Month: June 2002

Go see! I’ll apologize in advance for the winners whose shirts arrive in big-ass padded envelopes. I was missing a few brain cells when I went to Staples earlier this week and thought that 8 medium-sized padded envelopes would be enough to mail 12 t-shirts. Duhr. Speaking of Staples, after my visit there yesterday, I know now why I prefer to shop at Wal-Mart or Target. At Wal-Mart, when you’re checking out, they don’t ask if you needed to buy some packing tape while you’re at it, did you need some paper, and oh yeah – would you like to sign up for their Business Rewards program, wouldya, huh? Or would you like to apply for a Staples card, or maybe buy a computer? At Wal-Mart, they’re just as happy to ring up your shit and see your ass headed out the door where they don’t have to deal with you anymore. I think I’d rather pay an extra dollar for a pack of envelopes at Wal-Mart than have to fend off the obnoxious sales attempts from the people at Staples. We bought a couple of cantaloupes yesterday at a farmer’s market in Hartselle, after we went and picked up our chickens, and now the entire house smells like rotting garbage. I like cantaloupe, but I just can’t stand the fucking smell of them. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be driving from Alabama to Maine with several of the stinky things in the back seat, reeking up the car for 1500 miles. Which reminds me – the spud called last night, and it appears that she’s having a really good time. They’ve been keeping her busy, it sounds like, with trips to Disneyland and Ripley’s and other places. They bought her a pair of cowboy boots and some clothes, and are just generally spoiling her rotten, as I’d predicted. So yesterday morning, I was sitting in front of the computer, when someone carrying a clipboard ran through my front yard, coming from the house on the right-hand side of ours. He looked official, with the clipboard and all, not at ALL like someone trying to SELL something, and so I answered the door when he rang the bell. Actually, I thought he might be one of our neighbors – I swear to god, I don’t remember what any of them look like from one minute to the next – and thought it would be rude not to answer. So I did. And instantly regretted it. Because it took him five minutes of nonstop blathering for me to understand that he was trying to sell a study guide for kids, for $100. Now, if I’d been on my toes, when I opened the door and he smiled and said “Are you the mom?”, I would have said “No, I’m the babysitter, and I’m not supposed to open the door to people I don’t know. Bye!” Regrettably, I did not, and I withstood a long speech from him wherein he invoked the name of every parent and kid in my subdivision, as if he was searching for the magic combination that would make me say “Oh, you know Mr. and Mrs. Smith and little Billy Bob?! WELL COME RIGHT IN AND LET ME GIVE YOU SOME MONEY!” But I only have a half-assed awareness of my neighbors and their names – brought about by the FUCKING mailman and his habit of giving me someone else’s mail twice a month or so – and I don’t know ANY of their kids’ names, so I just smiled blankly at him while he went through his three-mile-long list. Finally, to shut him the hell up, I said “We’ve only lived here for a few months, so I don’t really know anyone outside the cul-de-sac.” See, what I should have done was smile and slam the door shut when I realized he wanted to SELL me something, but he was so NICE and chatty, and I’m such a big freaking wimp that I just stood and listened. And listened and listened and listened. When he appeared to think that he had me on his hook, he said “Is there somewhere that we can sit down?” This, I will remind you dear readers, is probably similar to the tactics Ted Bundy (man, I had to rack my brain for his name, because I just watched the Love Boat special a few days ago, and the only name I could come up with was Fred Grandy – also known as Your Yeoman Purser Burl “Gopher” Smith) used to get into the houses of his poor, unsuspecting victims. Okay, I did read The Stranger Beside Me, and I don’t remember reading that Ted Bundy impersonated door-to-door salesmen to gain access to his victims, but I’m sure it’s only because he didn’t think of it. Readers, if you love me, you will never, NEVER allow someone you don’t know who isn’t a cop (ask for identification, and LOOK at it, don’t just glance at it) inside your home when you’re alone. Even if they think you should let them in, even if they seem like perfectly nice people, please please please don’t do it. Be rude and slam the door shut if you have to, because who gives a shit if somone you don’t know thinks you’re a bitch? For me, please? Anyway. So when he asked if there was somewhere we could sit down, I told him I was about to leave for a hair appointment, and I don’t think it was a particularly believable lie since I’d actually already had my hair done, but he pretended to believe me, asked me a few questions about some other neighbors (to which I said, mostly, “I don’t know.”), and asked if he could stop by that afternoon. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be home after four.” I had forgotten that we were to drive to Hartselle to pick up our chickens, but I knew that Fred would be home by four, and Fred has NO problem being rude to perfectly nice boys, and even slamming the door in their face if need be. But, as I mentioned, we weren’t home after four, and in fact we weren’t home until well after six, and I didn’t know whether the saleskiller had come and gone or hadn’t bothered coming back, but I hoped that that would be the last I’d have to worry about him. Come 10:30 this morning, as I was sitting in front of the computer, about to start getting the free stuff ready for shipping, I glanced up and saw him pulling up in front of the house. I grabbed my Big-Ass cup of Diet Coke and ran into the living room, where I sat and read while he knocked on the door, rang the doorbell, and knocked on the door again. Hopefully THAT will be the last I’ll see of him. Today at the post office? Another good mail day! I won a knitted purse thingy from a certain miz Say (and big thanks to the rockin’ Dante, who chose my number), and can I just say I love it? It’s so SOFT, and I just love the color. I think I shall put it in my purse and keep my treasures in it. Now all I need are some treasures. When was the last time you… 1. …sent a handwritten letter? I probably haven’t sent a handwritten letter since Fred and I were “courting”, and we would send handwritten letters as well as email 45,000 times a day. Before that, it was probably a few years, because I sent letters to my sister, but always typed them up on the word processor. I do always write out my thank-you cards by hand, and I did one of those just yesterday, but that probably doesn’t count, does it? 2. …baked something from scratch or made something by hand? The last time I made something from scratch is when I sent Joanna cookies for the TMS Secret Pal giveaway thingy in March or April. Well, wait. I make dinner from scratch at least 5 nights a week, does that count? I just finished a cross-stitch Christmas ornament last night, too. 3. …camped in a tent? God, I think I was probably 15 the last time I went camping. I was supposed to spend the night in a tent for the 3-Day last October, but I twisted my ankle before that could happen. 4. …volunteered your time to church, school, or community? Uh. I haven’t got a clue. 5. …helped a stranger? Again, I don’t know. If I were to see a stranger who needed help, I’d help out and think nothing of it. We give stuff to the Downtown Rescue Mission regularly, and contribute to various charities, does that count? ]]>

“Tell me ’bout them rabbits, George…” I still plan to have my hair cut like Ashley Judd’s ‘do in Someone Like You on my 35th birthday – only a little more than 6 months away! Start your celebration planning now! – so I think I’ll just keep my hair one length for now, so that when I have it cut on my birthday, there’ll be a drastic difference. The one and only upside to having long hair that I can think of is that when it gets in my face, I can pull the top and sides back into a clip and not have to worry about it. This, by the way, is me with a tan. Once the hair was done, I had to visit Wal-Mart for a couple of foam noodles to take to Florida with us, because we like to float around in the water on our foam noodles. Well, we liked to last time we went to Florida, that is. Actually, now that I think about it, last time we went to Florida, there was this dark strip of seawood and stuff about five feet off shore, and I would get on my foam noodle and make Fred pull me past it, because we just KNEW there were sharks and other deadly creatures hanging out in the dark spots. Imagine a fat chick on a foam noodle yelling “Faster! Quick! Is that a shark?!” Heh. So, I’m reading Asking for Trouble and enjoying it, but I realized about two chapters in that it had the exact – EXACT – plot of a story I created about five years ago. Which is, zany girl lies to her mother about having a boyfriend, hires an escort to play the part, and falls for him. Of course, in my imaginings it would be a Harlequin book, and I’m very much NOT a Harlequin-type writer, if only because I’d have a hard time stemming the flow of “Oh, GO FUCK YOURSELF,” she snarled, stomping across the room that would come to mind, because those Harlequin men are just some pushy, condescending bastards. The other Harlequin-type story idea was one where girl meets boy while she’s going into labor, but GET THIS – she’s still a virgin, because it’s not HER baby she’s carrying, she is, in fact, the surrogate mother for her sister and brother-in-law. You can imagine the zany situations. It’s always very important that the woman in a Harlequin romance be either a virgin or VERY close to one – at least, that’s how it used to be. I can’t say whether they’ve loosened up since I was a teen, because I haven’t read an actual Harlequin since then. So, I’m really liking Asking for Trouble, because it’s zany chick acts like a dumbass and yet still meets the love of her life and they live happily ever after, which could REALLY be my life story. Zany chick acting like a dumbass? I INVENTED zany chick, people. I AM zany chick. Is it just me, or did the zany chick books just kind of explode out of nowhere after Bridget Jones? Or were they there all along and I just didn’t notice? I’ve got so many zany chick books on my bookcase that I’m thinking it’s about time they made a Zany Chick section in the bookstores and libraries. “I’m looking for the new Evanovich?” “Zany chicks. Go past religion and take a left.” Does it sound like I’m making fun of that kind of book? Because I’m not, not at all. I LOVE the zany chicks. If I were to write a book, a zany chick would be the center. I’m thinking we need a “Zany Chicks” ‘burb, is what I’m thinking. Yes? No? Oh! And speaking of my book, I need help, y’all. What on god’s green earth is “wine gum”? I thought it was, y’know, chewing gum that tastes like wine, but as I read, it appeared that it wasn’t so, because the character was eating them rather than chewing them. (Note: Thanks for the emails, y’all. For anyone out there who doesn’t know, apparently wine gum is very similar to gummy bears, but firmer, and they’re fruit flavored. Which, of course, begs the question, why are they called WINE gum?) And finally, big BIG thanks to reader Cindy, who bought me another zany chick book off my wish list, which took me completely by surprise. Thanks, Cindy! Y’all have a good day. Or night. Or whatever it is where you are. ]]>

TOO FUCKING COOL. I sat and watched it with a big, goony grin on my face, and you will too. Alrighty, that’s it for today. I’m off to go eat my sushi lunch and read a book that’s breaking my heart. ]]>

Sarah bugs the SHIT out of me, something about her face or her hair – and Fred stares intently at the screen. “He’s not making very many eggs,” he says finally. “It’s those skinny people,” I say. “They hardly ever eat anything. I don’t know how they stay alive.” Fred smirks appreciatively, and then I see what he’s talking about. Johnny is scrambling MAYBE one egg. One egg for the two of them. Obviously, we pay attention to the important things. I went to see the Ya-Ya movie yesterday like I’d planned. It was pretty good, although I’ll say that I don’t remember them saying “Ya-ya!” every six seconds in the book, and it was a tad goofy. The movie theater was packed with about 20 women in their 60s if not older, and 20 girls around 16 or so. I was the sole representative of the mid-30s crowd. And can I just say, the other people in the theater had a serious case of Ants in the Pants, because ALL THROUGH the fucking movie, seats all around were creaking constantly. creakcreakCREAKCREAKcreak I’m starting to remember why I prefer renting movies and watching them at home. No annoying strangers. And of course, sitting directly behind me were three elderly women, one of whom was having a REALLY hard time following the movie. During a very sad scene, she said to her friend, “Why did she say that?” The woman bellowed “BECAUSE WHEN HE WAS GOING IN THE SERVICE, HIS FATHER TOASTED HIM WITH CHAMPAGNE, AND SHE THINKS IT’S HIS FAULT FOR ENCOURAGING HIM.” Goddamn. Can you imagine how thrilled I was? And this went on through most of the movie. “I THINK SHE’S ABOUT TO CRACK, LIKE IN THE BOOK!” I finally got up and moved closer to the screen, but I could still hear the old battleaxe. Y’know, that’s just SO FUCKING ANNOYING. If you’re going to the movies and you’re GOING to bellow through the whole fucking thing, DON’T SIT DIRECTLY BEHIND SOMEONE SO THAT YOU CAN RUIN THEIR MOVIEGOING EXPERIENCE AS WELL. Fuckers. I did come to a conclusion while watching the movie, though. No one can say “goddamn” like a southern woman can. Give it up, you yankees. Oh, wait. I’m a yankee, aren’t I? Goddamn. I think I’m the exception.]]>

Miz Poo is trying to figure out how to jump the fence with her stubby little legs. There is nothing on god’s green earth Spanky loves more than to lay in the sun. If there’s a spot of sun coming through the window, Spanky lays in it for as long as possible. Tubby sitting under the kitchen table hoping against hope that food will fall to the floor for him. Spanky also enjoys crouching in the grass and waiting for bugs to come along so he can stare at them. ]]>

here. It’s funny that I said I was going to give only a few things a week away, and this week I’m giving away 12 items. Heh. In honor of it being the first day of summer, it’s going to go up to 92º today. Whee! Of course, I can only say “Whee!” because I live in an air-conditioned house, I drive an air-conditioned vehicle, and every store I might think of to visit is air-conditioned. Therefore, I can afford the “Whee!” It amazes me that when I moved to Alabama I drove a car for two years that had no air-conditioning. Which reminds me of when my friend Liz was shopping for a new car many years ago. We both lived in Maine at the time – which means it was probably about 11 years ago – and we stopped to look at a red Geo Metro. She decided to buy it, and I sat in while she answered the questions the saleslady asked. “Do I want an air-conditioner?” Liz asked me when the saleslady posed the question to her. “Nah!” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t need one in Maine. It doesn’t stay hot long enough to call for it, and you’ll save money if you don’t get one.” A few years later she moved to North Carolina and then to Florida, and I’m sure she cursed my name every time she drove anywhere in her sweltering car. So, Fred? Oh my GOD. He’s going to a picnic this afternoon for work (Yes, I could go. But why would I want to?), and he volunteered to make a dessert to bring. He looked in one of his cookbooks (I think it’s called Death by Chocolate) and decided to make chocolate macadamia brownies. When he realized how expensive macadamias are (“I’m not spending that much on THOSE people!”), he decided to substitute pecans and he made them last night. We split one brownie, and it was incredible. He also set a few aside for us to have today, it being Friday, which means it’s our Free Day, eatingwise. After I exercised this morning, I circled around the plate of brownies for a little while before putting a couple on a plate and pouring a glass of Diet Coke (hee!). Hell. O. Dolly. God in heaven, they were SO DAMN GOOD. They’re very, very chocolatey and they have big chunks of chocolate in them, and they’re amazing. This is one of those times I thank god that the man can bake. This is also one of those times I thank god that the man doesn’t bake more often, or I’d be staring at 400 on the scale and wondering how that happened. So today? Another good mail day! I hit the post office and opened my box to find a little box sitting in there smiling up at me. I tugged and pulled and swore (under my breath) and tugged some more, and I could NOT get the box out. Apparently it was just the right size so that they could slide it in on the other side, but it wouldn’t come out on my side. Finally, I went and asked for help, and someone got it out for me. It was a box o’ love from Nance! It was addressed to both Fred and I, but do you really think I’m going to share? I think not! Nance rocks, if I haven’t mentioned recently. 1. Do you live in a house, an apartment or a condo? A house. 2. Do you rent or own? We own. Well, the bank owns for now, but in 100 years we should have it paid off, and watch OUT, baby! 3. Does anyone else live with you? Himself, the spud (though she’s in Maine at the moment, and soon will be in California), and five cats – Spot, Spanky, Tubby, Fancypants, and Miz Poo. 4. How many times have you moved in your life? Let’s see… I was born in Bangor, Maine, moved to Goosebay, Labrador, Canada (1), to an air force base in Indiana (the name escapes me) (2), to Kinchloe AFB, Michigan (3), to Guam (4), to Loring AFB, Michigan (5), to Lisbon Falls, Maine (6), to Durham, Maine when I was 18 (7), back to Lisbon Falls (8), to Brunswick, Maine when I was 19 (9), back to Lisbon Falls (10), to Bath, Maine after I got married (11), to another apartment in Bath when I got pregnant (12), to base housing in Brunswick about a year later (13), to Lisbon Falls while waiting to get into housing in Newport, RI (14), into housing in Newport, RI (15), to Goddard St in Lisbon Falls while the ex (before he was the ex) was stationed in SC (16), back to Newport when the ex got stationed there (17), to the apartment the spud and I shared with Fred in Huntsville (18), from the apartment to the first house we bought (19), and from there to where we are now (20). I probably either forgot one of the places we lived when I was little, or messed up the order – for instance, I’m not positive that Indiana came after Goosebay, but I think it did. Still, I’ve moved 20 times. Impressive, eh? 5. What are your plans for this weekend? I haven’t got a clue. We were talking about going to see Minority Report (which I want to see, despite the fact that it stars Tom Cruise), but might wait until next week. I definitely want to visit a nursery and pick up another flat of petunias, because the ones I have potted out front are driving me nuts. I planted way too many plants in that pot, and I’m going to yank them out and replace them. Other than that, I don’t know what-all we’re going to do. ]]>

Fancypants. We’ve noticed for a little while – a couple of weeks, I think – that he had a little bald-type spot on his side. There wasn’t anything wrong that we could see, but the hair wasn’t growing back or anything, either, so finally Fred took him to the vet yesterday. According to the vet, Fancypants had two cysts that had ruptured and were infected. They had to shave the area (I told Fred that he should have told them to shave the rest of him while they were at it!) and put medicine on it, then gave Fred a little bottle of amoxycillin to give him every day. When Fred got home with Fancypants, he pointed out that Fancypants’ collar was missing, and we figured that he’d gotten hung on something and the collar – being a breakaway collar – had done it’s job and broken. I made a mental note to order another nametag, and we closed the cat door so that Fancypants couldn’t go outside and get himself in more trouble. And he promptly registered his displeasure by shitting on the floor. Twice. He’s SUCH an asshole. How sad am I that seeing the UPS truck stop in front of my house makes me want to do a little dance? And further, how pathetic am I that I want to sob wildly when I see that he’s going next door? Even though I know that I haven’t ordered anything and thus shouldn’t be getting a delivery from UPS. Sad, pathetic Robyn. Anyway. Fancypants. So I was sitting at the computer after we’d discussed that his collar was missing, and I glanced up and saw our next-door neighbor walking across the lawn in front of the windows in the computer room, a red collar dangling from her hand. When I answered the door – after an argument with Fred about how he should answer the door, but he was wearing his underwear and claimed he couldn’t (the underwear look JUST like shorts, by the way) – she held out the collar and said “It looks like Mr. Fancypants lost his collar!” I could hear Fred snickering from the kitchen, because he thought it was just the funniest damn thing that I had “Mr. Fancypants” printed on the nametag, instead of his “real” name. I thanked her and we talked for a minute, wherein she told me that Fancypants killed a bird in her yard and left his collar in a pile of feathers. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t know if she knows that he killed a bird, or just assumes it because of the pile of feathers. Anyway, I told her the story about the murder at the end of my bed and then thanked her. At least I don’t have to order a new nametag now. I finished reading A Staggering Work of Heartbreaking Genius A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius last night. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, but I also think it could have used some heavy editing – believe it or not, unstinting snark gets old if it’s left unchecked. I ended up skimming a lot of the last few chapters, but there was a lot that had me grinning like a fool, so overall I’d recommend it. I wouldn’t recommend it to the point that you go out and buy it, but it’s worth checking out from the library. Once I finished that, I started the new Evanovich, and I’m about three-quarters of the way done with it. I shot a large amount of Diet Coke out my nose during lunch, due to a scene involving a lawyer and a dryer. I’ll say no more – I wouldn’t want to ruin it for y’all. Speaking of Hard Eight, though, I notice that the Amazon price is $18.17. I got it at Sam’s for less than $15 – and I didn’t have to pay shipping. I love Sam’s.]]>

Edited 9/10/05 to add: to join the notify list, see the “Notify list” link in the sidebar) I was an errand-running fool today. I managed to get my ass out the door by 10:45, and went to Target (Nivea for Men exfoliant for His Majesty), PetCo (I’m looking for an inexpensive cat food that comes in large bags and “promotes urinary tract health. To my surprise, Hill’s Science doesn’t seem to have one like that, and the Iam’s was $35 for a big bag. Not in this lifetime, if we can possibly help it. We tried Friskie’s, but it gave them all diarrhea (you’re welcome), so for now we’re feeding them Purina Special Urinary Tract Health, which only comes in small bags, but it’s not terribly expensive and it doesn’t give them diarrhea, so I guess we’ll stick with that for now), the mall (to get Fred’s Father’s Day presents – I had to wander all through Dillard’s to find the counter where they sell men’s cologne, and I ALMOST bought the frog that goes with the pig on our front steps, but refrained. You should be proud of me. Yes, I’m awful for giving Fred his Father’s Day presents late, but he was late with my Mother’s Day present, so it all works out in my opinion), and Sam’s (where I purchased Hard Eight, shrimp, gum, paper towels, water (for the vacation to Florida), and garbage bags). I managed to do all that in two hours and fifteen minutes. You know how some people can’t get out of Target or Wal-Mart without spending $100? I can’t go out to do errands and take less than an hour, and this was a super-errand day. So, the reporter and photographer came yesterday to interview Fred. I sat and listened to the interview – and even contributed a few things – and then came time for the photographer to do her thing. She had Fred sit behind the table, behind his food pile, and Fred made like Fabio, preening and smiling and sending sultry looks of love toward the camera. Then she took pictures of him standing in his fat jeans, with the waist held out – I have to admit, that’s going to be a damn good picture, I hope they use it for the article – and the photographer was putting her equipment away, ready to go, when Fred got a crazy gleam in his eye. “Wait!” he said. “You could take pictures of me lifting weights!” “Well -” the photographer began doubtfully. “I can put my gym shorts on!” Fred said excitedly. “Wait just a minute!” The photographer and I smiled awkwardly at each other, and made half-hearted small-talk about how she was going to go to the gym when she left. Moments later, Fred was downstairs in the shortest, tightest shorts I’ve ever seen on him, and a skin-tight shirt. “Let’s go in the garage!” he commanded, and we followed him out there. While the photographer checked the light, Fred loaded up a couple of dumbbells with some ungodly amount of weight. And then he strutted back and forth, trying to look as though the weight he was lifting wasn’t taking any effort. “Okay, I think we’ve gotten enough – ” the photographer said after she’d snapped 50 or 60 pictures. “Take a picture of this!” Fred demanded, flexing his bicep. “And this!” he flexed both his biceps and his calf muscles, sucking in his stomach. “And this!” he turned his back to the camera, stuck his butt out, and smiled beguilingly over his right shoulder, the tip of his index finger to his pursed lips. Two hours later, when the photographer actually started crying and begging him to let her leave, he did. Of course, I’m sure Fred’s version of this story will be completely different. No doubt he’ll claim he had to be asked to put on his gym shorts and lift weight, but between us, dear readers? He’s a big liar. You know what? You know what you need? You know what you need right NOW? I think you need to see some pictures of Tuberella, right this very second. Just for the hell of it. “Can they see me? They can’t see me, can they? I can’t see them, so they must not be able to see me!” When he was just a svelte young thing and could actually jump up there, where he’d sit and meow his bitchy meow at us. In the master bedroom at the old house. Where he would sit and meow bitchily at anyone who walked by. I found those pictures of Tubby when I was looking for some pictures of Fred, and thought I’d share. I may have shared them before, because at this point I don’t remember what I’ve put in the journal and what I haven’t. In a perfect world, I’d have all the cat pictures that I’ve posted on a single page – well, one page for each cat – but don’t hold your breath on that. Maybe someday. A couple of people recently emailed and asked if I was still going to have the giveaway. I am, but it’s going to be different than before. I have SO much stuff to give away, that I think I’m going to create a page just for that, and put a few items up each week. Hopefully the first few items will go up this week, on Friday, but it all depends on how busy I am over the next few days. Of course I’ll link to it when I get it up and running. And with that, I’m off to start dinner (red beans and rice – yum!) and clean up the kitchen.]]>

But it ALSO has a bubble thingy in the top of the pencil so that you can blow bubbles and annoy and harass your cats! You can imagine we’ve been having a great deal of fun with that. 2. Reader Ellen, who saw a little smiley face pin, thought of me, and bought it and sent it to me! Every time I look at it, it makes me grin. The picture didn’t come out very well, because for some reason my camera wouldn’t focus on the pin, no matter what I did. But you get the idea: 3. Reader Jo, who swears she is NOT a stalker, who sent a wonderful cat card and smiley face stickers. I’m searching for the perfect place on my monitor to stick one of those stickers: 4. And lastly, but certainly not least, reader Tara, who was browsing my wish list one day and realized that she had one of the books on my list. She emailed and offered to send it to me, I accepted, and in the post office box this morning, there it was! It looks great, and I can’t wait to start it! I think it fucking rocks (rawks!) that so many people can’t see a smiley face without thinking of me. My brainwashing is going as planned, and soon I will have world domination! A world where smiley faces and “fuckity fuck-fuck-fuck!”s will abound. I can hardly wait! Speaking of books (see #4), the new Evanovich – Hard Eight – is out today, y’all. Go! Run! Buy! Read! I had planned to hit Sam’s today, since we’re in need of paper towels and gum, among other things, and I’m pretty sure that Sam’s will have Hard Eight, which I was looking forward to buying, but by the time I hauled my ass out of bed, exercised, showered, and went to pick up a few groceries and hit the post office, I wouldn’t have had time to go to Sam’s before the newspaper lady was due to be here, so I put it off until tomorrow. And since I’m dying of starvation, I’m going to cut this entry short and go make me some dinner. See ya!]]>

* * * I see that Melissa Rivers’ husband has filed for divorce. What a shame – she seemed like such a nice girl, really. ::snort::

* * * I had a freaky moment last Friday when I couldn’t remember what grade the spud was going into. I mean, totally could not remember at ALL. Sixth? Seventh? Fourth? After a few minutes I remembered that she’d just finished seventh and will be going into eighth. It sucks to get old and have your brain jettisoning memory cells like that, believe me. * * * So, we have in several rooms of our house a tray ceiling, like such: And yesterday, Fred was pacing around the house picking up the junk – letters, books, magazines – that we are wont to leave all over the place, being slobs and all, and he glanced up at the tray ceiling in the living room. “Man,” he said. “That’s nasty. That needs to be cleaned.” Because on the bottom of the tray part of the ceiling, there’s a bit of a lip where 63 pounds of dust and cobwebs have been collecting ever since we moved in last August. “We need to clean that,” he said, and then went on to tell me nothing I didn’t already know, “And by “we”, I mean “you”, of course.” So later, while waiting for my lunch to finish, I got out the Swiffer, hoping against hope that it would work. Because I did very much NOT want to have to get up on a chair with a feather duster, wildly dust the part I could reach, get down, move the chair, get back up on the chair, dust wildly, and so on. But the Swiffer came through for me. It Swiffed the hell out of that tray ceiling, and once I was done with that, I did the tray ceiling in the computer room, and when I was done with THAT, I went around and Swifferized the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling in every room, and then I got the cobwebs behind the doors, exclaiming with pretend disgust at how much dust and cobwebs had collected in our house, a house that is vacuumed at least twice a week and mopped at least twice a year. It was fucking cool. But going back to the beginning, Fred was getting spazzy at the state of our house because a newspaper reporter and photographer will be coming to our house tomorrow to marvel at the wonder that is Fred, and stare in adoration at him, and write a newspaper article about him and his habits of posing in his underwear in front of the mirror for 24 hours a day (he’s going for an entry in the Guiness Book O’ World Records), and I think that we all know that we don’t need an article starting out like such: I walked into the home of Fred and Robyn, and was blown away by the huge amount of dust and cobwebs on their tray ceiling. For the love of god – you’re not fat anymore, people! Dust your tray ceiling thoroughly and often! I was so disgusted by the nastiness staring down at me from the ceiling that I couldn’t concentrate, and soon went running out, screaming in horror, with Randolph the photographer directly behind me. And thanks to my beloved Swiffer, it won’t. It will probably start out more like: Getting Fred to stop staring at his reflection in any nearby shiny surface is like asking Robert Downey, Jr. to stop scoring Coke. When I asked a tentative question about Subway’s Jared, Fred went into a screaming tizzy. “Jared?!” he bellowed. “I’m no stinkin’ Jared! Jared starved himself! I didn’t starve myself! Look at my fine body! Do I LOOK like I starve myself?!” Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun! ]]>