here.) * * * I’m looking for a picture of Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones, in the bunny suit, to use as a temporary graphic for the Zany Chick page. If anyone could point me to that particular picture so that I don’t have to put the movie in and snap a picture of the screen, I’d appreciate it. (Got it! Thanks, you guys. You rock, you know that?) * * * We watched the crapfest known as The Sweetest Thing on Saturday night, and while there were a few laughs, overall it was crap. I don’t dislike Cameron Diaz, but I’m not sure I understand why she has an acting career. And I’ve seen far too much of her in her underwear. Time to stop that particular gimmick, thanks. Fred and I both noticed that Christina Applegate looks a lot like Jennifer Aniston sometimes. Also, there’s something I don’t quite understand. Why would you go home with a guy only to give him a blowjob and get nothin’ for yourself? I’m just curious, because honestly I don’t get it, not at all. Maybe it’s because I’m all old and repressed, you think? * * * This is from the giveaway page, and I thought I’d cut and paste in case some of you – horrors! – aren’t interested in the crap I find in the closets and under beds and offer up for free: This candle – from White Candle Barn – is frosted rose leaf scented. And it really does smell like roses. But I’m apparently quite odd, and sometimes something that smells like one thing to me also smells like another thing. This candle smells JUST like beer to me. I have no idea why. I’m a freak. And I can’t stand to have a beer-scented candle burning in the house, because if I wanted my house to smell like beer, I’d go on a week-long bender, wherein I spilled beer all over the house until the floors were so sticky they were like flypaper and the cats would get trapped halfway across the kitchen floor, meowing pitifully. And for the record, beer sometimes smells like apple wine to me. Yeah, I don’t know folks. I don’t make this stuff up, I just report it. And it’s not just candles, y’all. Wendy’s has a grilled chicken sandwich that I used to just adore. A year or so ago I used to eat it twice a week every week, sometimes more, and then I had to stop eating it because one day I went and picked up my usual lunch, and the sandwich smelled like bologna to me. And I’m not a bologna fan, so I swore off for almost a year, and now they don’t smell like bologna to me. Just so you know, I had to sing the “My bologna has a first name, O-S-C-A-R, my bologna has a second name, M-A-Y-E-R. Oh, I love to eat it every day, and if you ask me why, I’ll sayyyyyyyyy, Oscar Mayer has a WAY with B-O-L-O-G-N-A!” song to remember how to spell “bologna” in the above paragraph. * * * Mouse number three made it into our house last night after Fred went to bed, but unfortunately, this one didn’t make it out alive. I was sitting in my chair reading when I heard the elephantine sounds of the cats on the loose. I glanced up at the doorway and saw Spanky run by, and since he’s the house whipping boy for the other cats, I was sure they’d taken it into their heads to kick his ass for no particular reason. Half an hour later, Spot ran into the door, and I glanced up. He had a mouse hanging out of his mouth. “Spot!” I yelled. I was out of the chair in an instant and headed toward him. Spot did an end run around me and ran for his favorite place in the whole wide world – under the bed. “SPOT!” I bellowed. He made it under the bed, and I went for reinforcements. When Fred had been advised of the situation, I went back into the bedroom and slammed my hand on the bed. “Drop it!” I said loudly, sounding like a Drill Instructor. I was assuming Spot was torturing the poor little mouse, and I hoped that being ordered to drop it would startle him. I got down on the floor to see what was going on, hoping that the mouse wasn’t going to run at my face, because I would surely scream myself hoarse if that were to happen. The mouse was laying under one corner of the bed, unmoving. Spot was laying in the opposite corner, purring quietly. I stood up. “Is it under there?” Fred asked. “It’s dead,” I said. “Can you reach it?” Fred asked. “Yeah, but I’m not GONNA,” I told him. “You are. This is your job.” I got him a wad of paper towels, and he grabbed the mouse and looked closely to make sure that it really was dead. It was. Poor thing. Damnit. (That story would have been a lot funnier if the mouse came back to life and leapt at Fred when he had his face a few inches away, checking it for breathing. Alas, it didn’t happen. Poor mousie.)]]>