Month: September 2002

the poll, Fred’s ego swelled to such a size that his big skull couldn’t contain it, and exploded all over the place. We scooped up most of the brain matter and spackled it all back in place, but I think Tubby must have eaten the part of the brain responsible for motor functions, because Fred’s been shuffling around like Ozzy for most of the weekend. I should have suspected something when I noticed Tubby was licking his lips (yes, cats have lips), but Tubby does that a lot – especially when he’s just eaten a bug or a dust bunny – so I didn’t really think about it. That damn Tubby. You have to keep your eye on him all the time. * * * A snippet of a conversation Fred and I had while laying on the bed yesterday after dinner: Fred (as if narrating a book): “She was a bitter-butted woman….” Robyn: “No, even better! A bitter butted bitch!” Pause. “That would be a good url. BitterButtedBitch.com.” * * * Another snippet: Fred: “I haven’t written a funny entry in a while. Nothing funny has happened to me.” He turned and looked at me expectantly. I felt pressured to perform a tap dance or say something funny. Under the pressure, I buckled and responded the only way I could. I farted. * * * You know what sucks? Even if you’ve washed every single piece of clothing in the house, just by the fact that you’re wearing clothes while you’re doing the laundry means that there’s ALREADY more laundry to be done. Those nudists have the right idea. No doubt the whole idea of nudism was thought up by a woman who was sick of getting the laundry done only to find out that the dirty-clothes basket was half-full again. * * * I had way too much fun with the camera’s self-timer function this morning. After taking a bunch of pictures of Fred last week and having them come out really well, it occurred to me that I didn’t really have any decent ones of myself. So after I showered, I blew my hair out straight (straight-ish, anyway), put on some makeup, and starting taking pictures. After many inquisitive squawks from Miz Poo, I snatched her up for a picture. Naturally, she wasn’t looking anywhere in the direction of the camera. I took an incredible amount of pictures of myself in the green shirt before switching over to the yellow, flashing the camera along the way… Due to the fact that that’s a very sheer bra I’m wearing, I had to do a bit of cropping. I don’t think I want my nipples all over the internet, thankyouverymuch. These two were, in my opinion, the best of the lot. It doesn’t surprise me that I look better in yellow, even though it was a cheap $10 shirt from Target that was not, despite appearances, bursting at the seams because of my boobs. Those gaps are there whether the shirt’s being worn or not. Ah, fun with the camera. What did you do with YOUR morning?]]>

Or possibly he’ll flop himself down like a ragdoll on the couch, where he’ll snooze all day long: With that one, you just never know. (I’ve probably used that top picture before, but pretend you’ve never seen it) * * * I was on the phone with Fred yesterday, having quickly gotten out of the shower to answer the phone. I think he has a camera hidden somewhere in the bathroom, and when I’m in the shower, an alarm goes off and tells him to call me immediately. As we talked, I ran a comb through my hair. “Blah de blah blah,” Fred said. “Blah de?” I replied. “Blah.” “Oh. Hang on, I’m switching ears,” I said, and transferred the phone from my right ear to my left, so that I could comb the right side of my hair. Follow? “Okay,” I said. There were a few moments of silence. “Are you there?” Fred asked. “Yeah, why?” I said. “Because it got all quiet. I had been hearing music in the background, but suddenly didn’t hear anything.” “Well, that’s because I switched ears,” I pointed out reasonably. “Oh, right,” he said. There were a few more moments of silence before he spoke again. I finished combing my hair and headed into the bedroom. “Plus,” he said with great seriousness, “I’m really hungry.” Confused, I stopped my movement across the room. I thought back over the past few sentences and wondered if something had gone over my head. “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked curiously. A pause, and then he started giggling. “I don’t know why I put it like that…” We laughed about that for quite a little while, like the goofballs we are. I’m usually the one who does dorky, doofy things like that, so when someone else does, it’s a refreshing change. * * * Last night after Fred went to bed (which is when things really get lively around here, yessir), I decided to take a bath. Oh, don’t give me that shocked look. So after starting the water running, I poked through the dresser drawer where I keep my bath stuff, and came across a Lush massage bar. But I didn’t actually realize that it was a massage bar, and even though I know that now, I’m not certain what you’re supposed to do with a massage bar – just rub it into your skin, or what? Anyway, once the water was to the level and temperature of my liking, I got in – DAMN I love the feeling of getting into a warm bath when I’m cold – and tossed the massage bar into the water. The massage bar, in case you didn’t bother to go look at it on the Lush page, is half dark chocolate and half peppermint-scented cocoa butter (or something like that), and not two minutes after I dropped it into the warm bath water, chocolate started covering the surface of the water. And attaching itself to the side of the tub, and to myself. Within five minutes, it looked like I was bathing in a tub of You know what? I don’t think I need to type that nasty, nasty word. You know what melted chocolate looks like, and you know what it could be mistaken for. And you’re probably eating while you’re reading this, so I’m not going to spell it out for you, mm’kay? You’re welcome. * * * Something on the floor?…

* * * Previously 2001: Time to go cold turkey, Deb… 2000: WHEN WILL THE SUFFERING END???]]>

Changing Lanes last night. About half an hour into the movie, I turned to Fred and said, “You know, I get no sexual spark from Ben Affleck. I can’t imagine ever having sex with him, or even that he ever has sex.” I mean, I’m sure he and Jennifer Lopez (never gonna call her J.Lo, nosirree) have a wonderful and active love life (if they can stop looking at themselves in the mirror long enough to have sex), but if I try to have a sexual thought about him, my mind just goes blank. Which is really funny, considering that I once had a sexual dream about him. Fred told me that he’s the same way about Jodie Foster – he’s never had a sexual thought about her, and he couldn’t imagine it. Anyway, it wasn’t a bad movie. Quite a departure for Amanda Peet, since I’m used to seeing her in the “Zany Chick” roles. * * * I burned a candle in the window last night, and as soon as I opened the blinds and put the table in front of the window, Miz Poo came running and stared out the front window intently, as if she’d never seen that particular scenery before. It’s her life’s greatest ambition to go out the front door and explore – every time I go out the front door to get the mail or water the petunias, she’s sitting RIGHT there when I walk back in, sniffing wildly at the air I bring in with me. Sometimes, she tries to run past me, but I always catch her. Is she interested in the fact that she could go out into the back yard whenever she wants? Of course not. It’s the front yard or bust, baby. ]]>

"These acts shattered steel, but they cannot dent the steel of American resolve." ]]>

Plainsong on my wish list, and sent me her copy. I have such thoughtful readers! * * * I spent a large chunk of the day running errands. It being Tuesday, I rented movies (did you know that the new VHS movies come out on Tuesday? Indeed they do. I got The Count of Monte Cristo, Changing Lanes, and A Beautiful Mind.), went to the grocery store, went home and unloaded the groceries, then went to Sam’s. I love Sam’s, have I mentioned? Where else on earth can you get $5 t-shirts and a Big Ass container of 150 Piroulines in the same place? For the record, I bought neither t-shirts nor Piroulines today. I bought shrimp, paper towels, dishwasher tablets, gum, and a book. I didn’t get home until 2:00, which is why this entry is going up so late. It’s a good excuse, so stop giving me those evil looks, okay? * * * For the record, Tubby is SO Fancypants’ bitch. Every time I see the two of them together, they’re getting it on. I shudder to think what they do when we’re not around.

* * * Previously 2001: I stole this survey from Noreen, but I’ve seen it all over the place recently, and god knows how much I love to be one of the cool kids! 2000: Look! It’s nay-chuh!]]>

Sipsey Wilderness. We went all-out, bringing hamburgers to grill, as well as coleslaw and potato salad, and all the bottled water your heart could desire. I am not – and I’m certain that this will astound you – much of an outdoorsy girl, and so I asked several times for reassurance from Fred that there would be bathrooms there. He assured me that there would be, and so I was looking forward to getting there, taking a little hike, and being able to pee whenever my little heart desired, though I suspected I might have to battle mosquitos and spiders so that I might pee peacefully. Look, I drink a gallon of water a day. I need to know that I can pee when I need to, so stop rolling your eyes at me. When we reached our destination – an hour’s drive from home – I really needed to pee. We left the cooler at a picnic table overlooking the river – which was very very shallow – and went on a search for toilets. There were none. Apparently, in the 20 years since Fred had been there, they’d decided that toilets were more of a nuisance than they were worth and taken them out. I was, as you can imagine, a happy, HAPPY girl. At the age of 34, I have never ever EVER even once peed outside. Never. Why? Because I know that I’m an uncoordinated freak and chances are very good that I will pee all over myself and my pants, and so I’ve always just held it until I could use a bathroom or port-a-potty. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. Not only did I pee in the woods, but I peed TWICE, and got nary a droplet of pee anywhere on my legs or clothes. I did, stupidly, use a crumbly leaf to wipe afterward the second time, so that I was finding little pieces o’ leaf for the rest of the day, if you know what I mean. As we left for home, we drove by a little parking lot we’d passed on our way in. I squinted at a little building and said “Hey. Isn’t that a bathroom?” And it was. I hope that leaf doesn’t give me a damn yeast infection. We went for a nice little hike, wherein I took 45,000 pictures (Fred will have them up on his site later today. Is that fair, I ask you? I take all the pictures, and he steals them?), and all over the place we saw these adorable, tiny little toads. I even picked one up. Adorable little toads, I like. Big, meaty frogs? Not so much. * * * Poor Spot. Poor, spazzy Spot. His two sides war with each other every single day. On the one hand, he wants very much to be a lap cat, to lay on your lap and be scratched behind the ears, to hear you speak words of love, and hug and kiss him. On the other hand, he was obviously abused in some way before he showed up at Fred’s doorstep, because as much as he wants to be close to you, he’s scared. If you are walking across the room, and he’s anywhere in the room, he freaks out and thinks you’re coming after him. His favorite spot when I am not in the bedroom is on my side of the bed, close to my pillow. He’ll stay there all day long. As soon as I come into the bedroom to get dressed or take my shower, or whatever, he runs and hides under the bed. And then sometimes – like last night – I’ll be sitting at my computer, and he jumps up on my desk to sit on the pillow on the corner. He lays there, purring wildly, looking slightly disgusted at the fact that I’ve left a bra sitting on the corner of the desk. He lets me scratch him under the chin and behind the ears, and when I take my hand away, he reachs out his paw to grab my hand. All he wants is love. But at the same time, he’s scared of the ones who want to love him. Poor Spot. * * * By the way, I DID get the tickets to the American Idol concert in Nashville, and I’m thrilled out of my gourd. What’s even better is that the seats are close to the stage, so that when I bellow “I LOVE YOU, KELLY!”, she’ll probably even hear me. Heh.]]>

American Idol tour is going to be coming to Nashville, and Fred has agreed to go with me. Whee! Tickets go on sale Saturday morning at 10:00, and you’d better believe my ass is going to be parked in front of the computer come 9:59! When we were watching the final show on Thursday evening, I said to Fred “It would be cool if the tour was going to come somewhere around here!”, and he agreed. I figured that there was no way they’d be coming to Huntsville, but I thought they might hit Atlanta. Of course Atlanta’s 5 hours from here, and there’s no way Fred would have agreed to drive 5 hours to see them in concert (the bastard), so imagine my delight when I checked out the page this morning and saw that they were coming to Nashville. I’m WAY too excited about this. * * * Thursday morning around 6:30, I was laying sound asleep, hugging my pillow and having a happy dream, about which I recall no details. Suddenly, in the midst of said happy dream, I heard the very clear sound of someone choking, possibly to death, and I reacted by waking immediately, and sitting straight up. In the bathroom, Fred was leaning over the sink. He turned and looked at me. “What?” he said. “What the FUCK was that?!” I said, placing a hand over my chest to still the racing heart within. He laughed long and loud. It appears he’d farted again. * * * This is pretty neat, if you’re looking for someplace to send your charity funds. * * * I finished Mary Karr’s Cherry the other night (Heh), and while I liked most of the book, the last 20 pages or so just about put me to sleep. They consisted of drug stories (“And then the moon turned into an orange waterfall!”), and I ended up skimming most of it. I think that, much like dreams, the only person interested in hearing the myriad details of drug stories are the people involved. I mean, hearing that your boyfriend’s ass turned into a goat and brayed at you (heh. Fred’s ass brays at me all the time.) is amusing, but hearing every fucking detail of what happened from the moment you placed a tab of acid under your tongue to the moment you woke up hungover (do you wake up hungover from acid?) is just deadly boring. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe because my experience with drugs consists of one (1) drag off a joint when I was 17, I just don’t understand the allure of hearing the fascinating sequence of events between the deciding to leave the club and actually leaving the club. But I doubt it. As I recall, back when I often got drunk (I got drunk more before I turned 21 than I have since – so much for being carded, eh?) the only time other drunk people were interesting to me was when I, myself, was also drunk. When you’re totally sober (this could just be me), drunk people are a pain in the fucking ass, all loud and hard to corral. I had a party once in my very first apartment, attended by a lot of Marines, and when drunk, they would NOT shut the fuck up, nor would they go where I wanted them to go. You can imagine how pleased my landlady (who was a bitch, and also lived on the premises) was. I, of course, become better-looking and much more charming, when I’m drunk. * * * Y’all, I didn’t actually watch the Video Music Awards last week (or whenever they were), because – well – I don’t usually watch them anymore. I am, after all, a hundred years old, and I don’t understand the music you whippersnappers listen to these days. But I was checking out Kim’s blog, and I was taken aback by this horrid, horrid picture of Axl Rose. Man, what the HELL happened to Axl? He was never the studliest hunk on the block, but he looks like he was in a horrible accident and had his entire face reconstructed or something. My god, he looks SO bad. Do you suppose he knows how bad he looks, or is he surrounded by people who constantly tell him “Lookin’ hot, A! Lookin’ real hot!” ? God help me. * * * And speaking of horrid things, I watched The Anna Nicole Show last night while I cross-stitched after Fred had gone to bed. Since the show first aired, I’ve been meaning to watch it, but it’s on Sunday nights, and I kept forgetting to tape it until this past Sunday. All over the place, I’ve been reading about what a horrible show it is, and all that’s done is make me more interested in watching it. My god. My eyes! My eyes! It was the worst piece of crap I’ve ever seen, between the boobs-falling-out-of-the-shirt, the constant screams for her dog, Sugarpie, and the slurred voice. Plus, Anna, I did NOT want to know that you needed to go home to masturbate because you hadn’t masturbated that morning. I know you think you’re being all cute and sexy and in-your-face, but honestly? You’re just grossing me out, because I don’t want to have to think about that, not that there’s anything wrong with masturbating, but when it comes to combining the thought of masturbation with you doing it, well, I had to go scrub my brain with bleach for three hours after hearing that. And I still haven’t removed the horror of seeing you splay-legged in the tub of your dreams. My eyes! * * * And speaking further of horrid things, someone hit my page by doing a google search on Angelina Jolie tongue kissing Billy Bob. I don’t even want to know… * * * 1. What is your biggest pet peeve? Why? Road ragers. Because you’re going to get there eventually – what the hell is the point of screaming and yelling and pounding on your steering wheel? All it does is make you look like an asshole, and if you’re behind ME doing it, chances are good I’m going to slow down a tad. (I’m a reformed road rager, by the way) Actually, road ragers fit neatly into the larger category of “People who think they’re more important than they are, and think I should give a shit.” 2. What irritating habits do you have? According to Fred, grinding my teeth while I’m sleeping is the most irritating habit I have. He says, and I quote “You’re going to grind your teeth away and then you’ll look like one of those pygmies.” I have no idea what that means. He also says that the grinding sounds like the sound a catfish makes. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I come from a family of teeth-grinders. 3. Have you tried to change the irritating habits or just let them be? I actually do have a mouthpiece that I got from the dentist several years ago. I’m supposed to wear it while I sleep, but I don’t because it makes me gag. 4. What grosses you out more than anything else? Why? Dogs munching on cat poo. GODDAMN is that nasty, and they always do it directly in front of a window so that you can see the show. And then they come breathe in your face directly afterward. Gah. 5. What one thing can you never see yourself doing that other people do? Speak in front of a large audience. * * * And, to round out the entry, cat pictures! Miz Poo keeps watch at the top of the stairs. Spot and Tubby try to pretend they haven’t been snuggling and grooming each other. Spanky looooooves to sleep, and he loves even more to sleep in my chair. Zzzzzzz…

* * * Previously 2001: I don’t use the “c” word lightly, y’all. 2000: No entry.]]>

here. For the rest of you, the story. In March 2001, I put up a little movie of the spud singing the birthday song to Moira. Shortly after, I received an email from Ellen, who said “Hey, will you make one for meeeee too?” When I said “Is it your birthday?”, she told that it wasn’t, that her birthday wasn’t until September 5th. I wrote her name on the calendar with the intention of surprising her with the spud singing especially for her. But I forgot to turn the calendar page until sometime mid-September, by which time the moment had passed. So I wrote it on the calendar for this year. Happy birthday, Ellen! * * * FUCKING telemarketers. My cell phone has been ringing all the fuckity-fucking time over the last several day, and by the time I hear it and answer it, the telemarketer has moved on to bigger and better things. Until yesterday, when I happened to be sitting near my phone when it rang, so I promptly picked it up. “Yeah, is Fredrick there?” A gentleman said, apparently under the impression that I would think “Oh! It’s Fredrick’s friend!” and just hand the phone over. “May I ask who’s calling?” I said, icicles dripping from each word. HE. HUNG. UP. ON. ME. Fucker. An hour later, the phone rang again. This time when I asked who was calling, the lady on the other end told me she was calling from AfuckingOfuckingLfuckers. So I hung up on her. Heh. (Yes, I know they’re just going to call back. At which point I will tell them to put us on their “No-call” list. Or take us off their “Call” list, however that goes) It makes sense, of course, that AOL would be coming after us with both barrels – Fred had the nerve to call and cancel the account we haven’t used at all in the past year, and so they’re trying to reel us back in to their stupid, sucky service. Why, I ask you, would we want AOL’s fucked-up piece-of-shit dial-up service, when we have a cable connection? Why? I loathe AOL. I don’t loathe those of you who get online via AOL, but I loathe AOL. Over my dead fucking body will I ever sign up for AOL ever again in my life. I feel really hostile, and would like to rip someone at AOL a new asshole, but I know it’s not the fault of the telemarketers who are incessantly calling. * * * Menstrual hostility is running through my veins, just so you know. Last night, I watched the last 15 minutes of Monica in Black and White (I taped it the other night, because it was late and I wanted to go to bed. I’d have stayed up and watched it if I’d realized there was only another 15 minutes), and if I could have gone through the TV, there were a couple of real assholes I would have loved to strangle. I actually gasped out loud at the question the first one asked, and rolled my eyes at the smug and self-satisfied (and I don’t mean that in a good way) comment the second guy made. Asshole number one (pardon the poor picture. I didn’t feel like closing the blinds): Go here to see the question he asked. What. An. Asshole. Don’t you dare email me and defend his stupid ass – he asked the question to be cruel and hurtful, and then he was so PROUD of himself afterward. Asshole. Asshole number 2: Go here to see part one, and here to see part two of the self-important speech this self-important asshole self-importantly made. I hope they had to buy tickets to get in, and I hope they were REALLY expensive. (If you’d like to email your opinion on this subject, you certainly may. However, if you disagree with me and are of the opinion that you’ll change my opinion of either Asshole #1, Asshole #2, or Monica Lewinsky, you really ought to save your time. Let’s just agree to disagree, mm’kay?) Okay, that’s officially it for the Monica Lewinsky stuff. I won’t go on and on about her again, I’m probably boring or annoying the hell out of y’all. * * * The Theme Thursday topic this week is money. We got this ten-gallon bottle (it was originally filled with water) from the grocery store, and once we’d used it up, I decided that rather than return it, we should start tossing our extra change in there. I think we’ve been doing it for about 3 years, and it’s around 1/3 of the way full. It’s heavy as hell, too. I figure another 6 years, it’ll be full, the spud will be off to college, and then Fred and I will use the change to go to Disneyland. Whee! A roadtrip with the spud would be cool, too.

* * * Previously 2001: I turned to Fred and said “He looks all dilemmanated, doesn’t he?” 2000: Trip to Tennessee.]]>

Hee! Despite my ladylike appearance (::snort::), I do enjoy a good fart story. * * * Joley emailed me this morning and correctly pointed out that the entire family is mean to each other on Everybody Loves Raymond, so she was confused that we didn’t like King of Queens because they’re always so mean to each other, but still like to watch Raymond. I think what bothers me about King of Queens is that the meanness is a one-note “You’re fat!”, “Yeah, well, you’re a bitch!”, whereas on Raymond there’s the occasional sense that Ray and Deborah are in it together – especially when his mother gets involved. Okay, I think what it actually is, is that Ray’s mother is so evil that I love watching her, I can’t help it. And every time she does something evil (but well-meaning), I thank my stars she’s not MY mother-in-law. * * * Yesterday was a really good mail day. Not only did I get the latest copy of US Magazine (Justin tells his side of the story! Woo! Actually, I’m not holding my breath – I’m sure it’s going to be some half-assed “It just wasn’t working out because we were both travelling all the time blah-de-blah.”), but I also received some pretty cool stuff. Cristen sent me not only a cool smiley-face-themed keyring, but also a Les Mis postcard. Whee! From Wendy, a lovely handmade thank you card for sponsoring her. And from Krishanna, another cool handmade card! Pretty, isn’t it? I defy you to show me another journaller who has readers half as cool as mine! * * * I’ve recently gotten back into cross-stitching, and upon digging through my bag of cross-stitching stuff, I found a couple of ornaments I’d cross-stitched last year, and which only needed to be cut and put into their little plastic frames. They’re pretty cute, and I haven’t decided whether I’m going to hang them on our tree this year, or give them away. I’ll probably end up giving them away, because we have plenty of ornaments for our tree. Anyway, naturally I snapped a picture of each of them: I only bought them to have something to do with my hands while watching TV, and they worked pretty well for that. I’m currently working on a large picture I started about 5 years ago. I think I should have it done in another week or so, and then I’m going to take it to be framed. Fred thinks I should put it up for sale on eBay, but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with it yet. Here’s what part of it looks like, anyway: Pretty, no? I love the colors in it, especially the shades of blue and pink. * * * I recently looked at one of my old entries, and found a picture of a tiny ivy plant I bought back in November 2000, here. This is what it looks like today: I just love ivy – it’s impossible to kill, almost, and it thrives no matter where I put it. And speaking of ivy, I took this picture of an ivy-covered hill when Fred and the spud and I took a roadtrip last Sunday. I think I like ivy-covered hills as much as I like kudzu-covered hills. They’re so gorgeously green, whether it’s been a dry season or not. And while I’m sharing plant pictures, here’s a shot of one of the rosebuds on one of the rose bushes I can see from my chair in front of the computer. Love that color.

* * * Previously 2001: I’m wise to your stalker ways, Margaret! 2000: No entry.]]>

Any idea who that is? Why, that would be one Justin Guarini from American Idol, back when he was trying to tame his hair. I still think he’s creepy, but the untamed look definitely does him better. * * * I was up late last night (I’ve been going to bed around 11:30 recently, so I was up later than that, is what I mean), and after I read some of the book I’m reading – Cherry, by Mary Karr, which has some laugh-out-loud moments in it, but I didn’t like as much as The Liars’ Club – and then did some cross-stitching, and was about to go to sleep when I decided to flip through the TV channels one last time. On HBO was Monica in Black and White, which I had heard about when it first came on back in March (I think), but I hadn’t seen any of it. I flipped over to the show when it had been on for about half an hour, and I watched for another half an hour. I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I feel sorry for her. I mean, I’m sure she never imagined that the relationship (if you can call it that) with Clinton would ever turn into the media circus that it did. And she’s well aware that the way she handled the aftermath wasn’t terribly brilliant – she’s kicked herself over and over for that, you can tell. I actually had to change the channel a few times, because she was having such a difficult time talking about it all. My heart goes out to her because no matter what she does for the rest of her life, she’s going to be Monica Lewinsky, the punchline to a joke, and that’s got to be a pretty heavy burden to bear. * * * Hell, let’s make this an all-TV entry, shall we? It’s been a while since I’ve done that. Fred and I have recently started watching the CBS Monday night lineup, which consists of King of Queens, Yes, Dear, and Everybody Loves Raymond (we don’t watch Becker, because we don’t really care for Ted Danson), and we really like Yes, Dear, and Everybody Loves Raymond. The funny thing is that Fred had to be convinced to watch Yes, Dear and Raymond, but now he likes them enough to actually look forward to watching them. The King of Queens is mildly amusing, but the main husband and wife characters – Doug and Carrie – are so hostile and mean to each other most of the time, that it’s annoying. On top of that, every single week there are jokes about how Doug – the husband – is fat. It’s gotten to the point where we’ve started counting up the fat jokes to keep ourselves amused. Last night, there were four in the first fifteen minutes, and then we lost count. When married characters are that cruel to each other, all you can think is, “Why the hell are they married if they hate each other so much?”

* * * Previously 2001: Gatlinburg pictures! 2000: No entry.]]>