Month: July 2004

Written July 19th. I’m so miserable. As a result of marinating in sweat 24 hours a day, I’m one big rash. I cut my leg shaving in the shower this morning and didn’t realize it until after I sat down on my bed and left a blood stain on the sheet the size of my head. Housekeeping will no doubt think we’ve been slaughtering hogs in here. Also, the spud is asleep, laying on her bed facing me, sending the nastiest morning breath EVER my way. She spent a good part of yesterday farting the most noxious gas and then laughing, making me want to fucking throttle her. My face is red and hot and itchy. The Priority boxes the post office has aren’t nearly big enough to hold the stuff I want to mail home, which means I need to find a place to buy boxes, and then haul a big-ass box to the post office. But we’re doing a bus tour of the island and seeing a bunch of cool stuff and sitting on an air-conditioned bus, so that should be really damn cool. I hope like hell I don’t run out of space on the memory stick. I’ve been a picture taking fool. But I went through the pictures and deleted a bunch of blurry pictures, which freed up a lot of space. Hopefully I’ll be okay.

* * * So, that was a LONG fucking day. We left my parents’ hotel at about 8:30 and got back at 4:30ish. In between, we spent most of the day on a small, packed bus with pretty much nonexistent air conditioning, ass cheek to ass cheek with the fidgety spud who has very sharp elbows and no concept of staying in her own space. We ate lunch at The Crouching Lion Inn, which had horribly slow service. Now, I KNOW that there’s this thing called “Hawaii Time”, where everything moves a whole lot slower and you shouldn’t expect to get your food quickly because everyone’s moving at a slower, more relaxed pace. HOWEVER, when the bus driver (Cousin Dave – “If I cut my wrist and you cut your wrist, the blood that comes out is the same color, and so that means we are family. So for today I will call you Cousin, and you can call me Cousin Dave.”) tells you that you have an hour to eat and it takes 45 minutes to get your food (and you’re hot and cranky to begin with), and you’re a spaz about being on time and not making other people wait for you, Hawaii Time can kiss my butt. Also, Cousin Dave highly recommended the Kalua (?) Pork sandwich, which was pulled pork, and while it wasn’t bad, it sure didn’t live up to Southern BBQ standards, either. [REDACTED] ]]>

Written July 18th. My crap, is my scalp FRIED. My face is red, but my scalp is just horribly burned. I fully expect that in a few days my scalp will start peeling, and I’ll look like I have a horrible case of dandruff. Anyway, the plan for today was to go to Pearl Harbor and then to the flea market (I guess it’s actually a swap meet; I’m not sure I know what the difference is). My mother decided that since you can’t take any bags into the Arizona Memorial due to security concerns, we should just do the swap meet and save the Arizona Memorial for a different day. The spud and I met up with my mother, Debbie, and Brian at the bus stop near my parents’ hotel a little after 8. We weren’t sure which bus we wanted, but while we tried to figure it out, I saw a bus that said (on the front) that it was going to the Aloha Stadium, which is where we were headed. Thus began a hellish, hot, sweaty ride that – JESUS CHRIST, is it the entire aim of my child to drive me straight out of my goddamn mind, or what? She’s been clipping her fucking fingernails for 45 goddamn fucking minutes. Pardon me while I go boot her ass off the motherfucking balcony. – lasted for-fucking-ever. 54 minutes, to be exact. One of the stops the bus made on the way was at the Arizona Memorial, where 600 people were waiting in line to get their tickets, and I was SO FUCKING GLAD we weren’t going there today. We pulled up to the swap meet at 9:30 exactly, and we spent the next 3 1/2 hours shopping. This place was AMAZING, any kind of souvenir you could ever want, they had for incredibly low prices. I bought a ton of stuff, and then a ton more for the giveaway page. Because I lurve you guys so much! At around noon, my father got off work and met us at the swap meet. None of us particularly wanted to ride the bus home, so Debbie, the kids, and I crammed into the back seat of the car my father was renting. As perhaps you can imagine, when you cram two fat chicks and two good-sized kids into the back seat of a car, it’s nowhere near “comfortable” territory. We survived – though we were soaked in sweat – and stopped at the Hard Rock Cafe for lunch. After, my dad dropped the spud, Brian and I off at our hotel, then we walked to my parents’ hotel so I could do my laundry (Brian, good kid that he is, carried the laundry bag the entire time. Such a good little slave!). We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out at my parents’ hotel. Sometime after 6, my mother, Debbie, the spud and I went out walking around and doing some shopping. Since we hadn’t had anything for dinner, we stopped at Coldstone Creamery for ice cream. I had a birthday cake remix in a waffle cup, and it was pretty fucking good. We don’t have Coldstone Creamery anywhere near Huntsville, and it’s probably a good thing, because I’d be there ALL THE TIME. Okay, that’s it for me for tonight. Time for bed!

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Written July 16th I got a good, solid five hours of sleep last night – the spud and I had the light off by 10, I slept hard until 3, and then intermittently until 6:15 or so. The spud was still sleeping, so I went out onto the balcony and talked to Fred for a while (on the cell), then read until about 7. Debbie and Brian had been up since 4:30 and had been out and about for a few hours. They came to our hotel and we all headed out for breakfast (buffet for $5.99! Sweet!). There was lo mein on the buffet, which was surprisingly good as part of breakfast. By the time we were done with breakfast, my mother was up, so we walked through a few stores and went to her hotel. From there we walked along the Ala Wai Canal (pretty, but the water looked nas-tay) and then down a side street to the Honolulu Zoo. Zoos are cool and depressing, but I’ve come to the conclusion that if you’ve seen one, you’ve pretty much seen ’em all. I got some cool pictures, anyway. We were at the zoo for about two and a half hours (I was absolutely dripping with sweat the entire time) and had talked about going to the Waikiki Aquarium next, but we decided none of us were terribly interested in that, so instead we ate lunch at Wolfgang Puck Express (the spud and I split a turkey sandwich and a side of fries – the sandwich was huge) and then we hopped on the trolley (free!) to go to Hilo Hattie. Oh, here’s a story for you: While we were waiting for the trolley to show up, Debbie and I were standing in the shade of the hotel across from Waikiki Beach. A woman with an indefinable accent walked up to. “Have you been to the Polynesian Cultural Center?” she asked, addressing the question to Debbie. “Because the bus didn’t pick my husband and I up this morning when it was supposed to, and I’m wondering if we’re going to have time to blah blah blah.” Debbie, who is the most helpful person on EARTH, smiled. “Oh,” she said. “I just got here yesterday, so I haven’t been there. My mother went, though.” And she peered past me in the direction of my mother, who was standing about ten feet away chatting it up with a stranger. The woman turned and looked at me. “I’m afraid there won’t be time to see everything,” she repeated worriedly. “Will we have enough time?” I stared blankly at her, and then Debbie and I exchanged a confused look. Then I realized that this woman was UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT I WAS DEBBIE’S MOTHER. Pardon the fuck out of me, do I REALLY look like I could be the mother of a 34 year-old? I DON’T FUCKING THINK SO. I managed not to throw something at Dumbass McClueless, and called my mother over to answer the woman’s questions. Anyway. Hilo Hattie is pretty cool – you can hop on the trolley for free, take a nice ride (long, too), and the trolley runs about every 20 minutes. You get to Hilo Hattie and an employee meets you at the door with a free shell necklace. There’s free juice, and then you can take your time strolling through the store. After some power-shopping, we got back on the trolley, told the trolley-driver where we were headed (my parents’ hotel), and he dropped us off very close to where we wanted to be. We had planned that my mother and Debbie would walk to The Cheesecake Factory, put our names on the waiting list, and call my cell to let us know how long the wait would be. But when my mother called my dad on his cell (have I mentioned that we’re some cell phone-having motherfuckers?) she found that he was already there and they’d told him it would be about a ten-minute wait. So we hoofed it to the Factory and were immediately seated, then spent ten minutes dithering over what we wanted. My parents and the waitress repeatedly warned us that the portions were very big, so I ordered a Chinese Chicken Salad. Then Brian asked the waitress if he could get just a plain cheeseburger, and she suggested the Roadside Sliders – an appetizer with 4 mini hamburgers. That suddently sounded really good to me, so I said, “Can I change my order? I hate to be a pain in the ass…” “You’re not a pain in the ass,” she said, smiling. Bing! Thirty percent tip, right there. I changed my order to a side salad and the Roadside Sliders. Best salad EVER. Best burgers EVER. For dessert? Cheesecake, of course. The spud and I had Toblerone Cheesecake, and by the time we were done eating, I was stuffed. Two thumbs up not only to The Cheesecake Factory, but also to our server. I think her name was Kaz. She had dreadlocks and was funny and warm and friendly and I liked her a great deal. If you have a chance to visit The Cheesecake Factory in Waikiki, request her section, and tell her a bunch of crazy Mainers sent ya. When we were done eating, my father took the kids back to his hotel so they could go swimming in the pool. My mom, Debbie, and I did about an hour of shopping. My mother got a very nice gay man VERY excited when she tried on a ($2200!) blue pearl necklace. But she dashed his hopes and left without buying anything. We finally pooped out and headed back to my parents’ hotel. Once there, I whined about how much my feet hurt ’til my father offered to drive the spud and I back to our hotel. I’m such a lazy bitch. I managed to get slightly sunburned today, despite putting on sublock. Tomorrow we’re spending the day at the beach, and I can’t WAIT! ‘Night.

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Written July 15th When our flight landed last night, everyone did the really annoying thing they always do – once the seatbelt light went off, they stood in the aisles and glared toward the front of the plane, waiting for the door to open. (And I’ll fully admit that I do it too. Why does it take so long to open the door? Throw that fucker open, and let us OUT!) Which is when the flight attendant told everyone to take their seats and clear the aisles. And then six or seven men in sheriff uniforms boarded the plane and followed the flight attendant toward the back of the plane. A couple of the deputies (?) removed a few pieces of luggage, and then escorted a not particularly scared-looking woman off the plane. Shortly after, some kids and a man left, followed by the rest of the deputies (officers?). Everyone in the plane was all a-twitter. What the hell was going on? Terrorist activity? Smuggling? Had she tried to smuggle an avocado onto the island, or what? The flight attendants were not forthcoming, so we slowly started moving off the plane. Once off the plane, I walked past a flight attendant who was talking to a deputy, who was taking notes. I slowed down to listen, and then the light dawned. You know how the flight attendants say that federal law prohibits tampering with the smoke detectors in the airplane lavatories? Yeah. They’re SO not kidding about that. You know, if my sister, who smokes a lot (well, I think she does – I have no real idea of what a lot of smoking is) can make it on a 10-hour flight without tampering with the lavatory smoke detector and lighting up, anyone should be able to. My parents and Brian (Debbie and Brian landed in Hawaii about 5 hours before we did) met us at the airport and lei’d us. The leis were made of fresh plumeria blossoms, and they smell AMAZING. We’re staying at the Waikiki Gateway Hotel, and it’s nothing to write home about – you get what you pay for. There are two beds, drawers to put our clothes in, a fridge and a TV, so I’m not going to complain too much. Oh, and a balcony. When I stepped onto the balcony last night, a white pigeon stared at me from a few feet away, shot a stream of shit in my direction and proceeded to ignore me. Alrighty, then. We turned the light off at midnight, tossed and turned a little, but really slept fairly well. We’re on the 15th floor and can hear the traffic on the street below. A lot of buses go by our hotel, it seems. At 6 am, I was done with the sleeping and so was the spud. After all, that’s 11:00, Alabama time. I went onto the balcony and found that if I lean out and look to the right, I can see the ocean in the distance. To the front, more ocean. And to the left, a block or two away, the Ala Wai Canal. Now I’m waiting for a decent time so I can call my mother without waking anyone up.

* * * Everyone but me: “Go! Go! Go! Buy! Go! Shop! Beach! Go! Look! Go! Shop! Go! GoGoGoGOGoGoGO!” Me: “Eh! Stop! My feet hurt! My back hurts! My eye hurts! I’m ::whine:: tiiiiired! I’m hungry! I’m thirsty! I’m sleepy! ::whine::whine::whine:: I’m a slug in a family of energizer bunnies. My feet huuuuurt, damnit. So around 7:50 this morning I called my mother’s cell phone. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. I flipped through the phone book to look for the number at the hotel where my parents are staying (the Island Colony). When I had no luck, I tried my mother’s cell again (no answer) and then called Debbie’s cell. We’re a family of cell phone-having motherfuckers. Debbie was not only up, she was out looking for my hotel. She found it pretty quickly, and she and Brian came up to our room. My mother was ready to go soon after, and we met up with her up the street from our hotel. There are, by the way, ABC Stores about every three feet here. They have food and sundries (though not, unfortunately, Sundry) and a lot of little souvenirs. We looked through that store and a few others before we decided it was time for breakfast. Two pancakes, two strips of bacon, and an egg for $2.99. Whoo! (I’ve had better pancakes, but syrup will improve any bland pancake.) We spent a good part of the late morning and early afternoon shopping then had lunch at my parents’ hotel room before heading for Waikiki Beach. The beach was wall-to-wall people, but we dropped our stuff on the sand and went right into the water. That’s some salty-ass water. I know, you’re saying “Duh”, but I was still surprised at the saltiness for some reason. We stayed at the beach for something like 1 1/2 hours, floating in the water, watching the people, and chatting. At one point, the spud was up on the beach pouting because she was tired and didn’t want to be at the beach. Debbie glanced over to check on her, and then said, sounding like she was going to fly out of the water and kick some ass, “Is that man TALKING to (the spud)?” I started laughing. “That’s DAD,” I said. Heh. After the beach we went back to my parents’ hotel where some of us showered and some of us just changed clothes. We had talked about going to The Cheesecake Factory for dinner, but my father and Brian were tired and decided to just get fast food and hang out in the hotel room. So my mother, Debbie, the spud and I headed out to eat at The Cheesecake Factory. That idea lasted until we found that it would be a 75 – 90 minute wait, whereupon we pretty much decided “Fuck THAT.” Thus began the Honolulu Death March, which began with my mother’s assurance that a fairly nice restaurant was “just upstairs.” Turned out it was three floors up and six thousand miles away (not really, but did I mention that MY FEET HURT?). We finally got there – the restaurant was Antonio’s – decided we’d eat there no matter what they served, and went in. Not only was it a “fairly nice” restaurant, it was one of those hoity-toity ones that doesn’t serve anything like a hamburger. Now, I’ve BEEN to nice restaurants, okay? I have! NOT often, but enough to know how to behave and not to blow snot-rockets or anything (annnnd, when you do a Google search so that you can link to the definition of snot-rockets and find that there’s a band called The Snot Rockets, the sentence “I know how to behave and not blow snot-rockets or anything” takes on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it?). So we’re sitting there, we’ve placed our orders (I got some kind of salad with a citrus dressing and mango on it. Mango tastes exactly, I’ve found, like biting into nothing) and were talking. Some guy who worked there walked quietly up to our table. I was nodding as I listened to some eternal story my mother was telling, and I absentmindedly registered his presence, but didn’t really wonder what he was there for; I assumed he was going to refill our water glasses or something. “Huh,” I thought to myself. “I wonder why he’s picking up my napkin…” He picked up the cloth napkin sitting in front of me, snapped it open, and leaned toward me. I reached out to take the napkin, and he evaded my hand, and gently placed the napkin across my lap. My eyes bulged, and I traded glances with Debbie. He did the same with Debbie’s napkin and the spud’s as well. I thought Debbie was going to pass out, she was having such difficulty holding back her laughter. So, yes. Another first for me. At the restaurants I USUALLY frequent, they figure if you want that napkin on your lap, you can put it there your own damn self. They also usually have hamburgers on the menu. Does one thing have anything to do with the other? Who knows. After we ate, even though I’d told Debbie that I definitely wanted to visit the David and Goliath store, I wasn’t up for anything but hauling my ass back to my hotel and going to bed. So Deb and my mother went off shopping, and the spud and I picked up some bottles of water at an ABC store, and headed for “home.” I figure David and Goliath will still be there tomorrow. So now I’m off to read for a while, and then hit the hay. ]]>

Written July 14th. I don’t know which was worse on my flight from Huntsville to Dallas – the four year-old kicking the back of my seat the entire way, or the pitch of the flight attendant’s voice when she spoke to the four year-old and her sister. No, wait. It was the ten minutes of screaming when the four year-old didn’t want to put on her seat belt. I feel your pain, kid, ’cause I sure hate putting that friggin’ seat belt on, too. Ah, yeah. I lurrrve flying. The flight wasn’t so horribly bad despite the fact that it seemed to be 50% kids under the age of 7, and we landed half an hour early, only to find that our flight to L.A. was delayed by an hour. Good thing we had the 3-hour layover in L.A, I suppose. From Huntsville to Dallas, I read a god-awful piece of crap called The Last Year of Being Single, which makes me sad because I was really looking forward to it. I happily left the book on the plane after I skipped to the end and found out what happened, though in the interest of kindness to my fellow (wo)man, I should have tossed it in the trash. The spud and I ate at TGI Friday’s. Ugh. We should have just opted for frozen yogurt instead. The restrooms in this airport are distressingly few and far between.

* * * Our flight from Dallas to L.A. was horribly packed. I was crammed in a window seat, because I made the spud (being much smaller than I) sit in the middle seat. The woman sitting next to the spud was one who’d had a very loud conversation on her cellphone while in the terminal. During her conversation, she’d been sure several times to mention her wedding, her husband, her honeymoon, and to wave her left hand around so that everyone could see and admire her rock. (It was gorgeous, I’ll give her that) So when she sat down next to the spud, I did an inner eyeroll and groan. “Oh, GREAT,” I thought. “She’s going to tell us allll about her beeeyootiful wedding. Grrrreat.” Well, I’m a bitch (big shocker there, eh?), because she was perfectly friendly without being overly chatty. And when we landed in L.A, she offered the spud her “In Touch” magazine. Did you know that one of those Olsen twins has an eating disorder? I had no idea. Who says “In Touch” can’t educate? I am perturbed to discover that fountain Coke products don’t seem to be easy to find in airports once you leave the deep South. Pepsi drinkers, don’t be offended since this is just my opinion, okay? Diet Pepsi has kind of a urine-y aftertaste. I hate Aquafina bottled water. Bleh. Time to check out the gift shops. Whoo! * * * We just saw Jeffrey Tambor. Surprisingly, the spud’s the one who spotted him. “Omigod! I see someone famous!” she said. “You know Three’s Company, when Mr. and Mrs. Roper moved away, and there was the guy next door who didn’t want them to move in?” Sad to say, Jeffrey Tambor’s face immediately popped into my head. “Where?” I said. She pointed to a man in a hat and sunglasses standing by some croissant sandwich place. Sure as shit, it was him. But I could NOT think of his name. Naturally, I picked up the cellphone and called Fred. “Go to your computer!” I said. “I’m at my computer already.” “Go to Internet Movie Database and look up The Ropers!” Jeffrey Tambor and a gorgeous blonde were on the move. The spud and I followed at a distance. “What’s that, a new movie?” Fred asked. “It was the Three’s Company spinoff,” I said. And yes, it’s sad that I knew that. “Okay.” “Start reading me the actors’ names,” I said. Jeffrey Tambor and his wife/ girlfriend/ friend stopped at the currency exchange counter. “Norman Fell… Audra Lindley… I think they’re both dead now, by the way…” “Yeah, keep reading.” “Jeffrey Tambor – ” “That’s it! I’m looking at him right now!” I all but yelled. “Take his picture!” With the spud standing as if posing for a picture, I goonily took a few pictures. Unfortunately, the camera was on some fucked-up setting, and I ended with really blurry pictures of his back. I have no idea what was going on with the camera. My brush with fame. Heh. As excited as I got seeing Jeffrey Tambor, if I ever see anyone REALLY famous, I’ll probably literally shit my pants. Come on, LAX. Jeffrey Tambor is all you have to offer?? * * * It’s 7:38 pm Hawaii time (I turned my watch back when we left L.A.), which makes it 12:38 am Alabama time, which makes it WAY past my bedtime. Thanks, Male Pattern Baldness in the seat in front of me. Thanks for slamming your seat back so far that it’s against my knees. Thanks for doing that the second we reached cruising altitude, even though you didn’t bother to go to sleep, but instead are sitting there chatting with your wife, or whoever the fuck she is. I’m not bothering you by constantly smacking the back of your seat when I shift my legs, am I? (Just a little trick I learned from a four year-old) Q: What’s worse than walking into an airplane bathroom and being greeted by a BIG stank? A: Walking out of said bathroom, knowing that the person waiting to walk in will attribute said stink to YOU, even though you didn’t do it. * * * It’s 8:55 pm Hawaii time, which makes it 1:55 am Alabama time. We’ve been in the air for three hours, and there is a stupid fucking twathead two rows up who has been intermittently shuffling the same goddamn stupid fucking goddamn fucking deck of cars for the last two goddamn fucking hours, and I want to rip her goddamn fucking ::fliiiip::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIIIP::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: head off her stupid fucking goddamn neck ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: ::FLIP::TAP::TAP::TAP:: and shit down her stupid fucking twathead throat. WHAT? What the goddamn fucking christ am I going to do, tap her on her stupid fucking twathead shoulder and say “Excuse me, you self-centered twat, the screaming baby in the seat behind me doesn’t bother me because he can’t help his misery and also he’s cute, but if I hear one more goddamn fucking flip or one more goddamn fucking tap I will KILL YOUR STUPID ASS.”? Yeah. I’m not Courtney Love YET. I fucking hate this. I am staying in Honolulu for the rest of my goddamn life, I am never flying anywhere ever the fuck again STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER SPUD, YES IT IS TECHNICALLY STILL “OVER MY SHOULDER” EVEN IF YOU ARE TO THE SIDE OF ME AND NOT THE BACK STOP IT. Why did my goddamn father have to take this assignment and why did I think this was a good idea? I hate the card-shuffling twat, I hate my parents, I hate this pen I’m holding because it’s not you (SHUT UP, BRIAN KRAKOW) HATE. HATE. HATE. OH LOOK. SHE STOPPED SHUFFLING. SHE’S GOING TO SLEEP. DOESN’T SHE LOOK COMFY. PARDON ME WHILE I GO POKE HER STUPID GODDAMN EYES OUT WITH MY PEN. ]]>

* * * Miz Poo is clearly thrilled beyond all reason that I’m home. ]]>

monkeypod tree for my back yard. I suspect they won’t grow in a non-tropical environment, though. Plumeria blossoms smell amazing. The spud and I both bought Plumeria cuttings to grow our own Plumeria trees. I really REALLY want a pet gecko. We saw tons of them in Hawaii, and it brought me back to my childhood on Guam and the thousands of them we saw during our two years there. Back then I was scared of them (probably because of the way their tails come off. Eeek!), but now I think they’re just the coolest thing. “Aloha”, when said by a native Hawaiian, sounds musical, almost as if they’re singing it. The $2.99 breakfast special, while a good price and filling, always includes very bland pancakes. Taking 10 books in my suitcase along with 5 books in my purse was WAY overdoing it – I only ended up reading about 6 books, two of those on the plane. But I’d still rather have too many books than not enough. If I had to do the trip all over again, I would rent a car for at least part of the week. The only time we had access to a car is when my father wasn’t working, and even then we had to cram four people in the back seat. Nooooooot the most comfortable way to sit, trust me. We took the bus to the Aloha Stadium (there’s a swap meet there, and it was AMAZING), and on the way the bus stopped at Pearl Harbor, and there were about 600 people in line to get their tickets, and Debbie and I immediately decided “Fuck THAT.” Fred is horrified that I went to Hawaii and didn’t visit Pearl Harbor. Hell, I’m a little horrified, myself. But anyway, if we’d had a car, we probably would have ended up going to Pearl Harbor. We also could have spent the week driving all over the island, and swimming on beaches that were all but uninhabited rather than the busy beaches of Waikiki. So if you ever find yourself going to Oahu and are (like me!) too much of a princess to spend the day on a sweltering bus, make sure you rent a car. Whatever the price, I guarantee you it’s worth it.

* * * Okay, that’s it for today. Like I told the notify list last night, I kept a handwritten journal the entire time we were in Hawaii. I’m going to type up those entries and add pictures to hopefully make a pretty decent travelogue. I intend to at least get started on that this weekend while I’m getting over the worst of the jetlag. * * * “Do I LOOK like I missed The Momma?”]]>

* * * My sister called just before 8 this morning from Newark airport. She and Brian have a five hour layover in Newark, and then a NINE hour flight from Newark to Hawaii. I think a nine hour flight would drive me insane. Also, my ass would go numb and fall off. I’m glad as hell that we’re flying from Huntsville to Dallas, Dallas to LA, and LA to Hawaii. I’d rather have a couple of layovers and shorter flights than a NINE HOUR flight. Three times since she’s gotten home, the spud has informed me that her grandparents (her father’s parents, who live near LA) “Only took five hours to get to Hawaii!”, and three times I’ve responded with “Yes, and they didn’t have to fly across the country before they flew to Hawaii, either.” I expect to have the conversation at least once more before we actually get to Hawaii.

* * * Looky, looky! It’s a Robyn avatar! You can make your own, here. * * * There’s a program here that will supposedly tell you what stars you look like. When I submitted this picture: it said I was a combination of Demi Moore, Elizabeth Hurley, and Chi Hsu. When I submitted this one: it said I was a combination of Sophie Marceau, Catherine Bell, and Elena Obraztsova. When I said I was male, and re-submitted the second picture, I came back as a mix of Jason Biggs, Christopher Walken, and Hugh Grant. Sounds good but… I NEED MORE COWBELL! * * * From US Magazine a few weeks ago: US Magazine, I love you, but WHAT THE FUCK? Why the fucking hell shouldn’t men cheat on beautiful women? Are you trying to imply that beautiful women shouldn’t be cheated on BECAUSE they’re beautiful? What, the bitches don’t get enough of a charge from stealing all the attention, now it’s supposed to be a rule that they can’t be cheated on? What? Okay, here’s a shocker: men who cheat on beautiful women cheat for the EXACT same reasons they cheat on ugly women. Because they can. Because they’re assholes. Because their wife doesn’t understand them. Because they have wandering eyes and think that if they look, they must touch. Because their life is stressful and they just need to blow off steam. The question, you stupid fucking US Magazine, is not “Why do men cheat on beautiful women?”, but why do they cheat at all? Why do men cheat? Why do women cheat? Why do cheaters cheat? Beautiful women are supposed to get a special dispensation from any kind of pain or horror because they’re beautiful? What fucking planet do you live on, US Magazine? Because I’m starting to think the answer is “not Earth.” Here’s a horrible fact of life, beautiful people: the impact of a beautiful woman or man lasts only a little while. Once you get to know that beautiful person, they become not “That beautiful woman, Mary Jo”, but “My friend Mary Jo. Yeah, I guess she’s beautiful, that’s how men react when we walk down the street. I hate her. No, wait. I don’t, because she’s funny as hell and a great person.” Conversely, Beautiful Person, if your head has been turned by your own beauty and you think the world owes you whatever your little heart desires, people will figure that out pretty quickly and they won’t see your outer beauty but your inner ugliness, and they won’t have any desire to spend any more time with you than they absolutely have to. I hate you, US Magazine. You really piss me off. (Yet I am helpless in the face of your “Stars: They’re just like us!” page. Ugh.) * * * * * * I’m outta here. Aloha! ]]>

here. Also, there’s a new movie of the “week” (if by “week” you mean “whenever the hell I get around to it”). This one’s starring Meester Boogers with a brief appearance by Spanky and a slightly longer appearance by Miz Poo. The first part is what happens every single night when Fred shakes the box of Kitten Chow. Meester Boogers runs from wherever he is, across the bed, and onto the floor to wait for his little pile of food. (I have mentioned that our cats think Kitten Chow is the best treat ever, right?) The next little bit is what Meester Boogers thinks of having the cat door closed so he can’t go outside. And lastly, Miz Poo was trying to come back through the cat door, and the Booger was freaking out at the very idea. Look, I can’t HELP it that all the movies star Meester Boogers. He’s the only cat who doesn’t just lay around sleeping 24/7! Anyway, click on the “Movie of the week” link over there under “Other”. It’s a long motherfucker, so right-click and “save as”, wouldya? Thanks, you’re a pal.

* * * The hardwood and tile floors downstairs are CLEAN, thankyajeezus. Of course, they have little kitty footprints across them because that little Beanie bastard can’t stand not to walk across a wet floor, but at least they’re CLEAN footprints. The bathroom is clean, the kitchen is clean, the living room is dusted and vacuumed, the stairs are vacuumed, and the computer room is vacuumed. In other words, at this very moment, the downstairs is presentable for company. I suspect that by this weekend, when Fred has his parents over, it’ll be less presentable. But I don’t care, I’ll be in Hawaii! Whoo! * * * I took my heart (or rather, my sanity) in my hands and went to Wal-Mart today. I needed earplugs, and Wal-Mart is apparently the only store in the area that carries the soft foam ones I like. I also had to get a few other things, and the spud wanted to check out their flip-flop collection. She ended up buying three pair of flip-flops and a set of toe rings. I don’t wear flip-flops because I can bear to have the thingy between my toes, so I have no idea where her sudden flip-flop love comes from. (She got a pair that light up while she was in California. If they were anything but flip-flops, I would have stolen them from her so fast her head would’ve spun.) Then we went to the grocery store and got sushi for lunch, because it was well past lunch time and we were both starving. I got my usual (California Rolls), and she got something else, I don’t remember the name of it. We ate as soon as we got home, and when the spud was done, she showed me her plate. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to little orange speckles on her plate. I shrugged. “I don’t know, spices?” “They look like FISH EGGS,” she said. I looked again. “Yeah, they could be.” “Well, that’s gross!” she said, and flounced into the kitchen to put her plate in the dishwasher. “You eat chicken eggs all the time,” I said. “Why are fish eggs gross?” She looked simultaneously confused and disgusted. “When do I eat CHICKEN eggs?” She wrinkled her nose. I stared at her for a moment, chewing on the California roll in my mouth. I waited for the light to dawn on her face, but all was dark. “Like, every day when you have scrambled eggs!” I finally said. “Oh!” she had the good sense to look a little embarrassed. “I guess I wasn’t thinking!” Heh. She gets that from her Momma. * * * I’m 99.9% packed. And because I’m using a big-ass LL Bean duffel bag with wheels (the yellow one, naturally), every time I thought I was done packing, I remembered something else I might possibly need, and packed that, too. Despite my father telling me this afternoon not to overpack, I have overpacked in a big way. I was still able to lift the bag… which means I need to pack more, right? * * * “My mother is abandoning me, and I am bereft.”]]>

George Michael is shutting down the forum on his website because people are taking potshots at him. Here’s what one braniac had to say: “It’s a fans’ forum, it’s freedom of speech, and I don’t think it’s down to George to take his ball home and say ‘I’m not playing any more’.People have opinions and they are entitled to them; that’s what a forum is for.” Well but, here’s the thing. It’s a forum for the fans… but it’s on George Michael’s site. The site that belongs to George Michael, who can do whatever he wants with the site that belongs… to him. Sure people are entitled to their own opinions (opinions are like assholes, and every asshole has an opinion), but he’s supposed to provide the bandwidth for them to have their opinions? Um, no. Don’t think so. I provide comments on this site so that people can comment, but if I started getting comments like “Why the fuck do you bother to call these things ‘entries’? They SUCK. Why don’t you DIE?!” all the time, chances are pretty good that I’d shut down the comments. I actually think he should get kudos for leaving the forum open for a few weeks so that people who’ve made friends with other posters can make plans with each other. And I’m not even a George Michael fan. Though “Faith” rocks the casbah.

* * * I put up some pictures this weekend. You can see the pictures I took in Gatlinburg back in May here (there’s not a whole lot there, but I got some cool aquarium pics), and I put up the best of the quarry pics here. Also, I have no idea if I ever actually linked to these pictures, but there are pictures from our trip to Vicksburg, MS last year here. * * * I’ve been watching Sports Night while I work out in the morning, and I finally saw the episode from whence Fractious Times got their name. I was, perhaps, a little more excited than the occasion warranted when I heard Dan say “These are fractious times”, but what can I say? It doesn’t take much to excite me. * * * I was going to scrub the bathroom and dust and vacuum the rest of the upstairs this morning. I ended up just vacuuming the upstairs. It’s not like anyone will notice if I don’t clean; I cleaned the upstairs last week, after all. I do need to clean the downstairs and mop the floors, because Fred will probably have his parents over while I’m in Hawaii, and I don’t want them to know what a pig I am. The spud and I fed the cats at the pet store this morning (pictures up tomorrow), then we came home so I could shower and vacuum and do some laundry, then we left to go to Sam’s (where I bought out the entire store, I swear to god) and Target for some last-minute stuff to take to Hawaii. Did you know that they make travel size cans of shaving cream? Hey, anything to save a little room in my suitcase – I’ll need plenty of room for books, after all. And I need to take shaving cream, since I’ll be prancing around in shorts (gasp!) and need to keep my legs shaved more than the usual once a week. I’m leaving for Hawaii in two days! Whee! I know that at least two of you are going to be in Hawaii at the same time I am. If you happen to spot me, please come up and say hi – but ixnay on the ournaljay, especially if you happen to see a 60ish clean-freak type nearby. “Robyn? Hi! I’m (insert name) – I emailed you about (insert cat name of your choice) a while back!” will work well as a code, I think, and cut down on the necessity of explaining what an online journal is (“And I bitch about you ALL the time, Mom!”) to my mother. * * * I have come to the conclusion that I don’t really care for the word “lady”. I came to this conclusion this morning when I read a site wherein the site owner said that he was on the lookout for “a special lady to share my life with.” Now, I’m sure he’s a nice guy and everything but the words “special” and “lady”, when put together just ooze cheese, don’t they? You just can’t use the word “lady” and not sound like a cheeseball. “Heyyyyy, sexy lady!”, “This is my lady friend…”, “My lady and I…”, “My special lady says…” See? Totally cheesy. Anything on earth would sound better. “My bitch says…” see? Better. The only time I can hear “lady” and not have a knee-jerk “Ugh!” reaction is when my friend Liz calls. She always says “Hey, lady!”, which harkens back to when we were 18 and cruising around the seamier side of Lewiston. I was sitting with my head out the window (it was the middle of summer and hot as hell), and we passed a gaggle of about 6 teenage boys. “Hey, lady!” one of them yelled. “Hey… man!” was my brilliant response. Ever since, Liz greets me with “Hey, lady!” From anyone else, though? Totally cheeseball. * * * There, there, Musty.]]>