Category: Life

Diarist Awards. Open nominations through the 15th, journallers, so get to nominatin’! These are in no particular order – just the order Internet Explorer decided to put them in. Also, I’m sure there are about 25,000 other entries I meant to bookmark for nomination, but didn’t. Because I am an airhead AND a dumbass, which is a potent combination, y’all. There are no rules against nominating your spouse, so I’m going to nominate this one by Fred, because it just cracks me the fuck up every time I read it. Also this one, purely because the picture of Fred making a mental note is what he actually looks like when he’s thinking hard about something. Except for an occasional bout of the blues, I have never really been depressed, not seriously depressed, a day in my life. This entry of Rob’s gave me some insight into what real depression is like. Man, Eliza sure can make me cry. And I could completely relate to every word of this entry. If you’re not a regular Eliza reader, you should be. Don’t make me come over there and kick your ass. Speaking of making me cry, Jessamyn does it regularly, like in this entry. Jessamyn’s probably also about to hire a bodyguard because I link to her all the time, like a big freaky stalker type, but honestly. If you’re not reading her regularly, you’re missing out. Hell. O. Dolly. If you forward a lot of emails, you need to read this doozy by Atara. I like it when she gets pissed off, because the results are always spot-on. This isn’t the first time I’ve linked to Nicole, and it sure as shit won’t be the last. As always, Nicole manages to say what I’m feeling, only she says it far more eloquently than I ever hope to. I liked this entry of Atara’s, because personally, I think that anyone who wants to take down their website should have to run it by me, with full detail of why they’re doing so. Because when something’s happened to cause someone to take down their site, it drives me NUTS that I don’t know what happened. I am about the nosiest damn person you will ever in your life meet, but I am also too polite to say “Dude. Why’d you take down the site?”, because I am secretly afraid that the answer will be “BECAUSE OF YOU, ROBYN! IT’S ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT, WITH YOUR NOSEY, WONDERING WAYS, AND I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” Yes, I am a tad paranoid. If I’ve ever traded one single email with you, even if it was only “Could you change my email address on the notify list?” “Sure!”, and you, YEARS down the road, say something cryptic in your journal, I will sit and feel horrified that I drove you to that, and I will burn with mortification that I could possibly be responsible for such a thing. The world? It revolves around me. I think you know that. (And as an aside, by the time I read that entry of Atara’s, Heather’s site (thankyajeezus) was back up. Whew! She won’t admit it, but I’m sure it was all my fault.) This entry of Marcia’s reminded me of when, shortly after my great-grandmother died, my mother showed me a letter that had been in her (my great-grandmother’s) belongings from a gentlemen who had been courting her 70 years ago. I wonder sometimes what belongings my own grandchildren will sift through, trying to find a spark of the person I was. Another tear-inducer from Eliza. I watched Hedwig once, sometime last winter, and I liked it, but didn’t love it, yet as I read Eliza’s entry about the movie, I started appreciating it, remembering the parts she wrote about, and wanting to rent and watch it again. I did go download The Origin of Love and Wicked Little Town, and listen to them over and over again. Reading of Eliza’s passion for Hedwig made me love it too, if that makes any sense. It’s like I didn’t really see it until I saw how she saw it, and then I couldn’t not love it. I don’t know. It’s way past my bedtime, and I’m still not completely packed for Florida, so I think I’m going to stop trying to explain any further and just let it stand as it is. See you on the flip side, unless a dolphin falls in luhrv with Fred and mauls him, and then I’ll see you when I see you.]]>

someone blows in my ear. Rwowr. And then one day I took a film-ridden cup out of the cupboard and poured a Diet Coke in it and added three ice cubes, and settled down in front of the computer. I slurped my Diet Coke joyfully, because I am a joyful sort of person, and I enjoyed my Diet Coke, because I always do. And when the Diet Coke was mostly gone and I was reading a journal entry – or perhaps an email, I don’t actually remember which – I noticed that my tongue felt odd. Really odd. As if it were going a little numb, but also as if it were growing a thick coat of fur. Not a happy, joyful feeling, as you can imagine. I decided to avoid the filmy cups from there on out, and I hoped that the damn Jet Dry dispenser would soon be empty, and I vowed to never – NEVER! – use the damn stuff again, and I tossed the half bottle that was left over, and I promised myself that I would write an entry detailing the horrors of Jet Dry, the devil’s tool. I mean, really. Just how shiny and spot-free do my freakin’ dishes need to be, anyway?! Who sees the fucking things besides us? It’s not like we’re going to have the president and Laura over to dine, and Laura will gaze down at the spotty plates and shoot me a look full of disapproval. I wouldn’t know what to feed them, anyway. And would I be responsible for feeding the secret service guys, or do they take care of themselves? But most importantly, could I talk one of the secret service into shooting Fancypants? All accidental-like? It would certainly be worth a try, because it’s not like those Bushes are cat people. They’re not, are they? I seem to recall a lot of dogs, but no cats. But I could be wrong. I also digress. So I decided to avoid the filmy cups and just drink directly out of the cans, and for a few days all was well. “Bessie,” Fred said one evening while he was finishing his dinner and I was loading the dishwasher – when he cooks, I clean up, when I cook, he does. I get the better end of the bargain, though, because I use WAY more dishes when I cook than he does. Heh. – “Bessie, what’s up with this nasty, squeaky film we’ve got going on?” “I think it’s that FUCKING Jet Dry,” I said, continuing to load the dishwasher. “I think it’s double-coating the dishes or something, and I don’t think there’s anything we can do until the dispenser is empty.” “What do we do when the dispenser is empty?” “We don’t add more Jet Dry.” Honestly. Do I have to spell everything out? “I wonder if the rinse agent is reacting badly with the powder I use?” Fred said, finishing his dinner. “You use the powder?” I said. We use Electrasol tabs in the dishwasher, but I also keep a box of Cascade under the counter for emergencies, on the rare occasion when we run out of the Electrasol. “Yeah,” he said. I picked up the container the Electrasol tabs were contained in, and I looked at the back. “Hey, look,” I said. “Those little white balls imbedded in the Electrasol tabs are actually JetDry balls. It’s my fault! I’ve been double-rinse-agenting the dishes!” So I flicked the white ball out of the Electrasol tab so there’d be no double-rinse-agenting, and started the dishwasher. The next day, no film. Oh, you can only IMAGINE the joy in BitchyVille, the jubilation, the ecstasy, the thrills and chills. I did a little dance through the kitchen, freaking out the cats, who danced away from me with big, dark eyes and fluffed-out tails. And yet. The next day, film. You can IMAGINE the abject horror. I stared at the filmy dishes with dismay, and I thought about it. The night before, I had cooked, so it was Fred’s turn to do the dishes. And for some reason, he’d decided to use up the powder, he’d told me, and therefore the problem had to lie in some sort of reaction between the JetDry and the Cascade. I looked under the sink for the box of Cascade so I could read the back and see if, perhaps, there was a warning along the lines of “Danger! Do not use with JetDry Rinse Agent!” But, odd. No Cascade. Had he used up the box? I looked in the trash. No Cascade. I looked under the sink again to see if, perhaps, it was hiding behind something else. It was nowhere to be seen. I called him at work. “Where’s the powder you’ve been using in the dishwasher?” I asked. “It’s on top of the container of the tabs,” he said. I looked under the sink once again, wondering how I could possibly have missed seeing a big-ass bright green box of Cascade perched on the container of Electrasol tabs. I saw this: “YOU USED THE POWDER ON TOP OF THE CONTAINER OF ELECTRASOL TABS IN THE DISHWASHER?!” I shrieked. “Yeah,” he said, obviously paying attention to something else. “Is that why we’re having the film on the dishes?” “Yes,” I said. “Possibly the big dose of poison you’re washing the dishes with every time you do them is causing a FUCKING FILM on the dishes.” Of course, this ends up being my fault, because the Oxi-Clean container is very similar to the Electrasol container, thus the small container is obviously the powdered version of what’s in the larger container. Silly me. I thought he could READ. Possibly we’re lucky to still be alive. Also possibly, we’re dying (no, not seriously – it’s been a few weeks, and we feel fine. Apparently the Oxi-Clean (AVOID CONTACT WITH EYES AND MUCUS MEMBRANES OR PROLONGED CONTACT WITH SKIN. DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, INGEST!) was diluted enough to not kill us. Because I’m thinking that if the spud went to Maine for the summer and Fred or I died in a freak poisoning accident, she’d probably never want to go to Maine ever again in her life.]]>

Absolutely awesome-smelling candles from Aly, who is currently training for the Atlanta 3-Day, which takes place in October. Anyway, the yellow candles are chamomile-scented, and there’s a layer of coral passion-flower-scented candles underneath. They smell SO good, and I keep going back to sniff them until I’m lightheaded. Mmmmm. From Egg, smiley-face glasses. They are SO awesome – when you look at any point of light, you see 3-D smiley faces. I am SO taking these to Florida with us to wear while we’re watching the fireworks! And from reader Donna in Canada, magnets! They go perfectly with my smiley magnet collection, and the evil smiley up there on the right just cracks me up. Man. Do I have the best damn readers in the whole wide world, or what?! I have been amusing myself all day long by singing the lines What a cruel trick of nature/ Landed me with such a louse in the manner of one Ethel Merman, complete with big, goofy arm movements. It really takes very little to amuse me. The GiveAway page has been changed – this week I’m giving away perfumes. I was looking at descriptions of the various perfumes online, and was amused to see that each was recommended for “romantic wear”, “casual wear”, or “evening wear.” I had no idea perfumes were supposed to match how you were dressed. I guess I’d better check and see whether the Vera Wang I’m wearing all the time now is recommended for cotton pants and t-shirts, because I’d hate to be screwing that up. With its modern floral bouquet, the Vera Wang fragrance is a sensual and intimate fragrance of desire. Whew! Luckily, it doesn’t say what I should be wearing, so I guess as long as I’m looking all desirable and sensual (and you can see that picture of me in the smiley sunglasses as proof), I’ll be okay. Speaking of the GiveAway page, I am officially no longer looking at the body of every email I get, because it takes too long – 103 people wanted the Evanovich book last week – so if you have a comment or question, you’ll have to email it separately from the entry, because unless you’ve won, I won’t see what you had to say. Know what chaps my ass (speaking of sensual and desirable….)? When I get fucking SPAM, and the return address is mine. Like I spammed myself. That just pisses me off, because when I go to bounce the spam through MailWasher, all it does is bounce back to me, like I’m the one who sent it. Fuckers. Some Eminem lookalike just drove by and put a flyer on my mailbox. I’m sure he’s starting up a lawn-mowing service. It almost makes me want to hire him just so I can take his picture and put the caption Eminem mows my lawn during his down time underneath. Fred and I have spent the last couple of days on the verge of deciding not to go to Florida. It’s a 5-hour (if not more) drive, and while we want to BE there, we don’t want to do the drive. It’s really too late to cancel without losing money anyway, and there’s NO way I’m spending the next several days sitting around the house. So it looks like we’re going! At least, as of this very moment we are. Hey, look! More hijinks in the box! Fancypants laying in the box playing dead, while Miz Poo sniffs around to determine whether she needs to put a smackdown on his fancy ass. Miz Poo’s turn in the box. She’s wondering who the hell put that volleyball in there, and how the hell is she supposed to fit her portly ass around it? And now, Spot’s turn. Spot is not comfortable in the box for periods of time any longer than 3 – 4 seconds at a time. Miz Poo, snoozing on the love seat in a weird position. Miz Poo giving looks of annoyed hatred to me because I couldn’t resist petting her, which woke her up.]]>

I used to dream That I would meet a prince But God Almighty, Have you seen what’s happened since? “Master of the house”? Isn’t worth me spit “Comforter, philosopher” And lifelong shit Cunning little brain Regular Voltaire Thinks he’s quite a lover But there’s not much there What a cruel trick of nature Landed me with such a louse God knows how I’ve lasted Living with this bastard in the house! I’ve probably watched the Les Mis tape with Fred 5 or more times, and every time we watch it, I reiterate that I really REALLY want to see it on the stage, but that hasn’t happened yet. I swear to god, if I could sing worth a shit, Fred and I would be the best Thénardiers ever. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold a tune with a bucket, so I’ll have to continue being Mme Thénardier only in my dreams. When I wasn’t dreaming about that, I was dreaming that I was attending Jessamyn‘s bachelorette party, and I was freaked out that I hadn’t remembered to bring the Krispy Kremes with me. Apparently bachelorette party = Krispy Kremes in my mind. Of course, ANY occasion is a Krispy Kreme occasion, innit? Here’s another sign that Fred and I are perfect for each other. We are in complete agreement that we should spend as little as possible in Florida, so that when we get home, we can spend whatever’s left of our vacation fund on our wish lists. Heh. We’re such dorks. We went to see Minority Report on Saturday, and though I really liked it, I did NOT enjoy sitting next to Billy Bob ShutTheFuckUp, who was compelled, when not clearing his throat loudly and phlegmily, to remark upon each and every plot point. “HAWHAWHAW, it’s all over NOW!” he would say to his wife in a loud and carrying voice. And every time he made a comment, I could feel my blood pressure rising. I’m amazed, given the length of the movie, that I didn’t have a stroke before it was over. I’m even more amazed that I didn’t dump my super-huge-ass Diet Coke over his big stupid head. Grrr. The big excitement for Friday – aside from the chocolate-pecan brownies Fred made – was that we received something in the mail that was contained in a big box. So the box was opened, the item was removed, and the hijinks, they did begin. Fancypants hops in the box, not ten seconds after it’s been emptied, and settles in for a long nap. Miz Poo says snide things about Fancypants to herself, while waiting for her turn in the box. Spanky patiently waits his turn in the box, and in the meantime wonders how he’d look in that blue bra I hung on the end of the banister. Miz Poo finally takes her turn in the box, and gives me a smug look, because she’s not moving her ass out of the box anytime soon, damnit. Fancypants, all excited about his time in the box, runs into the living room and up onto the back of the couch behind Fred, where he kicks up both of his back legs and indulges in a little self-love licking. Not cat related, but see these purty flowers Fred bought me for no reason? He’s mine, ladies. Hands off! ]]>

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. ]]>