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. ]]>
12/30/1999