seven, lounged in the bed and gave the kitten her dose of morning love, discussed with her the mud between her toes, and eventually rolled out of bed to shower and dress. After Fred, the spud and I ate our usual Sunday morning breakfast of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon, we each retired to our corners, the spud to watch TV, Fred to pretend to work, and I to watch one of the movies I’d rented from Hollywood Videos. To my dismay, the tape I put in the VCR, although it’s label said it was Trick, was actually The David Cassidy Story. Not quite what I’d expected, but I watched it anyway. It was cheesy and pretty predictable, but not a bad movie for a lazy Sunday morning. Then I read a bit, cleaned out the pantry – we have wire shelves in the pantry, and I finally convinced Fred to buy lucite to put over the wire so cans and bottles won’t fall all over the place – and ate lunch. I read some more, and while Fred and the spud watched a movie, I napped and dreamt that helmet-shaped bugs the size of my hand were gathering around me on the bed. One of them began nibbling on my hand, and I woke to find the kitten licking me, with love in her eyes. I dozed for another ten minutes, then forced myself to get up out of the bed so I’d have perhaps the slightest chance to get to sleep tonight, instead of laying awake until midnight. I do not have a busy life, and I know that this comes as no shock to you. I’ve never been the sort of gal to want a busy life, and despite the non-business of my life, I am rarely bored. I am able to entertain myself, and am comfortable enough to sit in long, thoughtful silences alone. The thought of a hectic lifestyle has never appealed to me, and truth be told if I had to, I would live in abject poverty if it meant that I could have time to sit back and relax, to think, to stare off into space and let my mind wander. Don’t misunderstand me – if I had to, I would rise to the occasion. If, god forbid, something happened to Fred and the spud and I were left alone, I would work, and I would work hard, to support us. If something happened and Fred couldn’t work, I would. But I like my life the way it is right now, and I’m fully aware of how incredibly lucky I am that I do. Even with the things in my life that annoy me during the week, I’m lucky to have the home life I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. ]]>

Spring has definitely hit the Huntsville area – the daffodils are in bloom, waving at me from nearly every yard I pass on the way to work. I love daffodils. Hands down, they’re my favorite flower. I don’t mean the fancy ones, with the double trumpet, or the ones with one color on the inside and another on the outside. I prefer the simple, non-fancy, straightforward kind.

Of course, now that I’ve put that picture up, y’all are going to email me, saying "Are you kidding, that’s the fanciest kind of daffodil out there!"

Over the years, yellow has become my favorite color. And I don’t like yellows that are too gold; I prefer clean, pure yellows, like the daffodil above. I wouldn’t want a whole house with yellow walls or even my bedroom or living room painted yellow. The downstairs bathroom – my bathroom – has yellow touches. Yellow towels, a yellow cup by the sink, and eventually there will be pictures on the wall with splashes of yellow. Little glimpses of yellow always lift my spirit. Yellow is a color best seen in small doses. My exception to this belief is that, more than anything, I want a yellow vehicle. I wanted a white Camry so that I could have it painted yellow. I’d be so happy driving around in a yellow car – maybe I can convince Fred to let me have the Jeep painted yellow, ya think?

It was a short, relaxing day at work.

I left work at noon, because… well, because I can, basically. And since I was swinging by Hollywood Video to pick up movies for Fred and the spud, I also stopped by Burger King to pick up lunch. Now, I worked the drive-thru at McDonald’s for three years, as I believe I’ve previously mentioned. Always, in those three years, I followed a very simple procedure: 1. Take the money, give change. 2. Hand over the drinks. 3. Hand over the food. 4. "Thank you! Have a nice day!" Simple, right? Well, the bitch at Burger King handed over my food, grunted, and slammed the door shut while I was in the middle of a perky "Thank you!"

See? I always say "Thank you" to the freaking servers at fast food places. Yet all I get in return is rudeness.

After Burger King, I went to rent movies at Hollywood Video, and lord what a production. I managed to get in line behind a woman who had picked the empty boxes off the shelf and taken them up to the counter to rent them. This is not how things are done at Hollywood. At Hollywood, you take the actual movie – which is located behind the empty box – to the counter, and then the one lonely cashier who’s working the cash register doesn’t feel compelled to run all over the store getting the actual movies off the shelf so the idiot who brought up the empty boxes can just stand there like the idiot she is.

After the one and only cashier who was working did run all over the store, the idiot asked her about each and every single movie she was renting. "Stigmata…is that good? The Astronaut’s Wife… is that good?", and so on. Interestingly, the cashier claimed that all the movies she’d seen were "Excellent!", and the ones she hadn’t seen, she said she’s "heard" were really good. I’m going to guess Hollywood employees aren’t allowed to say anything like "God NO,The Astronaut’s Wife sucked so badly I wanted to gouge my eyes out!"

Just a guess.

I believe I mentioned the other night that Fred bought a digital camera when he purchased my laptop. The cool thing about this digital cam is that we can make cute little movies. Tonight, for your viewing pleasure, I present to you – as filmed by Fred – Little Kitty, starring Scrappy and Tubby. If you have any trouble viewing it, please let me know.

I’ll leave you with this:

Don’t you hate it when you need to make notes to yourself so you’ll remember what you wanted to write about in your journal, but every single light you hit turns green as soon as you get to it, so you have to fish a post-it out of your purse, then fish a pen off the bottom of your purse – then eat the raisinette stuck to the pen – and put the post-it on your steering wheel and jot notes to yourself while you’re driving down a busy street filled with lunchtime traffic? —–

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