Author: Robyn

So, the guys came and built the shed in our back yard today:

Everything in the garage that isn’t weightlifting or cardio related is going into the shed. And I get this feeling there’ll be an assload of room left over in there. I suggested that we run a power line out there for the spud when she hits her obnoxious teen stage. The cats freaked out all morning long, especially a certain Portly Poo:

who sat on the table all morning long and stared at the guys out there working.

She came looking for love at one point, and I tried to get a picture of the two of us, using the self-timer, but she was too agitated to sit still:

For the record, I don’t know why my tongue was sticking out like that.

Notice how my statement yesterday about how I wasn’t going to use the new camera again until I got the rechargeable battery for it kind of fell by the wayside?

I love me some messing around with the camera.

Did y’all know there’s going to be one last-ditch attempt to grab some Survivor ratings with tonight’s showing of Survivor: Home from Africa? And then we have to wait until the end of February to see the next one. That’s okay, though, because Temptation Island is back on the air after something like a one-month break, and you know how I love the cheesy reality shows. I’m an addict!

Speaking of cheesy, can you believe I actually rented Glitter this week? My intent is to watch and mock it mercilessly, but I wonder if I’ll get much more than ten minutes into it.

Okay, that’s it for today. See y’all tomorrow!

 

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So, I’m taking time lately to read through my pile of magazines – they pile up pretty quickly – and last night I was reading "Ladies’ Home Journal" or "Rosie", I don’t remember which, and there was an article written by this woman who has lupus, about how people can’t see her disability, so they think she’s a big faker when she parks in the handicapped zone and so forth.

At the end of the article, she mentions that she doesn’t know how to respond when people ask "How are you?", whether she should say "I’d have to feel a lot better to feel rotten!", or "Hanging in there!", or what. Here’s the thing, and correct me if I’m wrong, y’all – when people say "How are you?", they don’t really want to know. It’s just a way of acknowledging that they see you and being polite. When someone says "How are you?", the correct response is always going to be "Good! How are you?", and never "Well, my hemorrhoids are really bothering me, and I haven’t had sex in a week, and I had onions for lunch, and I keep burping them up. What about you?" Not unless it’s someone you’re very close to, like your husband or best friend.

Also in "Rosie" is this column where people write in with questions to "The Mom Squad" – three mothers who give their own answer. This month’s Mom Squad (I’m pretty sure they rotate the moms) consisted of Judge Glenda Hatchett, Deborah Norville, and Joanna Kerns. The question that got me was (paraphrased) this one: "I need to lose 30 pounds, and my 9 year-old son continually tells me I’m fat. I want him to be able to express himself, but he’s hurting my feelings. What do I do?"

Gee, mom. I don’t know. Ever hear of "Shut up, Junior, that’s rude, and the next time you say it, you’re going to your room for the rest of the day"? Why is this woman even asking for advice on this – is she completely clueless? How is telling someone she’s fat repeatedly expressing oneself? Don’t people teach their kids that it’s not necessary to say whatever they think, whenever they think it anymore?

Ah well.

I was snoozing peacefully this morning some time after 6, when I heard the crash-bang sound of two cats running into a door or something. When Fred woke me up before he left for work, he told me the story of what had happened.

It appears that Fred was in the bathroom, and Tubby was sitting on front of the food dish (which you’ll recall is a few feet in front of the toilet), eating. Spot was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, which he apparently does every morning while Fred’s getting ready for work. Next to the toilet sits a magazine (yeah, yeah – pretend like YOU don’t read on the toilet, ya big liar), and as Tubby was happily eating, the magazine fell over. Which Tubby saw out of the corner of his eye, and to which he responded by jumping up in the air in what we call his "popcorn jump" – because he looks like a big, fat popcorn kernel popping. For a fat cat, he can get some serious height on his jumps. Spot then ran directly into the cupboards at the end of the tub, recovered after a second, and then hauled ass out the bathroom door. When Tubby landed back on the ground, he ran in place on one of the bathroom rugs, as it bunched up behind him, and then he got enough traction to run onto the OTHER bathroom rug, which did the same thing, finally got traction and ran toward the bathroom door, hitting his ass on the frame as he ran through it.

There’s just nothing funnier in this world than a startled cat. Unless it’s several startled cats.

Speaking of cats, I opened the back door briefly (thanks to everyone who suggested putting in a cat door – I’m trying to talk Himself into it) last night, and the cats went out and wandered about for a while. When it started to get cold inside, I went to the door. Fancypants and Spanky will come running when they see me at the door because they know I’m usually about to shut it. Miz Poo, on the other hand, runs away from the door, because she wants to stay outside. Fred tried calling her in, until I said "Just let her stay out there and she’ll be ready to come in after we eat dinner."

Two hours later, as I moseyed from the computer room to the living room, I heard the most pitiful-sounding meow, and I remembered that I’d never let poor Miz Poo in after dinner.

Oops!

So I let her in, and believe you me – she told me how it was for the next fifteen minutes, following me around, howling her fool head off, and insisting that I give her some ear-scratching love.

Poor Poo.

So, I took a bunch of pictures yesterday with the new camera, but here’s the sucky thing. It doesn’t come with a rechargeable battery, only a couple of wimpy-ass AA batteries, and in the course of trying out the camera yesterday I wore out three – yes, THREE – sets of batteries. I headed for Ebay and bid (and won!) a rechargeable battery for the camera, which should be winging it’s way here as I type. Therefore, I leave you with the best picture I took yesterday, which will hopefully tide you over until I get my long-lasting battery.

You see, the camera has a self-timer on it, which I find prettydamncool. So I set it, and then yelled at Fred to come hurry up and stand next to me and have his picture taken. In his haste, he ran head-first into the light hanging from the ceiling of the library.

Is it just me, or does he look like he’s not quite there?

Speaking of looking not quite there, I took this picture today just before the batteries died – and keep in mind that a) I didn’t style my hair in the slightest, and b) I used the flash, so I’m usually not quite that white. I present to you, Freakypoo:

A tad freakish, no? Frizzy hair, wickedly white hair, and a big ol’ hook nose. Not the most flattering picture, ya think?

 

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Miz Poo is starting to PISS ME OFF. You see, she’s under the impression that she’s a gymnast lately. And so, I’ll be dead to the world, snoring away all content-like, and she’ll run from the other side of the bed and BOUNCE off of me while doing a double twirl with a half-twist, causing great pain and agony to me. Because, here’s the thing. SHE IS A PORTLY CAT WITH A PORTLY ASS. She THINKS she’s still the cute little 6-ounce baby she used to be, but hear me now, folks: SHE’S NOT. She’s portly. A portly Poo. And one of these days she’s going to crack one of my ribs.

And it won’t be pretty.

Plus, she’s getting mighty bossy. Fred and I were laying down talking yesterday, and she jumped up to see what was going on. And Spot was laying on the end of the bed, minding his own business. So what’d she do? Sniffed at his back, and then smacked him with her Paw O’ Evil. This morning, Fred and I had a quick discussion about the state of his back, and then he went off to take his shower and get ready for work, and I settled in to go back to sleep. Except that Miz Poo had heard us talking and decided that I was awake enough to do her bidding. She settled down next to me on her back and grabbed my hand with her front paws and viciously licked me and rubbed her nose on my hand until I rubbed her belly.

Okay, so that last example sounds pretty cute. Except, trust me – when it’s 6 am and you want to go back to sleep, it’s really just annoying.

The camera o’ my dreams is HERE, y’all. I can’t tell you how excited I am! It’s a little weird having to hook it up to the USB port to look at pictures, but it’s so LITTLE and cute and light and will fit PERFECTLY into my purse, so I can torture y’all with EVEN MORE pictures. Aren’t you thrilled? I know I am!

Dennis Miller once said something along the lines of "If you have more than two cats, your house smells like boiled ass, even if you can’t smell it." What with the Mad Shitter NEVER bothering to poo in the litter box these days, our house is, in fact, starting to smell like boiled ass, and I hate it. I guess it could be worse – he could be pooing on the bed or couch; what he actually does is use the carpet directly outside the laundry room. You can imagine how much this thrills me. It’s not a matter of the litter box being dirty, either – even if I’ve just cleaned it out, he does it. I think he does it on the days he can’t go outside – I know I’ve mentioned that our dumbass cats won’t let me just let them outside and shut the door. No indeedy – they must have the door OPEN at all times, just IN CASE they want to come back inside, and with the temperature outside hovering around 35 these days, that ain’t gonna happen.

Anyone want a fancy black cat?

 

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Big, bad thanks to my sister (and Brian!), who sent me Purple Cane Road and Another Day in Paradise off my wish list for my birthday. Whee!

Speaking of birthday presents (have I mentioned that it’s my birthday month?), I did get a bouquet of flowers from my friend Liz last Tuesday:

which makes it very flowery in BitchyLand, because Fred bought me these this weekend while he was getting groceries:

and we already had these, from last weekend:

I wonder where he got the idea that I like yellow?

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So, you know what I hate? Don’t bother guessing – you know I’m about to tell you. I hate, loathe, despise those FUCKING Clairol Herbal Essence commercials. You know the ones I mean, the ones where women are washing their hair with Herbal Essence shampoo in some public place and doing a big IDIOTIC fake orgasm as they do so, and then looking all smug and proud of themselves at the end before the voiceover says something about an "organic experience".

My god, I hate those fucking commercials, and what’s more, I can’t help wondering what brainiac came up with the concept. Most likely, everyone in the ad agency was sitting around smoking crack, and someone said "So they’re going with the tagline about the organic experience?", and someone else said "Did you say ORGASMIC experience?!", and hilarity just ensued all over the place, and they stayed up all night working on the storyboards, and when they wheeled 300 year-old Bob Clairol (the head of Clairol, of course) into the meeting the next day, they presented the idea, and Bob Clairol drooled, and they took that as agreement to the idea, not realizing – and not caring, because WE ALL KNOW THAT CRACK MAKES YOU NOT CARE ABOUT THINGS – that Bob Clairol was in the midst of stroke number fifteen.

In fact, I hate that commercial so much that I have declared a Clairol boycott. Not ONE Clairol product will pass the Bitchypoo doorstep until that fucking commercial is pulled from the airways never to annoy and enrage me again, ever. I suggest y’all do the same.

Know what other commercial annoys me, though much less than that FUCKING Clairol commercial? The commercial for that dumbass spoof movie Kung Pow, and I hate it so much because the beginning of the trailer always sucks me in. "Oh!" I think to myself EVERY TIME, "This sounds interesting, what is it?", and then they show the guy wearing the bad wig, who’s looking (the guy, not the wig) at the girl with three breasts, and my interest goes from something like a 7, to a -56. That movie, my friends, will NOT be showing up in THIS house. I guarantee it.

Okay, that’s all I have to bitch about today. Go forth and don’t buy any Clairol products. See you tomorrow!

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If none of you saw the especially funny Bernie Mac Wednesday night, don’t worry. I taped it, and I’m going to shoot a little video when my new camera gets here, so that y’all can appreciate the hilarity that is Bernie.

Friday Five:

1. What was your first job? I was a carhop/ waitress at the Hi-Hat III Drive-In, in Lisbon. It sucked, and I only stayed there until I could get a better job – ie, I got my driver’s license and got hired at McDonald’s (it’s a sad statement when McDonald’s is a step up, isn’t it?). My boss only paid "student minimum wage", which was two dollars and something an hour, if I recall correctly, and I think there was some kind of rule that you only made that much if you made under a certain amount in tips. Of course, I got tips. If I wasn’t wearing pants with pockets, I’d keep my tips in a cup on the counter, and my boss would think nothing of counting my tips to be sure I was reporting the amount of tips I got correctly. I’m not in the slightest bit sad to see that the restaurant finally went out of business, and if my former boss is living somewhere in abject poverty? Well, all the better.

2. How old were you when you had your first kiss? Sixteen, with my first boyfriend. The World’s Worst Kisser. You know those guys who come at you with their mouths wide open and jam their tongues down your throat? That was him. Amazing I wasn’t turned off of kissing forever.

3. What was your first car? What happened to it? The first car I drove on a regular basis was a blue Chevette. I had to share that car with my brother Randy, who’d use it until there was just the tiniest, slightest bit of gas in the tank, and leave it for me to fill up. The first car that was mine, all mine, was a brown Chevette my father bought when I was 17, and I tore that thing up. I’m amazed it lasted as long as it did. It finally bit the dust when I was 19 and pregnant with the spud. It’d been dying for a long time, but one day I couldn’t shift any higher than second gear, and since the ex and I had just bought a new (used) car, we drove the Chevette to the junkyard, where we got $50 for it. I’m still most comfortable in small cars (how’d I end up in a Jeep, you’ve gotta wonder), and I wish they still made Chevettes.

4. What was your first concert? Strictly speaking, it would have to be Shaun Cassidy – Debbie and our cousin Kim looooooved Shaun, and it wasn’t a bad concert. Shaun came out in overalls and acted as though he was part of the stage crew, and when he adjusted the microphone to his height, Debbie started screaming "That’s him! That’s him!", and sure enough, she was right. My first "real" concert, though, was Judas Priest and Great White, which Debbie and I attended with Randy and his girlfriend. I had no idea who Judas Priest and Great White were, but I was very excited about going to see them, nonetheless. Suddenly, I’m thinking I’m wrong. It was Judas Priest, wasn’t it, Deb?

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? Not doing much. As usual. Maybe I’ll get my desk cleaned off, but I’m not counting on it. Maybe I’ll get caught up on everything I taped last night. Hopefully I’ll talk Fred into watching Swingers with me at some point.

 

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Many thanks to Heather and Aimee, who went wayyy above and beyond the call of duty yesterday. Man, I spent half the day laughing my ass off, y’all. And thanks to Himself, who gave me a buttload of books for my birthday (which I won’t list, because they’re upstairs and I’m downstairs and I’m a lazy bitchypoo). Thanks also to everyone who emailed to tell me how they were celebrating my birthday, from carrying a yellow bag to work instead of their usual black bag, to calling their significant other "Ya fuckin’ idiot" – that one was very, very popular, big surprise.

So, I was sitting in the computer room talking on the phone to my mother yesterday, and someone pulled up in front of our house and TOOK A PICTURE of the front of the house and drove off. That fucking freaks me out. I HOPE IT WASN’T ANY OF MY READERS. Mostly because if you tried to break into my house and do nasty, dirty things to me, you’d run into our half-insane Rottweiller, James, who’s been trained to attack the crotch of anyone he doesn’t know.

You’ve been warned.

Actually, after she drove off, she slowed down and may have taken a picture of a house halfway down the cul-de-sac, so maybe she was just taking pictures of random houses. It’s still creepy, though.

Say’s recent entry about her trip to Wal-Mart made me think of the time I was there a few months ago. I ended up in line behind a husband and wife who had a HUGE cart of stuff. The cashier finished ringing up everything, and the husband looked at the total and said "Oh my god! What did you BUY?!", and he and the poor cashier spent the next TEN MINUTES looking at the receipt and matching it to EVERY fucking thing in the cart. I wanted to scream "IF YOU WERE THAT FUCKING INTERESTED IN HOW MUCH EVERYTHING COST, YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN PAYING ATTENTION WHEN SHE WAS RINGING IT ALL UP!" The cashier kept giving me "I’m SO sorry about this!" looks, and I would have gone to another line, but it was a busy day where there were ten people in every line.

I’m currently reading Gut Feelings by Carnie Wilson (oh, shaddup), and here’s a tidbit you probably didn’t know about Carnie: she was a big pothead and admits to still occasionally smoking. Say it ain’t so, Carnie! The scandal!

Speaking of Carnie Wilson, back when Wilson Phillips was big, with Hold On and Release Me, I used to deliver newspapers in the early morning (it sucked, and I never made any kind of money, and I don’t have any idea why I bothered), and four fucking mornings in a row, the DJ working the early morning shift at the radio station I used to listen to while delivering papers would play Release Me and then say "Hold On, Release Me, I wish they’d make up their minds! HawHawHaw!"

Y’all are saying "Wilson who? Hold On? Isn’t that that Top-40s crap from the early ’90s?", aren’t you?

I think I’m going to go lay on the couch and watch some more Friends and feel old. See you tomorrow!

 

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Oh… is it my birthday? Why, I had completely forgotten…

Luckily, I had Jolene and Moses and Lis and Shannon and Earl Grey Tea (you know you’re special when a TEA celebrates your birthday) and someone who’s a little Out of (her) Mind and my fellow Goddesses and about ten zillion e-cards to remind me. Oh, and let’s not forget the wrapped present from Athena, which I opened this morning, and was THRILLED to find The Best of Friends. Athena knows the way to my heart, yes indeedy. I also opened the wrapped present from reader Laura in PA, who sent me this Sherman’s Lagoon book (LOVE me some Sherman’s Lagoon. I bet you didn’t know that about me.) I opened both the wrapped packages this morning instead of when I got them, because the rule is that I have to wait until the actual day to open presents, if they’re wrapped. Well, that’s the rule I made up for myself, anyway.

My birthday is kickin’ ass, and the day’s not half over yet!

I was awakened early this morning by the Governor of Alabama, who’s been harrassing me about wanting to change the name of the state to RobynBama, despite my insistence that he’s a nutball. I had to put my foot down, because really – if they’re going to eventually rename the country the United States of Robyn, I don’t want just a state named after me. That would be silly.

The weather gods are behaving today – it’s close to 50 right now, and I expect it’ll get even warmer. Maybe winter’s over? (Ha!)

Of course, it’s a state-wide holiday, and the people who deliver the mail are thrilled to have the day off (especially MY mailman, as you can imagine). As I told Moira the other day, the banks don’t actually shut down on my birthday, but they do spend the day printing money with my picture on it – there’s usually a brawl or two when people feel they aren’t getting as many RobDollars as they want. But y’know how it is. There’s only so much Bitchypoo to go around!

I bet y’all are wishing like hell that the day was over and I’d go back to normal, aren’t you? 🙂

Okay, that’s it for today. I’m going to go lay on the couch and watch me some Friends, and try to convince Miz Poo to snuggle with me. Thanks, y’all, for all your birthday wishes and e-cards, and everything else. You’ve helped to make my day especially special!

 

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How to celebrate Robyn’s birthday
(which is tomorrow, so get crackin’)

(This idea totally stolen from Mopie)

1. Rename your journal “Bitchypoo” (just for the day).

2. Call your child – or husband, if you don’t have a child – “Spud” all day long. Or call your favorite pet (doesn’t have to be a cat) Miz Poo for the day. Follow your pet around and croon "Mizzzz Poooooo" until it gets annoyed and runs away with it’s ears laid back.

3. During a semi-important meeting or phone call say “I don’t know. What does Robyn think of that?”

4. Wear something yellow (that being my favorite color).

5. When your husband/ significant other/ cat farts for the 53rd time in 10 minutes, narrow your eyes at him/ her/ it and say “You’repissin’meoff.”

6. Change your computer wallpaper to a picture of me, unless it would frighten other family members.

7. Call your significant other "Ya fuckin’ idiot" out of the blue, for no particular reason.

8. Postpone cleaning the house for another week.

9. Eat a whoopie pie.

10. Take a bath using Lush bath melts or bath fizzies, and spend the rest of the day making people smell you.

And don’t forget to email me and tell me what you did!

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Here we see all the cats except Miz Poo snoozing on the bed. Those cats just love the hell out of the bed in our bedroom, I’m not sure why. They spent all day long Sunday just snoozing and rolling around. Thank god the cat fur doesn’t show up on this bedspread – I don’t even want to think about how much there is.

Tubby and Spanky hanging out in the study. Doesn’t it look like we interrupted a drug deal?

Man. Dave Thomas (of Wendy’s, not Dave Thomas the actor) died. That really kinda sucks.

I’m headed off to Target here in a few minutes – I have a long list of stuff I need to pick up, from kitty litter to a new cordless phone for the upstairs (how did people walk around while talking on the phone before cordless phones were invented? Longer cords, I guess).

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I just got back from Target. The bastards were out of the phone I wanted, so that was no good. I want one like the one I have on my desk, because it has caller id built into the phone itself. You know what freaks me out? When the phone rings, Fred will just PICK UP THE PHONE AND ANSWER IT. Isn’t that freaky? I could never imagine just answering it like that, instead of checking out the caller id first. And if it’s anyone other than my parents, my sister, or my friend Liz (or Fred from work, during the week), I don’t answer it. Why would I answer it if it’s not for me?

Speaking of phones, I was sitting in the Wendy’s driveup this afternoon in the middle of giving my lunch order when the cellphone rang. It was Fred – no one else calls me on the cellphone – using his deductive powers for evil once again. The man somehow just KNOWS the least convenient time to call me – when I’m in the bathroom, when I’m in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, when I’m in the driveup at Wendy’s – and calls then. I don’t know how he does it. Some kind of husbandly intuition, I s’pose.

Speaking of phones, my friend Liz keeps calling and emailing to ask if I’ve gotten "anything" from her today. I suspect she’s sending me flowers for my birthday, because I sent her flowers for hers. She’s 10 days older than I am, and she wanted a certain baseball cap – something about some Arizona baseball team; I don’t retain anything regarding sports, thank you – and they let me know that the order was backordered, and I wanted her to get something on her birthday from me, so I sent flowers. I love sending flowers. I’m a flower-sending fool.

At Target, I purchased a 31-pound container of Tidy Cat (or was it Fresh Step?) – we have 5 cats, you know, so we go through the litter like you wouldn’t believe, even though a certain little bastard makes it a point to poo BY the litter box instead of IN it. The tiny, skinny little cashier tried to lift the container over the scanner and almost fell over, so I had to help.

Me strong. ::grunt::

Someone out there sent me a copy of The Man who Cast Two Shadows, which was on my wish list. Thank you, and if you’d email me, I’d like to thank you properly.

Okay, that’s it for today. Tomorrow? My birthday! Can you stand the excitement, can you?!

 

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So, we watched two movies this weekend. Actually, I watched two movies this weekend – Fred and the spud have a tradition of watching of watching movies every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and they’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days. The first movie I watched was on Saturday – with Fred and the spud – was The Fast and the Furious. Fred was SO looking forward to seeing it, because he loves Vin Diesel.

What a piece of crap. I ended up reading through most of it, only looking up once or twice, most especially when Vin took his shirt off.

The other movie, which Fred and I watched on Saturday night, was The Glass House. I figured we’d watch about ten minutes of it, get bored, and turn it off. Leelee Sobieski kind of annoys me sometimes and I didn’t expect to like the movie, but it surprised me. It was really pretty good, and had me on the edge of my seat several times. Stellan Skarsgard and Diane Lane were both believably creepy. Two thumbs up!

Fred and I were watching the beginning of the movie – Fred was reading a book and glanced up from time to time at first, and then ended up putting the book down. Anyway, after the funeral – I don’t think I’m giving away any plot points with that – Fred glanced up and misunderstood what he saw.

"She’s not with HIM," I said in response. "She’s HER friend!" And then –

Before I go on, let me break here for a moment and ask – do you ever mean to type one thing and type another? I’ll be responding to email, or writing an entry, and though I’ll intend to type "will", my fingers will go off on their own and decide to type "while" or "wary", or some other word – maybe "can’t". In other words, what ends up there is a word that I didn’t intend to type, wasn’t even thinking of typing, but it got typed anyway. (Probably dozens of you out there who’ve gotten emails from me are thinking to yourselves "Oh THAT’S why her email didn’t make any sense! – not only do I tend to type the wrong word, I also often don’t go back and re-read what I’ve typed before I send the mail).

And that’s what my brain did. I said, "She’s not with HIM. She’s HER friend!" Pause. And I opened my mouth to affectionately say "You dumbass!"

I often call my husband a dumbass, and don’t email me and tell me how I don’t deserve such a wonderful guy when I abuse him like that, because he knows it’s a term of affection. When it’s aimed toward him, anyway.

Only, of SAYING "You dumbass!", my mouth went off on it’s own, and what came out was "Ya fuckin’ idiot!"

As soon as it came out of my mouth, my jaw dropped open.

"Oh my GOD!" I said, both horrified and laughing.

I have NEVER called my husband a fucking idiot. Because he’s not. (Except when he leaves his clothes laying on top of every piece of furniture in our bedroom. And even then I don’t call him an idiot to his face. That would be rude, and I think we can agree that I’m all about the politeness.)

I apologized more than once, but I think he was secretly glad it happened, because it gave him something to give me a hard time about all weekend long.

The fucking idiot.

Hee! Oh, I slay me!

Since I’m giving Fred a hard time today, I’ll mention a little story that happened last weekend. We were taking down the Christmas cards – well, Fred was – and he yanked one end of the ribbon (that the cards were hanging on) out of the wall, and the tack that had been holding it in place went flying over into the living room.

"That’s okay," he said to the spud, "Your Mom will find it. Maybe with her ass." And then he giggled.

The next morning, he came in the room and woke me up.

"Have you been sitting on the couch and cross-stitching?" he asked.

I thought about it. "No, I always sit on the love seat. Why?"

And he held up a needle. Which he’d found in the couch cushion.

With his ass.

I heard the whip-like sound of the Karmic Boomerang on that one.

Man. I cleaned out the cd holder between the front seats in my Jeep this afternoon, and there must have been 300 pieces of chewed gum wrapped up in wrappers in there. I’m one gum-chewing fool. It was nasty. My directions to Atlanta for the 3Day were still in there. There were 7 half-full Diet Coke bottles in the floor of the back seat.

A clean freak I am not.

How are those Bitchypoo Altars o’ Worship coming? Two days! Mmm… birthday cake! (See? I almost typed "Bitchy cake" there! My fingers have a mind of their own!)

Oh – I almost forgot! I finally got the Virtual Tour of the new house put up. To see it, find the link on the sidebar.

 

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Friday Five:

1. You’ve just won a complete collection of movies starring one actor – what actor would you pick? Meg Ryan, probably. (As a side note, when we were watching Moulin Rouge, Fred pointed out how much Nicole Kidman looks like Meg Ryan, and it’s true! For the rest of the movie, I couldn’t see Nicole Kidman without seeing her striking resemblance to Meg Ryan)

2. What was the last movie you saw in a theater? I think it was America’s Sweethearts, when my Mom was here in August – she, the spud and I went to see it. I rarely go out to see movies, obviously. Perhaps once the spud’s back in school and there are no out-of-school kids to pack the theaters, I’ll see about going to see the occasional matinee during the week.

3. What was the last video or DVD that you bought? Moulin Rouge, two days before Christmas, because Fred loved it that much.

4. What movie could you watch over and over again and not get sick of? When Harry Met Sally.

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? Waiting for it to be Monday, so I can weigh in, take pictures, and take measurements. My 12-week Body for Life challenge is almost over. Weee!

It’s that time of year again, y’all. That’s right, time to nominate entries for Diarist Awards. Remember as you read through these – I’m sure I read more entries than these that deserve to be nominated, but it has to occur to me to add them to my "Diarist Awards" bookmarks folder, and very often life intervenes and I forget. So this list is never by any means a complete one.

Love LOVE this entry by Elizabeth, in Abeyance. I can completely relate, especially given that I just a week ago was able to fit into a pair of 18/20 pants, which is a size I haven’t seen in forever and a day.

Jessamyn‘s entry about her relationship with her body, about feeling uncomfortable with herself, is yet another one I can relate to – and I think that most women can.

Renee‘s entry written from her husband’s point of view was awesome.

Nicole‘s rant about book snobs had me saying "AMEN SISTER!" I always feel like a lowbrow idiot for reading the best-sellers and mystery novels, but fuck those book snobs. And fuck Jonathan Franzen as well.

Okay, that’s it for this time around. I was apparently very sparing with the control-b this quarter – maybe because of the whole Thanksgiving/ Christmas rush, I don’t know.

If you have a journal, go nominate someone – you have until the 15th!

Have a good weekend, y’all. 5 more days until my birthday! Woohoo!

 

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