Stop saying that! It’s so unladylike!, he said. Now, I’m really not sure how I come across in my journal, but I’m going to guess that ladylike is not the primary word that pops into your mind when you think of me. And why? Because I’m about as far from ladylike as you can possibly be and still be female. I’ve a total potty-mouth. Fuck and shit and crap and hell and damn fly out of my mouth at the slightest provocation. I’ve been known to tell my computer that it’s the biggest fucking piece of fucking crap I’ve ever fucking seen in my entire fucking life, and you’d better shape the fuck up, motherfucker, before I put my foot through your fucking monitor. I belch upon occasion. I fart, sometimes loudly, and delight in the horror on the faces of my loved ones. I wear makeup maybe twice a year, I keep my fingernails clipped short and unpolished, I shave my legs only when they start to itch, I wait to color my hair until my roots are about three inches long. On the other hand, I do color my hair, instead of chopping it all off and letting my natural gray show through, and I keep it long, because that’s how Fred prefers it. I pluck my eyebrows and facial hairs at regular intervals, I have little flowers on my underwear, and I have enough perfume and fruity body sprays to stock a third-world country. I like to hug and kiss my kitties whenever I can, and I will sit and baby-talk the kitten for hours on end. I’m addicted to The Bold and the Beautiful, and tape it every day so I won’t miss Brooke’s moments of happiness when they come along. I guess I was simply not born with the ladylike gene. I could never sit with my ankles crossed, delicately eating finger sandwiches and smiling politely at other ladylike ladies as they chatter about ladylike things. Ladylike. The very notion makes me yawn loudly without politely covering my mouth. Who the fuck wants to be a lady? You’d think he’d have realized this by now. *Okay, adult situations and disgusting language have ended* Last night, Fred and I watched the Who wants to be a millionaire? we taped Sunday night, mostly because we wanted to see where they called Rosie O’Donnell as the contestant’s phone-a-friend. We noticed almost immediately that Regis kept calling the male contestants big boy. What the hell’s up with that? It was more than a little weird, to say the least. So, what’s the deal with Jim Carrey starring as the Grinch? He looks nothing like the Grinch. Richard Grieco, on the other hand, is a dead ringer for the Grinch. The eyebrows, the smile, everything. If you’ve seen him in Night at the Roxbury, you’ve seen him at his Grinchiest. How it is that he missed out on that role is a giant mystery. Oh, wait. They probably wanted someone who could act. I always forget that part. Don’t you hate it when you’re talking to someone, and you make a joke – lame or otherwise – and they just continue to stare at you with no expression whatsoever and you’re left standing there with a big, goony grin on your face, laughing alone at your own joke? ]]>