damn! How the fuck are we supposed to ever make any fucking kind of fucking money when they turn around and take that much, for god’s fucking sake? That’s what I sound like when I’m peeved, by the way. Total potty mouth at the drop of a hat. I guess I live in my own little world, because until now (this is the first investing of any kind – aside from my retirement account – I’ve had anything to do with. Just thinking about it makes me feel old.) it hadn’t occurred to me the many ways in which the government sticks their collective hand out to take as much of my money as humanly possible. Know what pisses me off the most? I can work my whole life, scrimping and saving, hoping to have a nice little nest egg to leave my children/grandchildren/whomever, and when I die the fucking government takes half. It’s not enough that they took their percentage off the top before I ever got the money in the first place. I know there are ways to circumvent it – we take our investing advice from Suze Orman – but isn’t it a pisser that you have to do that? Does it say in the Constitution "We the Government have the right to fuck you at every turn"? (No, really, does it? I haven’t got a clue what’s in there) So after my two days of yammering about it, wondering aloud incessantly where on earth I got the 1000 Mona Lisas cd, Fred finally told me last night that it’s his. You’d think he’d’ve mentioned it a tad sooner. I am rapidly becoming obsessed with the Beth Nielsen Chapman song "Sand and Water." I was briefly enamored of it early this year, but the cd became lost in the shuffle and I forgot I had it. Her husband died and left her alone with a small child, and that’s what "Sand and Water" is about. I adore sad songs, which is ironic considering the positive, life-affirming force that is Robyn. The sadder a song is, the more I like it. I’ve been known to drive down the road sobbing hysterically while listening to "Feed Jake" (as sung by Pirates of the Mississippi) or "Beloved Wife" (Natalie Merchant). I get teary-eyed just thinking about it. Yes, I’m aware that I’m a dork, why do you ask? Restless Souls Collaboration Walk a mile in another man’s moccasins. How do you think someone would feel if they could get inside you, be you for a day?" This is an excellent question, but I’m not sure how to answer it. First of all, do I get to choose who gets to be me for a day? I’m going to assume yes. And I’m going to extend the day to several months. So who gets the pleasure of walking a mile in my ass? I had to think long and hard about this. I needed to choose someone who was hard into the whole working-out thing, because while they were walking around in my skin, they might as well whip it into shape. So Roseanne and Rosie were out. I thought of Oprah, but you know, she goes back and forth with the exercise thing, and I didn’t want her to come up with some harebrained diet while she was in residence. At the same time, I needed someone who has two brain cells to rub together because I didn’t want my brain to lay unused (as it is so oftencurrently? you’re saying). Therefore, Denise Richards, any supermodel, and Farrah Fawcett were out (mrowr!). I racked my brain for a good choice. I considered and discarded Sable and all of her ilk. They’re just a little too in-shape, if you know what I mean. And then I realized I didn’t particularly have to choose a woman, did I? Nothing in the rules said my choice had to be the same sex as I. Which opened up a world of choices. Van Damme? Stallone? Jackie Chan? Well, no. Van Damme and Stallone were questionable on the intelligence front* and Jackie Chan might have a problem with the whole speaking-english thing. Schwarzenegger (spelled it right the first time! go, me!) was an automatic no, because I can’t stand the fact that he’s married to Maria "Skeletor" Shriver. The smartasses I really like – Dennis Miller, Jon Stewart, Trey Parker – aren’t in tip-top shape. Billy Blanks just really scares me. Who, oh who, would be the perfect person to whip my ass in shape and not destroy my brain cells doing so? Then, an ephiphany. Ben Affleck! Did you see his stomach in Armageddon? And while he’s no Einstein – or even Ben Stein – he surely wouldn’t allow my brain cells to atrophy (more than they already have, you’re saying). Though there are of course strikes against him – the very fact that he dated Gwyneth for one – he’s near my age, he knows how to have a good time, and he’s dorky in a cute way. Perfect choice. What a day in my body would be like for Ben: 6:30: wake up and realize a small cat is drooling on his (my) arm 7:00: roll out of bed and trip over no less than three cats on the three-foot journey to the bathroom 7:01: look in mirror and realize he’s become some fat chick overnight 7:01.5 – 10:00: nervous breakdown in the closet 10:01 – 10:10: bitch about how I’m the only one who ever does the laundry, and it just isn’t fair 10:11: put first load of laundry in the washer 10:12 – 5:00: check email, chat online, read the journals of others, eat junk food 5:00: bitch about how I’m the only one who ever makes dinner, and it just isn’t fair 5:01 – 5:30: make dinner 5:31: watch drew carey. laugh. 6:01 – 8:00: check email, chat online, write journal entry, eat junk food, argue with husband 8:00 – 9:00: watch husband flip channels. bitch about how he’s the only one who’s ever allowed to hold the remote and it just isn’t fair 9:01 – 9:30: get ready for bed. brush teeth, comb hair, put moisturizer on face, check for zits, pop zits 9:30 – 10:00: lay in bed and discuss various things with husband

10:01: husband looks at clock and exclaims "holy shit! it’s after 10!" 10:02 – 10:03: hug and kiss husband goodnight. switch sides of the bed as husband toddles off to his own room.

10:15: snore loudly Well, that probably isn’t quite what Ben’s day would be like in my body. I’m sure there would be a lot of self-exploration, if you know what I mean. Plus hours and hours of working out and downloading porn. If my journal entries suddenly become all about blonde self-absorbed chickies named Gwyneth and how cool it is to hang out with Bruce Willis, you’ll know that the great Ben Affleck Invasion has begun. And if the world ends tonight, it’s been nice knowing y’all, and I’ll see you on the other side! (*yes, i’m aware that supposedly sylvester stallone is all kinds of intelligent and can discuss quantum physics at the drop of a hat and blahblahblah, but i just don’t buy it.)



get the fuck out of my way. Simple, easy to remember, and so long as you do it, I won’t have to hurt you. How hard can it be to not block the freakin’ aisle at Wal-Mart? Yes, Sharonica, the Backstreet Boys are lookin’ fine in that poster, but get the fuck out of my way. I have moisturizing face cream, catnip, and printer paper to purchase, so Move. Your. Ass. Likewise, when the light turns, hit that fucking gas, grandma. Don’t make me get out of the car and come snatch you baldheaded. Life will be so much easier when I’m Queen of the world. My very first act will be to make it illegal for anyone else to be on the road when I am. Punishable by death, it will be. Hanging in the court square. By decree of Queen Bitchypoo! My gentle and loyal readers, of course, will most likely be spared. Because I love you all that much. More gems from the Bitchypoo cd collection: Mazzy Star, So Tonight That I Might See. The soundtrack from Boys on the Side. Cry of Love, Brother (who?!). Christopher Cross. Great Love Songs of the ’70s and ’80s. Milla, The Divine Comedy. You know you’re jealous. So apparently no one wanted the 1000 Mona Lisas cd. Can’t say as I blame you; I don’t want it either. I’ve listened to it, and don’t care for it at all. It’s a mystery why I even own it. Why is it that cats have to stretch when you pet them? Is it because the petting feels pretty good, but being petted while they’re stretching is just that much better? What’s with the intense need, while stretching and being petted, to reach their little paws out to touch my face? Don’t they know where those paws have been? And since I know where those paws have been, how come I still kiss the nasty little germ-ridden pads? And how come they consider dirty shower water, licked directly off the shower floor, to be the nectar of the gods, whilst their bowl of always-fresh always-clean water lies mostly untouched? Why is it that sometimes the kitten will sit at my feet and make grumpy little "Momma, pay attention" noises until I pick her up, but other times she’ll leap straight up until she’s parallel to my waist, and then shoot out her sharp little talons, and climb from my waist to my shoulder purring the whole way no matter how loudly I scream for god to save me? The spud wrote a letter to her grandparents – my ex’s parents – on her computer last night. She told them that she has "Anamonia." I’m turning 32 on January 9th. I don’t want to be 32. 32 is far too close to 40 for my sense of well-being. I should still be 19. That’s how old I feel. I should be allowed to decide how old I am, shouldn’t I? It only seems fair. This whole wrinkles-and-gray-hair thing doesn’t suit me, damnit. The spud and I had a bunch of errands to run this morning, so I woke her up at 9 (my god, she’s turning into a teenager already) and made her get up and strip the sheets from her bed, then lug her laundry downstairs and eat breakfast and all that. We finally left the house at 10:30, assuming that the cleaning chick would be arriving at any moment. We went to the car wash, where I cleaned out the litter boxes (we use very large sweater boxes as litter boxes, one at a time, and use this sifter-type thing to clean the litter each morning. after a month or so of use, the boxes get kind of nasty and need to be washed with soap and water. i could do this at home on the lawn, but I don’t particularly want nasty litter-box remnants littering (heh) my lawn. besides, it’s easier at the car wash. upon reading through that long, yammering explanation, I notice that it sounds like I’m cleaning a full-of-litter box at the car wash. the boxes are empty of litter. just so you know). As a side note, 9 times out of 10, around the house, I have to ask the spud to repeat what she says because she invariably speaks in a voice too low for me to understand. Plus I’m sure I’ve lost more than a little of my hearing in my old age. So I’m at the car wash cleaning out the litter boxes, which I’m sure the car wash people would prefer I not do, and the spud bellows at the top of her shrieky 11 year-old lungs, "Momma! That sign says not to wash buckets in the car bay!" I gave her the Look o’ Evil, and she shushed right up. After we left the car wash, we went to my bank, Wal-Mart, Wendy’s, and Fred’s bank, then came home to find that although we’d been gone for 2 hours, the cleaning chick was nowhere to be found. She finally showed up at 1:00, so the spud and I (and Fred, who had come home from work early) hid downstairs, out of the way while she did her thing. Now our house both looks and smells good, and I must go have sex and begin dinner. ]]>


Some of the cds, though, I had to wonder. I know I bought the Winger cd, but I can’t seem recall what song had me in such a dither that I had to have it. Anyone want the 1000 Mona Lisas’ "New Disease" cd I bought for no reason I can figure out? First email I get including a snail mail address, gets the cd for nothing (the actual cd, not a copy. free to you from me.) I just can’t seem to force myself to get rid of Pat Boone’s "No More Mr. Nice Guy." Pat Boone sings metal. It’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever heard, and it’s great. My eye itches, and my bladder’s threatening me with a UTI, and anything I write right now would be a long, babbling string of shit (so what’s new?), so the rest of the entry will be pictures I have scanned. Try to contain your excitement! cuties This is my very favorite picture of the spud and Brian. It’s from September of ’93, according to the note on the back of the picture, so she would have been almost 6, and he would have been about 2. I don’t know what it was they were laughing so hard about, but it musta been a dilly! Skitty kitty This is my favorite picture of Spanky. It, according to the back of the picture, was taken in March of ’97, so he would have been 5 months old. It’s one of the few pictures I have of him when he was little. This was before he became the skittish dork we all know and love today. Baby Bitchypoo And this, my friends, is one of my favorite pictures of myself. I always assumed I was smiling, but upon closer inspection, that’s more of a grimace, isn’t it? Like I was about to burst into tears, and my mother snarled at me to "SMILE!" I was awfully adorable, if I do say so myself. Lastly, before I go, I leave you with this. Our very own Investigative Reporter, Rudy Koski, spent godonlyknowshowmany hours coming up with the story that the Amish people don’t fear computer glitches caused by Y2K! Jesus jumped-up christ!! You could have knocked me over with a fucking feather! Ain’t it incredible??? Have they heard about this in Washington?? Godalmighty. ]]>


Spanky, I think. He keeps wandering around, howling mournfully for no apparent reason. Then he comes and looks curiously at me, and goes off to howl again. Oh, sure, I yell "Skitty-boo! Shut up!", but it has no effect. ::Mournful howl – look at Momma – sniff around the litter box – mournful howl – look at Momma – sniff at Momma’s feet – mournful howl – and-so-on:: When Fred left for work, he woke me up and I got up and showered and got ready to go. I was out of the house before 7:00, and working hard by 7:15. I left the spud home in bed, asleep (shutup, she’s 11 and we live in a good neighborhood! I was only going to be leaving her alone for an HOUR. She’s not a baby, she knows what to do if there’s a fire or something, so get off my back, alright? Obviously I have Issues). Like an idiot, I actually thought I’d be out of the office by 8. Best laid plans, and all that. Because I can never ever go anywhere without needing to stop somewhere on the way home, I stopped at Winn Dixie for paper towels, toilet paper, napkins, kitty litter, and cheap store-brand soda. "Chek" brand, it’s called. Fred and the spud really like the Chek brand diet sodas, so that’s what I buy for them (12-packs for $1!!! You sure as hell can’t beat that), but of course I still buy Coke for myself. I’m a Coke addict, perhaps I’ve mentioned? And then, finally, around 10, I was home. The spud was laying on the couch playing with the kitten and feeling fine. (I told you she’d be okay!) The kitten, by the way, has been walking around with her left eye closed since last week, when she got that corneal abrasion. The medicine makes her eye sensitive to light, so this is how she deals with it. She bears a striking resemblance to Popeye, which is what Fred and I have been calling her. Okay, so I’m an idiot. I just went and looked at my index page and realized that when I edited it yesterday, I must have edited sitemeter right off of it. What a dumbass. ]]>


I did, anyway. As soon as he saw me sit down, Fred made up some excuse to "check out the computer" and vamoosed, leaving the spud and I alone with his stepfather and Grandma. His stepfather – who is a nice man, and an incessant talker – quizzed me about seafood and whether I had any relatives left in Maine. Grandma harangued him every minute and a half about whether or not the fire in the woodstove was going out (it was not). When she turned her attention to me, she asked me several times in a row if I ever used the stairs at my house (I do; how the hell else am I going to get from the upstairs to my beloved computer?). This, apparently, was just a setup, because when Fred wandered back from wherever he was hiding, she fixed him with a gimlet eye and said "You must not be using the stairs at your house Freddie! You haven’t lost any weight!" In case, y’know, he had forgotten he was fat. His mother and Grandma are quite hard of hearing; I’m not sure whether his stepfather is, or not, so whenever we’re at their house, I find myself talking in a loud, hearty, jolly, fake-ass voice. "OH NO, THAT’S FINE. I’M FINE. JUST FINE. NO MORE SAUSAGE BALLS FOR ME, NO THANKS!" Breakfast was pretty good, aside from the fact that it was your basis Table Full O’ Heart Attack. Mmmmm. Anyway, the haul from his mother, stepfather and Grandma: a $50 Wal-Mart gift certificate, a hot pad, two dish towels, and $15. Oh, and some chocolate-covered marshmallow santas. The spud got a couple of packs of cards ("Old Maid" and "Go Fish"), a nightgown, and $5. Not a bad haul. We ended up staying until 1:00, because Fred had to download some free isp program (freezone? freenet? something like that) for his mother , which took for-freakin’-ever. Once it was downloaded, he ran it, and it just sat there and said "loading" forever. When his mom wandered out of the room, I hissed "Just sign them up for something cheap and we’ll pay for it and consider it part of their present!" My God. The man took forever, gazing at the Juno webpage, trying to find the $14.95 option he knew they offer, and only able to find the $19.99 option. Or something. After watching my life pass me by for an eternity, I hissed "Look, right now I’d pay $30 a month to get the hell out of here!" He finally found the $14.95 option, and when his mother came back in and realized what he was doing, she started making the obligatory "Oh, I can’t let you pay for that!" noises. Only barely did I manage to stop myself from bellowing "Just take it and be grateful!" in her face, although truth be told she didn’t put up too much of a fight. We finally hotfooted it out of there around 1 (meaning that we spent a good two hours longer there than we usually do on christmas eve morn), stopped at a gas station to get something to drink, and came home. I checked my email, talked to Fred for a few minutes, then went to take a nap. We headed for Fred’s dad and stepmom’s house sometime before 5, and were the first ones there. I wish I’d taken the digital camera or the real camera with us, because their christmas tree is so awesome. His stepmother spent ages putting the lights on the tree, and it’s incredible. I can’t rave enough about it! (Side note:His mother and stepfather didn’t have a real christmas tree, but she put christmas tree lights in a rubber tree plant, and it looked pretty cool) They also have a ficus in the foyer that they put white lights on, which I always admire. We stood around and talked while they messed around with the food. Fred’s stepsister and her family showed up after six (my god, they have some cute kids), and Fred’s sister (she of the "she’ll poison or shoot you!" story) and her family showed up some time after that. Fred went into the kitchen and smiled across the room at her, and she gave him the Look O’ Evil. The entire evening, she avoided Fred and did not direct a single word to either of us. Usually she doesn’t deign to talk to me, so I wasn’t any too heartbroken, but it got to the point where it was funny. Fred would enter the kitchen, she would exit the kitchen. Fred would say something to his father, she would look away as if Fred didn’t exist. You get the idea. I just know that they all think I’m behind the whole thing. The haul from them: the most awesome cookware ever, go look at it here, and be impressed; a bottle of wine, plaster angels, and carbon monoxide detectors. We ate, we opened presents, we left. A good time was had by all! Once home, we lounged around the house, I talked to my sister on IRC, Fred watched something on TV with the spud. We chased the spud off to bed around 10, put the presents out, filled her stocking, tossed the cookies and dumped out the milk she left for Santa, and then exchanged presents with each other. My haul from Fred: A Dennis Miller book, The Code of Buddyhood, autographed by William Bernhardt, a ton of candy, a Dave Barry desk calendar, and some bodywash and body mist. Very good choices by the Fredster, especially The Code of Buddyhood – we both absolutely adore William Bernhardt, and that particular book has been out of print for ages. So, we went to bed around midnight, and I slept in until 8 christmas morning. The spud is such a good kid; she’ll content herself with playing with whatever she got in her stocking until Fred and I are up and about. We were about to begin opening presents, when Fred – in charge of devilled eggs – realized we didn’t have enough eggs. He left to see if there were any stores open where he could purchase them, and the spud started opening her presents. Between my parents, her father’s parents, her father, my sister and her father’s sister, there was quite a pile (again, no pictures, sorry). She had a pile of about 30 presents, and Fred and I had a small pile of about 5 presents between us. She opened and opened and opened some more, and then when Fred got back, he and I opened our presents. The haul from my side of the family: a scanner from my parents, an LL Bean gift certificate from my sister, two books (for me) from my friend Liz, the Boyzone CD from the spud and Fred, a 5-pack of "Little House on the Prairie" episodes from the spud and Fred, and a necklace from the spud. After we finished opening presents, we helped the spud drag all her presents into her room, and Fred set up her brand-new stereo/cd player (a present from us) while I set up her new printer (a present from my parents). We ate a big meal (ham, mashed potatoes, pole beans, rolls, corn, stuffed celery, leftover dressing and sweet potato casserole we brought home from his dad’s house, and cranberry sauce. Oh, and devilled eggs, of a sort. The eggs would not peel right – because they were left out too long, instead of being peeled immediately – so Fred mashed up the yolks with mayo and relish, then stirred in big pieces of the whites), then we all took naps and just generally sat around like the lazy people we are. The spud started coughing last Monday, and her cough grew steadily worse – though it was a dry cough, and not a wet one – until this morning when I up and took her to the doctor. Before you begin emailling me and telling me what an awful mother I am, keep in mind that when the spud gets colds, she usually coughs for several days (or rather, has a cough for several days, since coughing for several days straight would probably kill her), and there’s never anything the doctors can do aside from stroking their chins thoughtfully and saying "Hmm. Looks like a cold." So don’t send me nasty emails. I know when to take her to the doctor. Her formerly dry cough turned wet in the night, so I took her to the doctor’s office at the stroke of 8, which is when they open. We waited and waited and waited some more, and after two hours of waiting – and a chest X-ray – I was informed that she has pneumonia. They popped her in the hip with an antibiotic shot, gave me three prescriptions, and we came home. Hell, she’s got pneumonia – I’m not going to drag her to the office so she can hack up pieces of lung all over the place. she went to her room around 11:30, and was out like a light. It’s 2:30 now, and she’s still sleeping hard. I guess that cough syrup is some good stuff!]]>


french drain for, oh, $1,600. The guy and his workers came and began work yesterday. At some point, the guy who owns the company decided to take a look around, and found that, behind our fence, there was a huge pile of dirt. Behind our lot is a lot where the builders who build in our subdivision are putting up a new house, and the Einsteins who are responsible for grading the lot piled all the dirt directly up against our fence. The fence is two feet onto our property, by the way. Running through this huge pile of dirt are channels and gullies formed during the last few rainstorms. Basically, the rainwater from not only our lot, but both of the lots behind us are channeled directly into our backyard, and finally into our pool. Fred called Westminster Homes (formerly Breland Homes), from whom we bought our house, and talked to the customer service lady. An hour or so later, "Mr. Carpenter" came out to check out the situation. He told Fred he’d get someone out here "right away" to fix the problem. When Fred suggested that Westminster Homes should be responsible for paying to have our pool and concrete cleaned, and should reimburse us for the french drain, not to mention the previous pool cleaning we paid for, Mr. Carpenter was less than enthusiastic. Fred has spent a good part of the morning writing a letter to Westminster Homes detailing exactly what we want, and mentioning his lawyer. It’ll be interesting to see what happens. The kitten woke up from her nap yesterday unable to open her left eye. I rushed her to the vet’s office (yes, I’m a spaz – wanna make something of it?) and found that she has a corneal abrasion. Which no doubt happened when she decided to pick on Mr. Fancypants. She may be little, but that doesn’t stop her from launching herself full-speed at one of the bigger cats when she’s in a playful mood. She also really likes to taunt the Boys to the breaking point, and when they go after her she hides in a space where they can’t fit. That’s my girl! She weighs 2 3/4 pounds now – almost double the weight she was when we got her – and this visit to the vet’s office, she actually growled at the vet’s assistant, rather than just sitting there and looking pitiful. The vet gave me ointment to put in the kitten’s eye four times a day for ten days. It’s not much fun to hold her down and put the ointment in her eye, but it’s not as difficult as trying to get her to take oral medication, either. One evening last month, Fred came in and told me I had to come check out the sky, because it looked so cool. I did, and it did, so naturally I took pictures: Okay, y’all, don’t be sad or anything, but I don’t think I’ll be updating again until Monday. I intend to stay away from the computer for the most part until then (ha!), and maybe I’ll be overwhelmed with the urge to post another journal entry, but I don’t think so. In any case, I hope that each and every one of you has a great, happy, relaxing, exciting, everything-you-hoped-for Christmas. Thanks for reading, and thanks for the emails you’ve all sent. I appreciate them more than I could possibly express. ]]>


en masse, buying everything they could get their hands on. I guess it’s not only the weather prediction that drove everyone slightly insane, but also the whole Y2K thing looming over our heads. I worry about it sometimes, but most of the time I don’t even think about it. If we lose power, we’ll each grab a cat and pile blankets on top of us. We have a couple of extra 5-gallon bottles of water, enough canned food to keep us alive for a few days, and enough Ding Dongs to feed a small country. Priorities, you know. ]]>


me this, of course, so I dropped the ball. All was saved; I called and left a message on his answering machine, and he emailed the funeral home address and date of the funeral to me over the weekend. Disaster averted! I don’t know if anyone else saw it last night, but there was a show about Stephen King on The Learning Channel. We set the vcr in the bedroom to tape and prepared to watch The Practice in the living room, until we realized it was a rerun. Quickly, we popped over to The Learning Channel and gazed upon Stephen King for an hour. I love that man. You know, no matter your opinion of Stephen King, whether you think he’s a demi-god, or a hack who should shut the fuck up and go away, you have to admire certain things about him. He’s married to the same woman he married right out of college. He didn’t get a little money and dump his wife for a much-younger bimbo with big boobs and a tiny brain. Nope, he’s still with the Tabster, has been for something like 30 years, and I think that’s pretty fucking cool. Anyway, on the show last night, they talked to many people who have worked with him, and people who knew him when he was a kid, and so on. Prudence Grant was his teacher in high school, and Dean Hall was a friend of his from childhood. They showed footage of the high school he went to. It was pretty damn cool, ’cause guess what? I went to the same high school he went to! Of course, he was something like 15 or 20 years ahead of me, but still. I had Miss Grant for "Death and Dying" my senior year! And she loved me, of course, as did every English-type teacher I ever had. Once, we had 20 minutes to kill at the end of class, so she told us to get out some paper and write haiku until the bell rang. I whipped off about 15 haiku in 20 minutes, and she was pretty damn impressed. In fact, she was so impressed that she remembered and raved to my parents about me at parents’ night. Mr. Hall was not only my American History, Psychology and Sociology teacher, I also babysat for he and his wife several times. He grew up with Stephen King, and in one of King’s books he refers to the "Hall twins" – that would be Mr. Hall and his twin, David. I’m surprised neither of them mentioned me during their respective interviews. Steve and me, we’re practically related. At one point, Peter Straub was on, and he went on and on about how Maine is rural and poor and backwoods and people speak with a distinct accent, and I got all pissed. "Nuh uh!" I snarled at the tv. "Sounds like Alabama," Fred noted. I have to wonder if Peter "I suck" Straub has actually been to Maine. We got the Wal-Maht and the Pizza Hut now, y’know. We pahk ah cahs in the pahking lahhhts and some-a them roads ah even paved, too. ‘Cuss, we still pay fuh ahr doctah visits with goats an’ cows, but civilization dassn’t come quick to Maine, ayuh.

Peeved me a tad, it did. "People talk with a distinct accent" indeed.



The Bold and the Beautiful, and shaking my head. Only on the soaps is it okay for people to storm over to the houses of their enemies, force their way in, and be insulting and mean. Of course, everyone on the soaps are so freakin’ thin that a good wind will knock them out of the doorway. If someone I really loathed tried to do that, they’d never get past me. I’d set my feet and lean against them when they tried, and they wouldn’t have a chance. Assuming that I opened the door in the first place, that is. And how come Brooke on The Bold and the Beautiful is considered a freak for boinkin’ Ridge, his brother Thorne, and his father Eric (though not at the same time, mind you), whereas over on Guiding Light Reva’s been doing everything Lewis for years, and no one bats an eyelash? It’s not fair, I tell you, and Brooke will have Thorne whether the Forresters like it or not. The bastards. Today has been an incredibly relaxing day, and has included not only much TV watching, but also two naps (they were short naps, so don’t look at me like that), and having my hair colored by Mr. Fred. It was about time, too, since my roots had grown out about three inches. I got my first gray hairs when I was sixteen, and started coloring my hair when I was twenty-one. From what I can see of my roots, it’s obvious that if I let my natural hair color come through, I’d be half to two-thirds gray. I was actually going to let my hair go back to it’s natural color earlier this year. My roots had grown out about five inches before Fred freaked out and told me he’d color my hair himself. I guess he doesn’t want people to think he’s married to an old lady. Anyway, my hair is colored Feria "Brazilian Brown," my soaps are watched, and I only have two months worth of Glamour, Mademoiselle, and Cosmo to read. Oh, and the newest Reader’s Digest. I read an awful lot of crap, but it’s what keeps me informed, people. You know that’s what you love about me, that I can spout details about Teena Brandon/Brandon Teena, because I read all about it way back when it happened, in one of the women’s magazines. The only thing that really pisses me off is all the ads and perfume strips you have to wade through to get to anything of substance. Though I guess "substance" would be a matter of opinion. I woke up with the kitten on my face at 3:30 this morning and the foulest stench wafting around us both. I don’t know how long she was there before I woke up – I’d guess only a few moments – but I think my sense of smell is permanently gone. She’s so cute, though, that you can’t really blame her. Much. Rub mah tummy! Fred and the spud headed for Wal-Mart at 7:00 this morning, hoping to beat the crowds. They were apparently successful (I’m sure here in the Bible Belt that everyone was getting ready for church), and came home with my christmas present from the spud and bags and bags of fruit. Fred’s been having a craving for grapefruit, and while they were at Wal-Mart he bought grapefruit, tangerines, ugli fruit, and a bunch of other stuff that I can’t recall at the moment. The grapefruit was pretty good, but it sure had a bite to it. I’m not a big fan of fruit, when I do eat it I prefer the simple stuff, like apples, oranges, and bananas, with the occasional grape or pear thrown in. I’ve got all my christmas shopping done, except for things for the spud’s stocking, and something for the cats. I’ll be hitting Wal-Mart early one morning this week. Knowing me, it’ll probably be Friday morning. I like to live dangerously that way.]]>


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.]]>