But for now, I love it.

The mouse is one of those new-fangled ones without the ball inside to collect dust and other nastiness. As I said to Fred, "What will I do now that I don’t have to clean dust off my ball?" Oh, I slay me.

I also love, though have not yet laid hands upon it, our new scanner. No weird yellow and green stripes on the side of things I’ve scanned! It’s on it’s way from Alpharetta, Georgia, and will hopefully be here early next week. Kickass! I plan to do something along the lines of scan all the pictures I have on albums and put them on a cd, but that’s going to be some seriously time-consuming stuff. Maybe I’ll make it my New Year’s Resolution for next year.

So, how much did it suck to sit down all excited about the fact that Survivor was about to start and then find out it was a recap of everything that had happened up ’til now? SUCK. Man, I was pissed. What made it worse is that I had seen, not two hours earlier, a commercial for it that was nothing but A BIG FAT BLATANT LIE, about how Lex is on the hunt to find out who voted for him.

Lex is getting on my nerves.

At least Temptation Island was on, so I got my trash fix. Tony, of Genevieve and Tony, is about the most annoying man in the world to me right now, and I’m not sure why. I just canNOT stand him for some reason. My prediction thus far is that Catherine and Edmundo, and perhaps Thomas and Nikkole are the likeliest to break up at the end.

SOMEONE better break up, or I won’t be watching Temptation Island 3, that’s for sure.

Speaking of trash tv, on The Amazing Race, I can’t believe FUCKING Team Guido made it the other night. Those two have the most incredible damn luck, the bastards. And Drew and Kevin were pretty much my favorites – I didn’t like ’em at first, but they really grew on me. My favorite line of the night was when one of them – I don’t know which is which, to be honest – said "My testicle is rolling around the streets of Beijing!", followed closely by "Eat, you fat bastard!"

Team Guido, I hate you.

Did you see when they were in the market, and Drew and Kevin were in front of the Guidos, and one said "Slow them down!", so the other was walking as slowly as possible to do so, and the Guido (hell, I don’t know which is which for them, either) got a pissed-off and disgusted and "This is so childish!" look on his face? Conveniently, he forgot about shoving Emily’s Mom at the airport so they’d miss their plane a few weeks ago.


Okay, moving on.

You know what? "Mmmm-hmmm" is NEVER an appropriate response when you’re in the service industry and your customer says "Thank you." NEVER. "Mmmm-hmmm" means "Yeah, whatever, asshole." THE APPROPRIATE RESPONSE would be either "Thank YOU!", or "You’re welcome! Have a nice evening!" I worked in the service industry, and we would have gotten our asses kicked for saying "Mmmm-hmmm" to a customer.

Damn Dairy Queen teenage worker. "Mmmm-hmmm" my ass.

Which is where that ice cream is heading as I speak.




Her name is Brady James. She’s – I’m not positive exactly, but 27, 28, something like that. She grew up in a small town in mid-Maine, not far from Bangor. She’s medium height, medium weight, has a head of frizzy medium-brown hair, and dark-blue eyes.

She was never a great student – in fact, while other students were studying for finals and doing whatever it is most high school students do, she was the head of an elite little group intent on mainlining as much beer as possible without requiring medical attention.

She wasted the better part of a decade, leaving her hometown the day after graduation and hitching her way from Maine to California and points in between, supporting herself by waitressing in the shittiest dives imaginable. When she found herself celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday by inhaling a huge amount of whiskey and fucking the lead singer of a Journey cover band, she sensibly decided she was getting too old for shit like that.

Back in Maine – Portland, to be exact – she did a 9-month secretarial course and got her certificate. For a couple of years she worked temp jobs before deciding she needed some permanence and a steady paycheck, and she ended up at Decker and Baker, a company that sells and buys farm equipment.

The job, you can imagine, is both stimulating and mind-spinningly glamorous.

Her boss – who actually went to high school with her, only he went to college instead of wasting part of his life going whereever the wind took him – hates her. Haaaaates her, and she’s not sure why. She thinks he’s an asshole, but she’s strangely drawn to him. And repulsed by the very thought. Greg – her boss – is so asexual that she’s sure he doesn’t have any sexual organs, that he’s a Ken doll brought to life.

She lives in a trailer on the outskirts of Portland, on an acre of land that is the only thing she has left of her parents. She has two cousins, Janey and Jimmy. Brady’s, Janey’s, and Jimmy’s fathers were brothers, and they died together on Christmas Eve. They were all three dressed as Santa, and a botched bank robbery got the cops after them. They were more than a little drunk and decided not to go down without a fight.

They went down, all right.

Several years ago, Jimmy’s mom kidnapped the lead singer of a fairly big rock band – I won’t mention names – and there was, as they say, quite a fuckarow. But I won’t go into that. Let’s just say that no one died, no one got hurt, and leave it at that.

So Brady lives her ordinary life in her trailer, and it’s like she’s waiting for something to happen, waiting for life to begin, only maybe it’s passing her by. For a while she dated a criminal type – a petty thief, a burglar, a convenience store robber – and then he did something she couldn’t live with, and she ended that. She’s got a best friend who works at a law firm, one of THOSE law firms, you know? The ones where you see the ads on tv, the sweaty lawyer with the slicked-back hair who tries his damnedest to sound reassuring but only manages to be vaguely terrifying. Her best friend – I don’t know his name – loves to tell her stories about the idiotic lawsuits people try to bring, and the idiotic lawyer who agrees to help them out for a fee – always for a fee.

Brady’s not real – she’s a character who’s formed herself over several years, and who has appeared in a few of the short stories I used to write. But as time goes by, details of her life come to me, and sometimes things happen in my own life that I think would be interesting to show up in hers. For instance, I think one of her bosses (NOT the one she’s drawn to and yet repulsed by, because I think one day she’ll end up with him) could be a big loud asshole of a man who spent two days in Texas and thinks that makes him a Texan.

Longtime readers will know that I mean Tex.

Tex, being a big loud asshole, could make Brady’s work life very difficult, and that could be fun to write.

I haven’t written fiction in a long time. That sentence actually originally read I haven’t written in a long time, but I’ve written 5 times a week most weeks for more than two years, and one or two of those entries aren’t bad, and so I guess I can consider it real writing, even if I’m not pulling in millions (or hundreds) of dollars for what I write. But I don’t write for money – I write because I like it.

About ten years ago I was driving down the road, and a scene came to mind, a scene that interested me, and so I thought about it for two days before I wrote it down. I thought it was going to be a short story, but it ended up being an ungodly length. It took me eight months to write, and when I was done writing and editing, I was sick to death of it.

I glanced at it recently, and it made me cringe. Too much high drama, but not the worst thing I’ve ever read (I mean, I HAVE read We Were the Mulvaneys, after all). Not publishable by any stretch of the imagination, but not bad for the effort I put into it.

I don’t know why I don’t write fiction any more. I keep fairly busy, so maybe I can claim lack of time. Fred keeps pushing me to write a book so he can retire (only half joking). I’ve been thinking more and more often about Brady and her life, and it’s possible that I may reach the point where I feel the need to start writing her story.

It’s only been 7 years since I first met her, after all.



It’s the oddest thing – three times so far today, twice yesterday, and once the day before I’ve received emails with no subject and nothing in the body of the email, and when I’ve tried to respond, it gets kicked back as an invalid address. Fred suggested that perhaps the people the emails are coming from have been infected with viruses that are kicking out the emails. Anyone heard anything about that sort of virus?

Having learned my lesson after infecting, re-infecting, and yet again re-infecting myself, I have McAfee running, and it has nothing to say about these emails, so it’s all rather odd.

McAfee rocks.

I’m slowly ftp’ing my pictures up to my server, and it’s a huge pain in the ass. Just so you know.

Friday Five (Late again!):

1. What was the last book you read? Did you enjoy it?: Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher, and yes, I enjoyed it a great deal, although the story moved at a snail’s pace and it had a rather abrupt ending. Currently, I’m reading John Grisham’s Skipping Christmas, which is about a couple who decides to not celebrate Christmas, to go on a cruise instead. I have difficulty believing that the people around them would be so horrified at the thought that they’re skipping christmas, but then again, that’s the whole story, so without that concept, there’d be no book.

2. What’s your favorite book of all time?: Either Stephen King’s The Stand, or Robert McCammon’s Swan Song. I like me some end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it tales, yessiree.

3. What’s the worst book you’ve ever read?: The only one that comes to mind is Joyce Carol Oates’ We Were the Mulvaneys. God, it was such a load of crap, and I resent every moment I spent reading the loathesome thing. I only bought it because Oprah went on and on about how awesome it was, and I’ll never believe another word from that woman’s mouth ever again. I reviewed the book in this entry.

4. What book that you’ve read would you most like to see adapted into a movie?: Any of Andrew Vachss’ Burke books. Except that I’d have to do the casting, and probably the directing, because it has to be done just right, and if they tossed fucking TOM CRUISE or some other pretty boy in there as Burke, I’d have to perform my special Bitchypoo Shit Fit® for three weeks straight. I don’t know who I’d cast as Burke, but I’d sure know him when I saw him. Knowing Hollywood, they’d cast MICKEY fuckin’ ROURKE as Burke, and I’d have to kill myself. Mickey Rourke is such a loser asshole. I hate him.

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend?: Well, let’s see. My usual weekend plans are to sleep in, exercise late, shower late, and then spend the rest of the day surfing, getting caught up on email, and reading. And that’s about exactly what I did.

Tom Cruise. I fucking hate Tom Cruise. I was never a big fan or anything, though I thought he was okay, but hearing those rumors about he and Penelope Cruz getting married makes me want to bitch-slap him. What a classless asshole. And that whole Cruise/ Cruz thing is JUST TOO PRECIOUS FOR FUCKING WORDS.

Speaking of celebrities, did y’all catch Celebrity Fear Factor last night? It was pretty good, ALTHOUGH I have to say, it’s not quite fair that they weren’t required to eat especially nasty. No doubt they were afraid America wasn’t ready to see Donny Osmond gagging down a bull testicle. Kelly Preston was pretty funny, and we weren’t terribly surprised to see John Travolta show up at the end, either. Who’d’ve thought Coolio would win, though? And I have to say that it was pretty cool that even the losers each got $25,000 for their charities.

Okay, that’s it for today. The big giveaway will be up tomorrow, and I’ll probably take names through the weekend.

Oh, and I’ve been meaning to mention this – don’t assume that I still have your address from last year’s Christmas Card Extravaganza, ’cause, well, I probably don’t, so if you want a Christmas card, be sure to do what that paragraph down there says. (Edit: Paragraph has been removed)



So, I don’t think I’ve mentioned that here in BitchyLand, we are going to be getting ourselves new computers, and soon. Our current computers are (horrors!) two years old, and I’ve been bitching loudly for several months about the slowness of mine, and so Himself decided to order the pieces for truly kickass computers, and the pieces have started coming in, so he and someone longtime readers know as Tex have started to put them together. They’re just waiting on the blah-blah and the blah-blah to arrive, and then they’ll be done. Woohoo! Fast computers at a fraction of the store-bought price.

Thankyajeezus for hooking me up with a geek.

Rumor has it that I may even be getting a 19-inch monitor as well one of these days, which would also be rockin’.

The problem (and there’s ALWAYS a problem with me, isn’t there?) is that I need to start backing up all my shit – I have quite a hefty picture folder on this here machine – and given the choice, I’d burn everything to cds, since this computer DOES have a cd burner and all.

Except (and there’s ALWAYS an "except") that the fucking thing doesn’t work. So I can save everything to FLOPPIES (which should only take, I dunno, 48906 floppies), or I can ftp everything up to my server (which should only take 9955 days) and then re-download everything onto the new computer.

Decisions, decisions. They both sound like so much FUN.

Ooh, and we’re getting a new scanner, too, since the one we have puts a weird yellow and green stripe down the side of everything I scan. Merry Christmas to ME!

We’ve slowly started decorating for Christmas. Well. *I* have slowly started decorating for Christmas. We have electric candles in all the windows (which I just did today), and I’ve started putting Christmas decorations on the mantel. Perhaps I can get Fred to put the tree together in the next few days.

This year, if I haven’t mentioned, we’re going to put the tree in the study – in front of the big window – and then shut the door to the study so the cats can’t get to, and ruin, any ornaments. This will be traumatic for Spot and Fancypants, who both like to sit in front of that window and watch the street at night, but they’ll get over it.

And hopefully their getting over it won’t involve any angry piles of poo left outside the study door. Little bastards.

Speaking of the cats, have I ever mentioned that my cats are just dumb as ass? Dumb. As. Ass.

The weather has been rainy but warm for the last few days, and so I left the back door open all day long yesterday. I was in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch, when Tubby started doing his chattering thing. I looked over, and he was sitting inside, staring at two birds who were standing on the patio, and chattering his stupid head off. Miz Poo then chimed in with her own whiny, high-pitched chattering. The entire time, the door was halfway open, and either of them could have gone out there to catch the birds (or at least try), but it never occurred to either of them.

The birds enjoy hopping around our patio, because the dish of dog food and water that were there when we had the dog (it’s been, what, two weeks now?) are still there, and the birds apparently are rather fond of dog food. I thought that once it rained and the dog food got wet, they’d give up and go back to the bird feeders, but they haven’t – instead, they pick pieces of wet dog food out of the dish and eat them anyway.

A few weeks ago, Fred was sitting at his computer some time in the early morning, and he glanced over at the window, the one facing the front yard, and Spot was sitting there, all casual-like. Obviously, he’d hopped the fence and decided to look around. Fred went over to the window (Spot was looking elsewhere) and put his face right up to the window, then tapped on it. Spot looked around and then did a big jump and ran off.

There’s just nothing as much fun as startling a cat and seeing it jump.

I went to the Hallmark store today and spent more than I’d intended to on cards and a Christmas ornament. While there, I purchased a couple of small Yankee Candles, one in christmas cookie scent, and the other in buttercream. The buttercream was one of the smaller ones, and what I assumed was a tealight size. When I got home, I found that it wasn’t a candle at all, but was in fact something called a "potpourri tart." I suppose I have to buy a potpourri warmer to use the damn thing, don’t I? What a scam.

I’ve been cleaning and organizing around here lately, and it looks as though either tomorrow or Thursday (depending on when I get off my butt and get the pictures taken), there’s going to be another big Bitchypoo Giveway™! Oh, there’s all kinds of neat stuff, y’all will not be disappointed, believe you me.

Man, I love giving cool stuff away.



So, Thanksgiving wasn’t terribly horrid. Kind of boring – how much fun can it be to hang out with a bunch of people you don’t know, after all? – but not actually painful.

Except for my butt, which hurt from sitting on a cement step and watching Fred and a bunch of old guys toss the football around.

Fred’s sister’s husband’s family (got that?) was there – his parents, and sister and her family – and they made up the majority of the attendants. They were all very nice, though.

Fred’s mother was funny as hell. We were sitting about eating, and she said that she’d never had devilled eggs with sugar in them. Becky (Fred’s sister) gave her a look and said "What? There’s not sugar in them!", and Fred’s mom said "Oh, I guess it must be from the sweet dickle relish." Man, did her face get red when Fred and Becky started laughing. She also told a story about how she’d bought a new pair of jeans and some part of it was sticking up funny or something (I was eating and didn’t catch every detail, all right?) and so she cut part of something off, and there was all this white powdery stuff, and she immediately thought to herself "There’s anthrax in my pants!"

Let me tell y’all something. The phrase "anthrax in my pants" is FUCKING FUNNY when it’s spoken by a sixty-three year old woman.

It would also be a good code phrase. If any of you ever see me in public, just walk up to me and say "I have anthrax in my pants!"


I didn’t bring the camera with me, but Fred’s sister’s husband (let’s call him Ron) has a digital camera and spent a good part of the afternoon taking pictures of everyone and printing them out. The one of Fred, the spud and I came out so well that I had Fred call and ask him to email me a copy, but he must have deleted it or something, because I haven’t gotten it yet. I scanned what we had, and the scan didn’t come out that great, but considering it’s a scan of a printed-out picture, it’s not bad.

Note that I’m wearing my blue sweater. I love that sweater, and I’ll hate it when it’s too big to wear.

Fred dressed up.

That fakey smile on my face means "Take the fucking picture and get it over with, damnit!"

Thrilled to see the camera, as usual.

And hell, while I’m sharing pictures, there’s always:

The cats basking in front of the fireplace.

Miz Poo warms her ass on the dvd player, while we watch The Grinch.

Saturday afternoon, a large part of Alabama got hit with bad weather and tornadoes. This is what the sky looked like late afternoon (click on the picture to see the full-size version). It was awesome and scary.

Cute spud story alert: While at home bored the day before Thanksgiving, the spud decided to write a letter to my parents, and gave it to me to send for her. I glanced down at it as I was folding it to put in the envelope, and caught this:

Fred is making sweet potato cassarole and coconut cake to bring for Thanksgiving. Fred’s coconut cake is superbe.

Superbe! Hee!

Okay, quick Thanksgiving coverage, a buttload of pictures, cute spud story. I think that covers it!



Huh. I didn’t get online until after 12:30 (central time!) today, and the world didn’t stop and mourn me or anything. I don’t know if I like that.

See something on the floor? Lay on it.

First things first – Athena is preg-o-nant. Woohoo! I’m so damn excited – I keep saying "I can’t believe Athena’s pregnant! That’s so cool!", and Fred keeps looking at me like I’m a freak. Business as usual, in other words.

I got up fairly early this morning to get my exercise done before 8:30, so I could watch 1 1/2 episodes of ER. Channel 30 – I have no idea what station that is shows old episodes of ER back to back every morning at 8 and 9. They’re also showing them in order, which is cool. Carter just decided that he wants to be an ER doc instead of a surgeon, and Benton’s kid was just born, if that gives you any idea of what’s going on. I have no idea what season it is. I noticed this morning while I was watching the 9:00 episode between showering and blow-drying my hair that the actress who played Carla (and Renee on Ally McBeal) used to be so damn pretty before whatever happened to her happened. She just got kinda weird last year, remember? Drugs, I think.


The spud and I left the house at 10 to go to Target, where we wandered aimlessly around the store and then she went off to look at girly lipgloss stuff, and I picked up a couple of boxes of kitty litter (we use the Arm & Hammer brand, and Target’s the only store around here that carries the 30-pound boxes, so I had to stock up for a couple of weeks), a red chenille sweater (a purchase I’ll no doubt be regretting the first time I wash it), and a wreath and red bow.

For the past two or three years we’ve ordered a live wreath from LL Bean for the front door, but after we ordered and received ours last year, I decided that it was sheer lunacy to buy LIVE wreaths which die after a few months, when for less than half the price you can get a decent fake wreath, and use it for years. It’s not like many people come to our front door and you can’t tell from the street whether it’s fake or real, so it’s all good.

After leaving Target – the skinny teenage cashier got a real workout hauling that 30-pound box of litter across the scanner, believe you me – we went to Michael’s, which recently opened right across from Target. We picked up stuff for the spud to make soap (I have her make stuff to give for christmas to all the relatives – she usually paints ornaments, but by the time she’s done one or two of them, she gets bored and slaps the paint on them, and they look like crap, not that the relatives would ever admit that. This year, she’s making beaded ornaments and soap, both of which are difficult to screw up.), some cross-stitching stuff, and cellophane to wrap the soap in.

Then it was home to peel 49 (slight exaggeration) sweet potatoes, boil, drain, and mash them for Fred, who’ll be making sweet potato casserole for tomorrow, along with his specialty, coconut cake. Mmmm, sweet potato casserole. Mmmm, coconut cake. Mmmm, Thanksgiving!

And now I’m sitting on my ass in front of the computer, which I will most likely do for another hour or so, until I get kinda caught up on my forum and journal reading, whereupon I will wander about the house and look for something else to do.

It don’t get any better than that, nosir.

Americans, have an excellent Thanksgiving. The rest of you, have an excellent Thursday.



Friday Five (a few days late):

1. Name five things in your refrigerator: organic eggs, a pound of unsalted butter (for the coconut cake we’re bringing to Thanksgiving), a partial 12-pack of Diet Coke, bagged salad, leftover chicken stew (I make some excellent chicken stew).

2. Name five things in your freezer: approximately 14 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, asparagus (I’m the only one who likes it), 8 organic whole chickens, brussels sprouts (I’m the only one who hates it), ground turkey.

3. Name five things under your kitchen sink: Brillo pads, extra sponges (the ones where one side is spongy, and the other side has the scrubby green thing on it), oxy-clean, a bag of bird seed, and a half-full bag of potting soil.

4. Name five things around your computer: my "how much shit could a dipshit dip if a dipshit could dip shit?" mug, the series premiere of Felicity (I never saw it, and bought it recently on Ebay), a lovely gift Melissa got for me in Ireland (more about that later), a lovely gift Athena sent me (more about that later as well), and the stuffed mosquito Moira bought in Alaska and sent for the spud, which I stole and claimed as my own.

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend?: I planned to spend it mostly on my ass, and by god, that’s exactly what I did. I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt – both hugely oversized – and lolled about not doing much but reading and surfing.

So, as I mentioned above, I got a lovely present from Melissa, who recently got back from Ireland:

Like I told Melissa, she could have scoured every store in Ireland and not found anything better! It’s even got the price tag on it, with the price in pounds, and everything! (Like, what, they’re going to have the price in American dollars? Duhhh).

And on the very same day that I received the face cloth in the mail, I also received something from the wonderful Athena, who knows that I LOVE the unexpected mail, and also somehow knew that there was an empty spot on the wall by my desk, and sent me this:

It was a VERY good mail day, believe you me. I also got a couple of Christmas cards. Two days before Thanksgiving, and I’m already getting the Christmas cards. How cool is that?

Sunday night, I dreamed that I was in Survivor, and I cheated.

CHEATED. How the hell can you cheat on Survivor, for the love o’ god?

Apparently I stole a Jeep from the camera crew and went on a joyride. We were filming in Florida, because god knows how dangerous and rough it is on the beaches of Florida, oh yes. So I stole the Jeep and went joyriding, and at some point another crew Jeep caught up with me and made me stop.

Mark Burnett was pissed. PISSED. He was throwing his hat on the ground and yelling at me at high volume.

Damn Mark. Never wants to have any fun.

So they kicked me off and claimed that stealing the Jeep was cheating, because there was some stupid clause in the contract about not stealing the crew’s Jeep.

Like I read the fucking thing before I signed it.

And when I got back to the states – oh wait, Florida IS a state. Why did we refer to it as getting back to the states in my dream? Odd. Anyway, when I got back to the states, they had me on The Early Show, which they always do with the castaways, and all is well. We’re chattin’, we’re laughing, we’re having a good ol’ time, when BRYANT FUCKING GUMBEL turns to me.

"How long have you been having an affair with Ann Robinson?" he says out of the blue.

"Huh?" I say, thinking this is a joke, half-smiling. But Bryant? Not kidding. Dead serious.

"We have it on good authority that you’ve been having an affair with Ann Robinson," he tells me. (She’s the host of The Weakest Link, if you didn’t know)

"What the fuck?" I say, and the people behind the scenes lose their shit because I said "fuck" on a live show. "I’ve never MET the woman, Bryant!" I say.

But you know how it is. Once someone says you’re having an affair with someone, the rest of the world assumes it’s true. Especially if you’re a CELEBRITY like the only one who ever got kicked off Survivor for cheating. It’s on the covers of all the tabloids, even People does an investigation of it (ie, reprints all the bad things people have ever said about me), and Fred gets pissed, and Ann acts all guilty and won’t deny it, damn her, and my life goes straight to hell in a handbasket sometime soon before I wake up.

This is what I want to know – why the hell did my subconscious decide I needed to be accused of having an affair with Ann Robinson? What’s that all about, you s’pose?

Damn subconscious.



Ignore the hair. I’d just gotten done exercising, and hadn’t yet taken a shower.

Y’all, what the hell’s in cashmere? Gold? Why the fuck’s it so expensive? Damn, $135 for a sweater? I don’t mind spending money on myself, but I won’t be spending that damn much money on a sweater that’ll get covered with cat hair in the end, anyway.

Damn. $135!

Agh! $245! Who pays money like that for a casual type sweater?! Are they CRAZY?

$318! God in heaven, has the WORLD GONE NUTS? Do people really spend that much on clothes when for $10 you could buy a mile-long length of fabric and just drape it over your ass?

I believe I’ll leave the Land’s End page, thankyouverymuch.

I guess you really get what you pay for, though. JustMySize was having an awesome sale, so I purchased a couple of $15 sweaters, and when they got here, I liked them until I wore one for about half an hour, when I realized that if I so much as thought about brushing up against something, thousands of pills appeared on the damn sweater. So I sent them back. I guess I’ll just make do with my one single sweater this winter, since I’d hate to spend $50 or more on a decent sweater and not have it fit for long.

From an email to Moira:

And speaking of Fred, I believe it’s time for you to nominate me for sainthood. His back? Which has been hurting? Which he devoted a few entries to? Perhaps you heard? I heard about NOTHING BUT his back for, like, a WEEK STRAIGHT, and I patiently pretended to listen and nodded sympathetically when he told me EVERY THREE MINUTES “Wow, my back hurts. My back hurts. My back hurts. It’s like an ACHE, and then when I do THIS, it hurts even more. Hm. My back really hurts.” Not once did I scream “DID YOU THINK ABOUT TAKING AN ASPIRIN?!?!”, not even once.

I believe that that right there qualifies me for sainthood, don’t you? And then he was going ON and ON about how he could lift weights if he didn’t target his back (“It hurts when I move this way, but not when I move THAT way”), and it’s been 512 DAYS straight that he’s been exercising, and so finally I went on at length about how he should NOT EXERCISE for JUST A FEW DAYS, and you’d think I’d suggested he kill his mother. The HORROR, Moira, the HORROR of taking a few days off, I thought he was going to divorce me for suggesting such a thing.

And then? He decides to take a few days off. And acts like it was his own idea all along.

I’ll be expecting a call from the Pope here soon, telling me that I may forever be known as Saint Robyn. Hm. Perhaps Saint Bitchypoo would suit me better, ya think?

Man. I can’t believe Thanksgiving is Thursday. How’d that happen?

This year, instead of doing our own little Thanksgiving at home with Fred, the spud, and I, as we have done for the last three years, Fred FOR SOME REASON accepted an invitation to his sister’s house, to have dinner with she and her family and his mom and stepfather. Oh, except maybe not, because his sister then called to suggest that we show up for an early meal with their mom and stepfather, and then sit around her house for several hours, and then have another meal with their dad and stepmother. I love and adore this idea. LOVE IT. Thuh-rilled. Yep. Can’t wait!

I watched Crazy/ Beautiful the other night. It wasn’t bad, though it dragged a little. It was a little better back in ’95 when it starred Drew Barrymore and Chris O’Donnell, I think. We also watched Shrek over the weekend, though I hadn’t planned on watching it with Fred and the spud, but got sucked in while I was eating lunch, and I enjoyed it a lot. Fred pointed out that when they made Princess Fiona ugly, they made her fat as well.

Oh, and while I’m thinking about it, I’d like to say BUH-BYE to the latest castaway voted off Survivor. Nothin’ coulda made me happier.

Did anyone else happen to watch The Bernie Mac Show last week? We hadn’t planned on watching it, but as I recall, there was nothing else on we both wanted to watch, so we thought we’d check out the first few minutes. I was blown away by how damn funny it was! They showed two shows back-to-back, and in the second show, the kids (Bernie’s raising his sister’s three children) got sick, and once they started getting better, Bernie got sick. He was home sick, and had to take care of the youngest child, and he was sitting on the couch with her, and she proclaimed that she was going to read him a story, and as she starting making up her story while looking at the book, they showed the funniest damn scene I’ve ever seen in a sitcom. As she went on and on, the hands of the clock flew around, and the seasons changed, and at the end, an old man was sitting where Bernie had been sitting with a stone-faced, resigned expression on his face, and the little girl was still talking. Fred and I were just howling, because that is EXACTLY WHAT IT’S LIKE.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was a stay-at-home Mom for most of the spud’s childhood, and there were plenty of magical moments, moments that I thought to myself "I’m going to remember this forever!", but there were also many MANY "I’m going to read to you Mommy!" moments, where the child yammered on and on and I sat and pretended to listen while mentally calculating the time remaining until she left for college.

In any case, I hope the show continues to be as entertaining, and I highly recommend it.



Survivor‘s on tonight, woohoo!

I think I need to get a life…

So, the dog is going back to the Humane Society tomorrow. I will say this about it: It was Fred’s decision to get the dog, and it’s his decision to take her back. I think that a part of her behavioral problems stem from being outside alone for a good part of the day, but part of it may very well also be problems that she brought with her. I’ll also say that sitting in front of the computer and hearing Fred yell like that scared the hell out of me.

(This part added on 11/15/02: the dog went back to the Humane Society because she, Fred, and the spud were out back playing, and the dog made a point of running at the spud – who was laying on a blanket – and running OVER her, leaving a gash on the side of her head. It was the last straw, really – Sadie wouldn’t listen to anyone but Fred, and was so unruly and uncontrollable that we really had no choice. Not to mention that I really hated having her outside all the time. Fred can say what he likes, but I don’t think that a dog should be outside all the time.)

Moving on…

You know, there’s just not a lot more to say. I’m going to end the entry here and there probably won’t be an entry tomorrow, because we have tickets to see Nunsense at the local high school. I have no idea what the story is behind the show, but I do know that we all really like the musicals, so it should be an enjoyable show.

Now, if I could only get him to take me to see Les Miz…





Even in my dreams, I can’t catch a break.

Last night, I dreamed that I was on Oprah. It was Dr.! Phil! Tuesday!, and I was there to air my relationship woes.

Yes, it surprised me to find that I HAD relationship woes, but I distinctly recall Oprah intoning "It’s Dr. Phil Tuesday, and we’re talking about Relationship Woes!" before the music started and the audience began clapping.

There was no monkeying around, either – Oprah got right to the point once the music stopped playing and the audience calmed down.

I didn’t get one of those voiceover things where I calmly and intelligently stated my point of view so that everyone would immediately be on my side, though.

"What’s going on?" Dr. Phil demanded, fixing me with a gimlet eye. He looked like he was going to brook no shit from the bitchypoo.

"Well, if he isn’t in bed by 9:41 EVERY night, he bitches and whines and complains about it!" I blurted out. The camera panned to Fred, who was sitting in the front of the audience, looking smug.

"Every night?" Dr. Phil asked, eyebrows raised.

"Every night – even on the weekends!" I said, nodding vigorously. The audience muttered unhappily amongst themselves.

Dr. Phil eyed Fred. "Sounds like YOU are in a RUT, buddy!"

Fred rolled his eyes. "If I’m going to get up at 4:30 every morning to exercise, I need my sleep!"

More eyeing from Dr. Phil. "You get up every morning at FOUR THIRTY?"

And then Fred began telling the story of how he’d dropped 162 pounds over the course of 16 months, and he’d never felt better, and he’d made a commitment to exercise every single day so that he could be a better father and husband and blah blah blah bragcakes.

When Fred finished his story – and stripped off his clothes to pose in his underwear for all and sundry – it was clear that the tide had turned in his favor.

With disapproving looks – even Oprah looked displeased – they all turned to face me.

"The MAN," said Dr. Phil, "HAS to get up every morning to EXERCISE. You would deny him that?"

"Nooooo!" I said defensively. "I just wish he wouldn’t have such a cow if he looked at the clock and it was ONE MINUTE later than 9:41. He looks at the clock, sees how late it is, jumps out of bed, and all but runs out of the room!" Not a sympathetic face in the crowd.

"Wait," Dr. Phil interrupted my pity party. "Why does he run out of the room at bedtime?"

"To go to bed," I said, thinking to myself that Dr. Phil wasn’t all that bright.

"He jumps out of bed to go to bed?" Confusion on the faces of all and sundry.

"Oh," I said, "Yeah, we sleep in separate rooms. I grind my teeth in my sleep, and he snores. And we like our space."

Dr. Phil looked at me judgmentally, and I began to babble.

"We have to be in our bed by 9, or he has conniptions. And if he’s not headed to his own room by 9:41, he has a fit as well."

"So, y’all go in one room at 9 and then he goes to his own room at 9:41?"

"We lay in bed and talk and snuggle from 9 until 9:41," Fred interjected helpfully.

The audience began muttering loudly, and I could hear more than one "bitch" tossed in my direction.

"So let me get this straight," Dr. Phil said with a predatory gleam in his eye. "The man LAYS down and TALKS to you for 41 minutes every night before going to his OWN room, because he doesn’t want to BOTHER you with his snoring, and he sleeps for a few short hours before exercising his ASS off to be a better father and husband to yourself and your daughter, and THAT IS A WOE TO YOU?"

I sat with my mouth gaping open, trying to find a way to respond. The audience went from muttering to shouting, and the things they shouted weren’t terribly complimentary. Women began tossing their phone numbers at Fred. Fred gave me a smug smile. Oprah sat in her chair and giggled heartily.

"You could put it that way."

Dr. Phil waved his arms around and began pacing. "I think you just did!"

"Phil, what exactly is the problem here?" Oprah asked, humorously moving her chair away from mine to avoid the line of fire.

"The PROBLEM is that if you put the ice in the sink, that dog won’t jump!" He glared at me. "Do you have ANY idea how many women in this audience would DIE to have their husbands devote forty-one minutes to them every single night?!"

Women in the audience were climbing over each other to reach Fred’s side. Fred was sniffling, nodding, and wiping his eyes.

"You don’t appreciate what you have!" Dr. Phil accused, waving his index finger around wildly. "When the going gets TOUGH, it’s time to feed some cattle!"

The sound from the audience was terrifying. They were throwing things at me and clawing at each other to get to Fred.

I woke up screaming, with Dr. Phil’s voice echoing in my head:

"If at first you don’t succeed, turn off the lights!"