Month: March 2002

Those motherfuckers at Yahoo have, well, go read this, and if you’ve got a Yahoo id, follow the instructions. I went and looked at my information and was THRILLED, let me tell you, to find my home address listed (though I guess you can’t really see the information in another person’s Yahoo profile). I also switched my email address to my hotmail email address. If you don’t have a crap email address, you ought to go sign up for one with hotmail or yahoo or any of those free email services that you can use if you place online orders or register for anything, to reduce the spam that comes in to your primary email.

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We were watching the end of Survivor last night (MAN, I can’t believe they voted that person off. Damn it!) and during the commercial break after the vote and before the scenes from next week’s show, Fred got the camera and went out to take a picture of the full moon

OH! I guess maybe that’s why the cats are acting like total freaks these past few days – not only is it heavily hormonal around here right now (ie, THAT time o’ the month), but it’s also a full moon. That always makes ’em act twice as crazy.

                                                        and as he opened the door, something went running away from the patio. He turned and told me he’d startled a skunk, who ran across the yard and hid under the shed. I came out to check it out, and as I was peering across the yard toward the shed, Fred pointed toward the fence and said "There’s something on the fence!" It was a cat, and we deduced that it was unlikely there’d have been both a cat and a skunk in the back yard at the same time, so probably what he’d thought was a skunk was more likely a second cat. We went back in (to find that we’d missed the damn previews) and Fred wandered off to take more pictures of the moon. We settled in to watch The Shield, which I taped Tuesday night, and about halfway through the show, I thought I heard the sound of a cat meowing. I paused the tape, and we listened. It appeared to be coming from outside, so we went to check it out.

It was the same two cats, and they ran halfway across the yard, then turned to watch us. There was a gray one, which we’ve seen in our yard before, and a long-haired tortoiseshell. The tortoiseshell was making those growling, hissing, I’m-in-heat-do-me sounds (I’ve never actually had a cat who was in heat, but I know the sounds of "do me, you bastard" in cat language, for some reason). We called and called to them – I don’t know why we thought they would come over to be petted, they obviously had more important things to do – and finally Fred walked toward them, and they jumped the fence into the neighboring yard to howl and hiss and have hot kitty sex.

I think they were attracted to our back yard because I keep a bowl of dog food on the patio. Last Fall, when we were briefly dog owners, I noticed that the birds liked to eat the dog food we left out there for the dog, so even after there was no dog to eat the food, I kept the dish filled for the birds.

Don’t look at me like that.

Well, apparently not only do the birds like it, but the neighborhood cats do, because I just filled up the bowl (I’ve switched to the cheapie dog food) Tuesday, and this morning it was mostly gone. Doing my part to nourish the neighborhood kitties, yes indeedy.

I was teasing Fred last night for not being the particularly complimentary type, and thus when I went to sleep, I dreamed that he said "Bessie, you’re almost as pretty as -" and then he compared me to someone famous, but I can’t remember who. When he woke me up to help give Spanky his medication, I told him about it, and then gave him a mock-dirty look.

"Well, it COULD have been a compliment!" he said teasingly. "For instance, if I said you were almost as pretty as Phyllis Diller, that would be one thing. But if I said you were almost as pretty as Cindy Crawford or Sean Young, that would be another!" And he smirked at me, the joke being that he LOATHES Cindy Crawford and Sean Young and thinks they’re the most hideous creatures to walk the face of the earth.

Bastard.

Friday Five:

1. If you could eat dinner with and “get to know” one famous person (living or dead), who would you choose? Okay, this is going to sound cheesy as hell, but y’all know I’m just about the nosiest person alive, right? With the caveat that he’d have to answer every question I asked truthfully and completely (it sounds like I’m implying he’d lie, doesn’t it? I swear, I’m not!), I’d want to dine with Jesus, so I could pump him for information about how everything truly happened and how he felt every step of the way. See, the thing is that the bible was written by men – it’s not like the hand of god came down and scribbled the whole thing personally, so how likely is it that the whole life, death, and resurrection of christ is correct in every detail? Not likely, I think.

(Close your email clients, because I don’t want to hear that I’m going to hell.)

Failing that, I’m not sure who I’d choose to have dinner with. I’d say Stephen King, but I think I’d just sit there and go "Heh. Heh. Where do you get your ideas? Heh. Heh. You write good books. Heh."

2. Has the death of a famous person ever had an effect on you? Who was it and how did you feel? Another cheesy answer coming up. I was really freaked out by Kurt Cobain’s death. Not because I thought he was a particular genius – I wasn’t much of a Nirvana fan, really – but because he was so young and had such a young child and wife, and to me (though it shouldn’t have been) it was a real surprise.

The thing is that I’ve been really lucky and never suffered from any type of depression more serious than a day or two of the blues. At my lowest, I’ve always known that things would eventually get better. When someone feels that life is too full of pain to go on, it confuses me, because I can’t really understand it. Which is to say, I understand THAT people feel that way, but I’ve never felt it myself, so I can’t relate.

Also, I was stunned by the death of Princess Diana, because it was so unexpected and I loved her so much when I was growing up. Hell, I actually HAD a Diana ‘do when I was a kid, and I spent the entire day watching the wedding on TV when she married Charles. It seemed like maybe her life was starting to come together for real when she died. I had no idea she’d even been in an accident until I came out to the dining room table and glanced at the cover of the Sunday paper. I gasped "Oh my god!", and Fred came running to see what was going on.

3. If you could BE a famous person for 24 hours, who would you choose? Someone with an awesome body and a great singing voice. Sara Evans. Sarah McLaughlan. Martina McBride. I’d say Madonna, but honestly? She scares the bejeezus out of me.

4. Do people ever tell you that you look like someone famous? Who? I’ve been told I resemble Rosie O’Donnell, thank you. Could be worse, could be Phyllis Diller, right? Really, though I’d much prefer to be told I strongly resemble some sex goddess like Michelle Pfeiffer, I’ve always thought Rosie was pretty cute, so I’m not complaining.

5. Have you ever met anyone famous? I met Stephen King when I was 14 or so – he was signing books at a theater in Lewiston where one of his movies (I want to say Cujo, but I don’t think that was it) was premiering, and I was absolutely tongue-tied. My mother had to step forward and tell him how to spell my name. I also saw him many years later after t he Rock Bottom Remainders played in Portland (and Dave Barry as well.

Other brushes with celebrity – I saw Tim Burton and Lisa Marie at the baggage claim in the LA airport the second time I flew out there to visit the (ex) in-laws. I recognized him and knew who he was (this was after Batman, but before Edward Scissorhands), but when I pointed him out to the in-laws, they hadn’t a clue.

I also saw Jean Smart with her kid at Disneyland during the same visit.

Hey, check out this cool picture of the moon Fred took yesterday morning:

Have a great weekend, and happy Easter (if you celebrate it), y’all!

 

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Jennifer Weiner, the author of Good in Bed (which I really liked) has a blog that I’m enjoying. Check it out.

This morning, I was about to eat breakfast, and since it was still rather cool outside I didn’t want the back door open while I was sitting at the table eating. So I shooed the cats inside and started to make my breakfast. They sat about looking sadly at me and then gazing out the window, then back at me. Since I’m not a heartless bitch (shaddup), I came up with a solution – I opened one of the windows in the library, took off the screen, and voila! Instant access to the back yard for the kitties. They milled about confusedly, sniffing out the window, looking at me, and then stepping out onto the window sill. Eventually, they figured it out and went out through the window and resumed their wanderings about the yard.

Five minutes later, I was eating breakfast, when I glanced up at the door, where Spanky was sitting and howling mournfully. "Momma!" he cried "Momma, I’ll be good! Let me in Momma, let me in!"

Obviously in the few minutes he’d been outside, it slipped his little pea brain how he’d gotten there. I had to go into the library, stick my head out the window and call to him. He turned and looked at me for a long moment and then immediately did a double-take – I swear to god, if he was a cartoon, his double-take would sound like "doink!" – and then ran over to the window as if he’d never seen it before, sniffing wildly. I went back to eating breakfast, and eventually figured out how to get back inside, because he’s sitting in the computer room doorway giving the vacuum cleaner dirty looks at the moment.

Have I mentioned that instead of chasing flies with a flyswatter, I use the vacuum cleaner attachment to suck them into the innards of the vacuum cleaner, where they probably die horrible, dusty, cat-hair-filled deaths? I’d try Shelley‘s cool hairspray-and-lighter method to fry them in mid-air, but I’m too afraid that I’d do something like burn the house down. And you KNOW that’s something I’d do, don’t you?

Hell, at least it’d give me a good journal entry.

Here’s a special something just for you, Nance::

This is why I buy the cheap comforters – because at least two cats spend all day long snoozing on the bed. And it gets so hair-matted after a few months despite regular vacuumings (that’s right, I vacuum my bed, you wanna make something of it?) that it’s easier to just buy a new one instead of having the old one dry-cleaned.

Oh, speaking of cats, last night as we were watching Greg the Bunny on TV, Fancypants swished into the living room and after getting some petting from Fred, settled in the middle of the floor, directly in front of me. He proceeded to groom and groom and groom. For many minutes he groomed, and then I noticed that he was spending a GREAT deal of time grooming his mid-section – IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN – with his legs kicked up in the air. He finally stopped and looked up at me with big, dark eyes and gave me a come-hither look.

Which is when I saw his little kitty penis pointing directly at me.

(Little Kitty Penis will be the name of my second novel)

"Agh! Get out of here!" I yelled, tossing a pillow at him. Rolling and flailing, he got to his feet and flounced out of the room.

Apparently Spring fever has hit him hard, the little perv.

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First off, if you messaged me last night on Yahoo Messenger and I didn’t respond, it’s because I’m an idiot and wasn’t sure how to – I clicked on "accept" and waited for a window to pop up, and none ever did – does that mean I was only being added to the buddy list (or whatever Yahoo calls it), or was there supposed to be a message window popping up? It’s a mystery. Also, I was talking to several people on AIM when I got kicked off and couldn’t get back on. God, it’s frustrating when that happens. Damn AOL. Damn them!

I was chatting with Miz Baldie last night before Fred hauled me off to bed (in a non-sexual "It’s getting late, Bessie!" way), and it occurred to me that I haven’t told y’all the story about how my parents found out about Fred.

Y’see, when I told my parents I was moving to Alabama, I told them I was moving because I’d gotten a job in Huntsville, which was a big, bad lie, and that with the help of my new supervisor at my fictional job, I’d found an apartment, conveniently leaving out the fact that someone else would be living there with us.

We moved down here at the beginning of August, settled in, and spoke to my parents each Sunday night (which we still do). I didn’t mention Fred to my parents, and neither did the spud. We went along this way until one Sunday in October. The spud was talking to my mother, and said "Fred made pancakes this morning."

"…."

"Fred."

"…."

"Our roommate."

Well, the jig was up, although my parents didn’t know for sure (though they suspected) that Fred and I were a couple, but since my mother never asked me point-blank "Are you and Fred a COUPLE?", I never offered up the information.

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Today, we went to the grocery store (how is it that in the three days since Fred got groceries, we’ve got a long enough list to fill an entire sheet of paper?), Staples (the spud needed construction paper), Blockbuster to return movies, Movie Gallery to rent movies (Blockbuster only lets you keep the new movies for 2 days; Movie Gallery lets you keep ’em for 5 – therefore, I rent the new stuff at Movie Gallery on Tuesday to watch over the weekend, and Fred rents older movies for he and the spud to watch, because Blockbuster lets you keep the old movies for 5 days), home to put the groceries away and pee (I swear to god, I have to pee every 5 minutes it seems like), and then to the post office to mail some things for Fred and check the PO Box.

My day got definitely brighter (hey, YOU try walking for an hour in spitting rain that turns to pounding rain and see how cheery YOU feel, buster) when I checked the PO Box and saw the yellow card that meant there was a package waiting for me.

I love the real mail, you know.

Anyway, this package was from my TMS Secret Pal – we’ve got a monthly swap going on, and this month’s assignment was to send your secret pal something that shows how you celebrate Spring or Easter. I sent a miniature rose plant and ladybugs to Suzy (read about it here, and admire Suzy’s kickin’ new redesign while you’re at it), since really the only way we celebrate Spring ’round here is to watch the flowers bloom and the trees bud.

And the awesome Joley sent me this (click on the picture to see the full-sized version):

along with a card telling me what each thing was for. The green bottle’s got river water to rinse jewelry or stones in, the long plastic bag has Nag Champa incense in it, a crystal candle holder (the white candle’s standing in it), a white candle (for purification), sage (a useful tool in cleansing energy and clearing space), stones (rose quartz (for love), tigereye (for mental grounding and protection), quartz crystal (for physical grounding) and gypsum (for the release of negative energy)), and a lemonade candle and daffodil potpourri tarts, because she’s under the impression that I like the color yellow and candles. I wonder where she got that idea? There was also a bite-sized Hershey’s Mr. Goodbar in and amongst the plastic bags that were used for padding in the box, and LET ME TELL YOU, that little piece o’ chocolate sure did hit the spot and make the PMS monster happy for a little while.

Unfortunately, the PMS monster never stays happy for long and started screaming for Honey Nut Cheerios and blueberry bagels, the bastard. (Processed carbs make the PMS monster happy, I’ve noticed)

The other day when I went and checked the PO Box, speaking of nice surprises, I found a small package that reader Jennifer had sent. Inside were pens from doctor’s offices!

Two Xenical pens (You know Xenical – the diet drug that has "anal leakage" as a side effect!), one Viagra pen, and there was one other that the spud stole right out from underneath me. Thank you so much, Jennifer – I love ’em, and I love the way they write!

What else did I mean to mention in here today? My mind is blank…

Oh yeah! I finally got off my butt and downloaded AOL Instant Messenger (did I spell that right? It doesn’t look right), and after much struggling, came up with SnarkyBeotch as a user name. I’ll try to remember to turn it off when I’m not online, but I’m a tad flighty, so I can’t promise anything. I also downloaded Yahoo Messenger while I was at it, and my user name for that is RobynAnderson33. Message me and we’ll be chatting fools together.

 

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So, I’m doing March’s collab, which is to type anything that comes into your mind for 7 minutes.

I thought about just leaving this entire entry blank, with "Time’s up" at the bottom. Hee – I slay me!

I took the spud to Sam’s today, and I’m telling you, old people are going to be the death of me. Specifically, old people who BLOCK THE FUCKING AISLES with their carts. I sighed and rolled my eyes so often that I almost blacked out with the effort of it. What the hell is up with people BLOCKING THE FUCKING AISLES with their carts? Personally, I make a point of moving my cart to the side so that people can GET THE FUCK AROUND ME. But then, I’m not a rude idiot.

Oh wait – yes I am.

Which reminds me, speaking of rude idiots, I was at the grocery store last week after picking up an emergency 12-pack of Diet Coke, and as I was headed for my Jeep, I saw a woman come out, a bagger pushing her cart full of bags. She opened her trunk and got into the driver’s seat, waited for the bagger to put her groceries in the trunk, and then drove off.

In MY world, we always help the bagger with the bags, it just seems polite. Is it just me? (That’s a rhetorical question)

Nance got a new car over the weekend, the lucky bitch, a sweet little Dodge Intrepid. *I* want a car. Think she’ll trade her car for my SUV? 🙂

Damn. Two minutes left to go, and my mind is blank.

Fred cleared out one of the front flower beds this weekend, hurting his shoulder in the process, but it was worth (to me) the pain, since the bed is now cleaned out and can be filled with petunias and whatever else strikes my fancy. We want to fill the other front flowerbed with rose bushes, but Fred’s father and stepmother are of the opinion that it’d look funny. I don’t care if it looks funny to other people, personally, because nothing is as boring to me as plain green bushes in front of your house. Snore. Besides, I really like rose bushes.

Um. Blank mind, blank mind.

Time’s up.

This was an entry for March’s WordGoddess Collaboration. The topic: Seven minutes.

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Upon looking at my stats this morning, I discovered that someone found my page by searching on "Ass Epil Stop Citrus". You’ve gotta wonder what exactly they were looking for.

Another someone (or perhaps even the same someone) found my page by searching on "Inserting tampons, pictures of." Okay. Um, I don’t think anyone would want to see that lest they be blinded by the horror.

Man. I think I’m going to smack Fancypants. He keeps letting out his whiny, high-pitched meow and goes prancing back and forth giving me mournful looks until I open the back door. Of course, it’s 25 FUCKING degrees out, which is too cold for his fancy ass, so he sits on the couch across the room from the back door and stares out the door. And when I get cold and shut the door, he starts again with the damn meowing and prancing. Bastard.

So, speaking of cats, I walked into the bathroom yesterday morning and saw Spanky squatting on the rug that sits in front of the shower as if he were trying to pee. This came as a surprise to me, because he’s usually such a Good Boy.

"What the fuck!" I bellowed, and swatted at him with a towel. He went running, and I gathered up that rug and the one that sat in front of the tub, put them in the washer, and thought no more about it.

Last night as we were watching The Shield (which I’d taped Tuesday night), we heard the sounds of one of the cats messing around with the plastic Target bag we left on the library floor. Fred glanced over and said that it was Spanky. A light went on in my head.

"Could you check and see if he peed on the bag?" I asked. Fred went and looked and said that there were a couple of drops of cat pee on the bag.

Cat pee, by the way, is the vilest-smelling stuff on this planet.

"I think he’s got a urinary tract infection," I said. I pointed out the evidence – the peeing on the bathroom rug, the peeing on the bag, and the remembrance that someone had peed on yet another plastic bag (shaddup, we like to leave the bags on the floor for the cats to play on) Monday or Tuesday, when we’d assumed Tubby was the rat-bastard who’d done it.

We discussed calling the vet’s office first thing this morning, I pointed out that there was no way I was ever going to get Spanky in the cat carrier, and then I started thinking about what it feels like to have a urinary tract infection, and the fact that he’d no doubt been suffering from it for at least a few days, and felt pretty bad for him. Which is when I made the suggestion that we cart his ass to the Animal Emergency Room in Huntsville.

That’s right – one of the really cool things about Huntsville is that there’s an animal ER which is open every night from 6 pm to 8 am.

Fred hemmed and hawed and called to see if they’d prescribe medicine for Spanky without seeing him (they wouldn’t), and how busy they were (not very), and with a little pushing from me, he reluctantly agreed.

That’s twice in one week we actually went OUT of the house after dark. I believe that’s a sign of the Apocalypse. You have been warned.

At 7:40 or so, we left the house with Spanky trying to figure out what was going on (I was licking Daddy’s cereal bowl, and he GRABBED me and put me in this box. I don’t like this box. Hate the box….. I’ve always been in this box. My entire life, this box. I’ve never been anywhere else. It’s a nice box.). Unlike Miz Poo’s incessant howling whenever she’s in the carrier, Spanky only put forth a few tentative meows during the trip.

We got to the ER at almost exactly 8. There were only a few people ahead of us, so we sat in the waiting room. I filled out the paperwork (and forged Fred’s signature, as I am prone to do), and we waited. After a few minutes, someone came to the door and rang the buzzer (you have to be buzzed inside, because the ER is in a pretty bad neighborhood). Someone who worked there let him in, and he stepped inside with an empty carrier.

"I’m here for the duck," he pronounced.

I looked at Fred, who had a shit-eating smirk on his face, and I got a sudden image of a duck wearing sneakers (like the one that was born with no feet – or was it a goose?) plodding around quacking "AFLAC. AFLAC.", like in those annoying commercials.

As the duck man was talking to another woman who worked there (I’m a tad fuzzy on what exactly the job titles were), a man holding a dog wrapped in a towel banged on the door. We later found out (Fred asked the vet) that the dog had been attacked by a pack of dogs and, as the guy put it, "Ripped open." By the time we left, the dog still hadn’t stabilized, and they didn’t know if he was going to make it. Poor dog.

Anyway, they eventually brought us back to an exam room, where they took Spanky’s vitals (he weighs 10 pounds), and we sat and waited for the vet, listening for details as the duck guy talked to one of the vets (we couldn’t really hear anything). Around 9, the vet came in and checked Spanky over, then recommended an x-ray to make sure he didn’t have any kidney stones (Fred was too afraid he’d look like a cheap bastard to say no. Hee!). They took him away, did the x-rays, and (no surprise) he had no stones. We got to see the x-rays, though, and it was cool to see all his internal organs, his cat food-filled stomach, and his intestines, packed full (as the vet said) of gas and stool.

That’s our boy.

They gave him a shot, and gave us medicine to give him twice a day which Fred had a hell of a time getting down his throat this morning, and we were on our way home by 9:30.

At 7:37 this morning, someone from his vet’s office called to see how he was doing. What’s up with calling someone that early? Didn’t anyone’s mother teach them not to call before 9 at the earliest (and preferably 10)? Hmph.

Friday Five:

1. What is your favorite time of year? It used to be spring, but as I’ve lost weight, I’m feeling cold more than I used to, and I’m very eager for summer to get its hot self here.

2. What is it about your favorite season that, well, makes it your favorite season? The heat. And the flowers. And being able to leave the back door open all the time so the cats can go out back and won’t bug me to open the door for them. I’m hoping to talk Fred into installing a cat door with a flap in one of the windows so I don’t have to deal with flies coming in by the droves.

3. What is your least favorite time of year? Winter. Brrr. Yeah, I know you people who get assloads of snow are rolling your eyes at me, but since I moved to Alabama, I’ve become a big wimp about the cold.

4. Do you do anything to celebrate or recognize the changing of seasons? Not a damn thing.

5. What’s your favorite thing to do outside? I’m not much of an outdoors person, but I like doing the occasional puttering around outside, planting stuff, and sitting in the sun and watching the cats chase bugs and each other across the lawn. This weekend, we’re going to go to Monte Sano state park, eat lunch, and do a little hiking. At my suggestion! Will wonders never cease?

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So, I got a little Linens-N-Things sales catalog in the mail yesterday, and I looked through it to see if there was anything the slightest bit interesting, and I saw that they had on sale for $24.99, "Silk Rose Satin-Back Pillows." And there was a picture of pillows, with silk roses attached to the front.

That’s just wrong on so many levels, y’all. First off, who wants to lay their head on a bunch of scratchy, uncomfortable silk roses? Who could nap on a pillow like that? Yes, I hear you, you’re saying that they’re not to actually USE, that they’re just for decoration, and to prettify the living room and all, but give me a break. I hate the idea of pillows that are only to look at and not to lay your head upon and snore upon and possibly drool upon. That’s what pillows are for, and you’ll never convince me otherwise.

Of course, the other problem is that with silk roses attached to pillows, one fat-ass cat or another would take it upon themself to eat a rose or two, make it halfway across the room, and yark them back up in the middle of the floor, in exactly the right spot so that someone walking across the room would step directly into the mess, then do an "Ew, ick, GROSS!" dance and have to clean up the ground-in mess.

Some reader unsubscribed from the notify list yesterday, saying You’re right, endlessly babbling about TV shows is boring. I mean, either I’m interested in these shows and have watched them myself, or I’m not and, in that case, I don’t give a damn.

Well, really, what am I supposed to write about, when all I do is watch TV, exercise, clean the house, and play with the cats? Her endlessly fascinating life? Like always, what I write about goes in cycles – TV, exercise, house cleaning, cats, cats, cats, and back to the beginning. If you want social commentary, tune into O’Reilly, people. I write about my life because my life revolves around me and I’m a self-centered bitch. Durr. Anyone who’s read more than two entries should have been able to figure that one out.

And if you unsubscribe from the notify list? A reason for the unsubscription is neither necessary, required, nor desired. Thanks so much.

Any of y’all have a Nokia 3200 series cellphone, and if you do, do you know whether it’s possible to block calls from people who are blocking their number from showing up on your caller id? And failing that, does anyone know where I can find an online instruction guide for my Nokia 3200 series phone? Google isn’t helping much, and any help will be greatly appreciated, because the telemarketers are driving me batshit. (Note: I’ve got it, no more help needed. Obviously I’m too dumb to check, oh, the Nokia site! Duhhh)

I love me some Survivor, yes I do. Y’all notice how whenever anyone wants Sean to move his ass, he starts screaming "slavery"? And Rob? What an ass. It’s rather funny how the tribes turned out – a bunch of girls and an old man on one, and a bunch of guys (including the obnoxious and annoying Sean and Rob) on the other. I’m thinking that Gabriel wasn’t terribly impressed by Sean, and I’m also thinking he’s not the only one.

This entry helpfully co-written by Miz Poo:

 

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Luckily, we have a steam cleaner, which you can use to suck up such puddles. I ended up getting close to a gallon of water off the floor. And it was a nasty brown color, I’m sure from the dirtiness of the floor.

What can I say? I hate mopping!

I watched The Osbournes again last night, after kicking Fred off to bed in mid-sentence, practically. I’m continuing to love that show, but when Ozzy and Sharon were on the radio show talking about Ozzy taking Viagra? Um, EW. I don’t want to have to think about Ozzy having a boner, thankyouverymuch.

And I’m sure that Sharon’s freakout about Kelly’s tattoo was because she’s afraid it’s only the beginning, and by the age of 22, she’ll have ’em all over the place like Ozzy, but I have to say that the tattoo she did get (a small heart on her hip) was pretty cute.

If I got a tattoo, it’d be a smiley face on my hip.

I made Fred watch the first episode of The Shield with me ("SIT your ass down and watch for ten minutes, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to watch the rest." He watched the rest), and he liked it so much he actually wants to watch the second episode, which came on at 9 and I taped. It’s rare that a show can surprise us as thoroughly as the end of the first episode did (we both thought that the whole season was going to center around the guy who played Kellerman on Homicide getting the goods on Mackey), and on the rare occasion that happens, it means the show’s always worth another look.

And Michael Chiklis? Oh, BAYBEE! He ain’t The Commish no more, that’s for sure.

Y’all, don’t forget – Survivor‘s on tonight, and according to the commercial I saw earlier, we do NOT want to miss the first ten minutes!

I don’t know how much I like having Survivor on Wednesdays instead of Thursdays – it just doesn’t seem right. It makes the first part of the week go by really fast, but the second part go by really slow, if that makes any sense at all. At least it’ll be a good TV night, with Survivor followed by The Amazing Race. And Felicity to tape and watch later!

Does life get any better? I think not.

 

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Happy, happy birthday to my sister Debbie, who turned 32 (I had to take a minute to do the math) today! The spud and I called and left a very off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday to youuuuuuu" on her voicemail.

I’m a total space cadet today. I was prescribed Antivert for my dizziness, and since one of the side effects of it is drowsiness, I put off taking the first dose ’til last night at 9. By the time I was done watching episodes 1 & 2 of The Amazing Race, I was beyond drowsy. I slept about an hour later than usual this morning, and then had to force myself to get out of bed and go work out. All day long, I’ve been sleepy, and I ended up taking an hour-long nap on the couch, though I never really dozed off. And I’m still spacey.

I’m starting to think that the dizziness – since I only suffer from it when laying down or sitting up, and then only for about ten seconds – is the lesser of the two evils.

The Amazing Race was pretty damn good. I didn’t take an instant dislike to any team in particular, except for maybe Wil and Tara. I like Paige and Blake, the brother and sister from Texas, and the Gutsy Grannies, of course. Ya GOTTA love the Gutsy Grannies, especially the fact that they’ve made it to show #3, when they were positive they’d be disqualified at the end of shows #1 and #2.

I have no idea who I’m going to end up liking the most – I know that at this point during the first Amazing Race, I liked Team Guido, so that tells you something right there.

After telling me over and over that she loves and wants Tubby, Nance tells me this morning that she’s changed her mind. Just ’cause he has the nasty habit of peeing on clothes and towels if we leave them on the floor. Damn! I was about ready to box his ass off and send him off to her, where he could sit in the corner of her kitchen on his back and make his annoying little "I’m starving to death. Meh. STARVING, I’m STARVING. Meh." noises.

Speaking of our weird-ass cats, Miz Poo has started playing a new game with Fred. If there’s a plastic bag on the floor of the library, she’ll lay on it until Fred comes along and starts dragging her around. She’d let him do it all night long if her portly ass didn’t keep sliding off the bag. Here‘s the evidence, in the form of a movie.

I think I’m going to drag my sleepy ass off to the living room and read, to get away from Himself and his annoying, loud-ass game.

See you tomorrow!

 

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Go read about my Saturday night trip to the emergency room in the diet journal. (So many of you read both journals that I didn’t want to repeat the whole story in this journal)

On the cover of the most recent US Weekly: EXCLUSIVE – Meg’s In Love. After a tough divorce and the Russell Crowe mess, Meg Ryan falls hard for a younger man.

Okay, you know what? I DON’T BELIEVE you, US! You said it was love when she was with Anthony Edwards! You swore it was true love when she was married to Dennis Quaid! You promised that she was in big, bad love with Russell Crowe! Now you’re saying she’s fallen hard for a younger man? LIARS. You’ve burned me too many times, I’m just going put my hands over my eyes and hum a happy tune.

Wait. Is that Craig Bierko? CRAIG BIERKO AIN’T NO YOUNGER MAN. Page 38…

Oh. My. God. Call the men in the white coats. Meg Ryan is dating someone three years younger! For the love of god, what is this world coming to?!

Jeezus. She’s 40 years old and dating a 37 year-old. Since when the hell is that really "younger"? I mean, technically, yes, but by all the rules of Hollywood, where Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas-Die-Bitch-Die has to change the diaper of the child she had with the elderly Michael Douglas and then turn around and change the diaper Michael’s wearing, this is just not NEWSWORTHY. Give me a motherfucking break. I was hoping to see that Meg was the reason Britney and Justin broke up (but did they? They’re denying it, so it must be true). I’d like to see a nice Macaulay Culkin/ Meg Ryan pairing – THAT would be a reason for blaring the "younger man" thing, not freakin’ 3-years-younger Craig Bierko.

Obviously, I need to be the managing editor at US.

Meg Ryan sure does have a gummy smile, doesn’t she?

Oh, and while I’m bitching about Hollywood, I’ll mention that Fred and I watched Joy Ride last week. Steve Zahn just cracked me up, and the movie wasn’t bad, though it dragged a little, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t like Leelee Sobieski. Something about her face or voice annoys the shit out of me. I want to like her, really I do, but I can’t. I hate her!

I finally got around to watching the ER I taped last week. It was a rerun, but it happened to be one of the few I hadn’t already seen – the one where Luka and Abby break up, and Benton finds out that Carla’s been killed in a car accident.

Luka – whom I loved and adored after he did that entire Hamlet monologue in Croatian last week, yeah baby – pissed me off when he told Abby to stop being a bitch because "You’re not that pretty and you’re not that special." Damn, why she didn’t just melt into his arms is beyond me. I think she’s that pretty, personally, and I’d like to kick Luka’s ass for saying such a thing.

I was reminded again how very much I don’t miss Benton in the slightest little bit. He was the dullest character on any show I’ve ever seen. If he ever exhibited the slightest spark of personality, I managed to miss it – and I’ve seen almost every single episode. I couldn’t stand his deadpan, blank-faced delivery, and was happy to fast-forward past his scenes last night.

Good riddance to boring characters, I say.

 

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