after 11 last night! Can you believe it? After I paid bills and threw up a journal entry (hm. that doesn’t sound right, but you know what I mean), I went upstairs and wrapped some more presents, got the box of presents ready to send off to my parents, then spent half an hour folding laundry. In the living room, Fred watched ten or fifteen minutes of Truth or Dare before flipping around some more. Once I put the laundry away, I joined him and demanded that he go back to Truth or Dare. It’s one of the movies I always stop and watch if I happen across it whilst flipping channels, because it’s a total trainwreck of a movie. Documentary, I guess I should call it. Through the entire thing, Madonna is just a total bitch. Not that this should shock anyone. I particularly like the part where they’re in Toronto and the cops are threatening to arrest her for public indecency because of the huge masturbation scene during her rendition of "Like a Virgin." Madonna yammers about freedom of speech, and how she has the right as a U.S. citizen to express herself artistically. When did Toronto become part of the United States, again? Then she and her backup singers did a heartfelt chorus of "We Shall Overcome." Poor, downtrodden Madonna. You really have to feel for her, don’t you? I don’t believe I ever mentioned that the other day – the day Tubby peed on the spud’s coat, matter of fact – Fred got home from work to find a note from the cleaning chick: Mrs. Anderson – Your daughter’s blankets are in the laundry room. One of the cats went to the bathroom on them. Summer. Tubby strikes again, damn him straight to hell. About twice a year, he registers his displeasure with something we’ve done, and it usually takes the form of defecating on Fred’s bed. This time, he apparently decided that the spud would be his target. I’m sure he’s reacting (long after the fact) to my parents’ eternal visit and our adopting the kitten so soon after they left. He’s never registered his displeasure on my bed, and I suspect he knows I’d kick his tubby ass from one end of the house to the other and back again if anything of the sort ever occurred. And don’t think I wouldn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that Fred and I have separate bedrooms. Actually, the master bedroom is considered "our" bedroom – that’s where all our clothes are, and Fred showers in the master bathroom – but that’s where I sleep alone at night. Every night after lights-out, Fred and I lay in bed and talk for half an hour or so, and then kiss and hug goodnight, and he goes off into "his" room – a small extra bedroom on the other side of the house – and sleeps there. We have a king-sized bed in the master bedroom, so space is not the issue. Snoring is. And it’s actually not his snoring, it’s mine. I snore like Hell, as well as grinding my teeth almost incessantly. It’s quite a thrill trying to sleep next to me, it appears. Last time we tried sleeping in the same bed, Fred gave up after about forty-five minutes of listening to me snore and grind. Let’s not even talk about my morning breath.]]>
12/18/1999