Category: Life

ER last night? I knew Lucy was going to die – I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago – but that didn’t stop me from tearing up like a big baby when she actually did. It was great to see Dr. Romano’s somewhat-human side. Have I mentioned that I really, really, really like Dr. Romano? I’m always drawn to the asses, it would appear. Fred and I always refer to him as "Bulldog", originally because he resembled Bulldog on Frasier, and then because he really is a little bulldog. I’d do him in a heartbeat, I would. Well, except he’d probably be bossy in bed. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who’s bossy in life, but wants to be tied up and whipped when it comes to sex. Ooh. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s a fictional fucking character, Robyn you fucking freak. That right there could lessen my chances of having sex with him, I s’pose. So this morning, whilst not fending off calls from clueless telemarketers, I spent a goodly amount of time adding a page to my site listing all my bookmarks. My Netscape is acting freaky as shit, and I’m tired of transferring my bookmarks from Internet Explorer to Netscape and back again once I realize how much Netscape sucks. Therefore, I created a page I can open, and follow links to my favorite sites. I’d put the url here, but I’m not all that keen on y’all checking out my bookmarks page and laughing at the erotica sites I surf to upon occasion. Yes, I am a bad, bad girl. Spank me? JUST KIDDING. Calm yourselves, people. Since Fred is out of the office today and the people in the channel we hang out on on IRC noticed he wasn’t around. Someone, who’s been looking for him for a week or so, asked me to pass on a message. I agreed, and the guy started discussing programming issues with me, talking (or typing) as if I had the slightest clue what he was talking about. Fred and I hang out in a programming channel, but I’m not a programmer, and all the programming chat goes right over my head. Everyone knows this, including the guy who wanted me to pass on his message, and yet he would say something geeky and then wait for an equally geeky reply from me. Perhaps he thinks I’ve absorbed programming knowledge through sex with Fred. In any case, the conversation on my end consisted of "Yeah." "Okay." "Uh-huh." I’m going to try to stay away from the computer this weekend, but I am rarely successful when I make such attempts. Therefore, I may or may not be updating this weekend. If you don’t want to keep checking back, go join my notify list, ‘k? Have a great weekend! Have I mentioned that 3-day weekends rock? They sure do. —–]]>

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

the Pill) Sunday, and the nausea started Monday. I’m hoping it (the nausea, not the Pill) goes away soon. Nausea sucks. Fred made an extra $900 last week. How, you ask, did he make such a large sum of money? He sold stuff on ebay, of course. Among other things, he sold dvds we have no desire to ever watch again, a laser disc player, a large number of laser discs, and a projector. All stuff we never use. Pretty good haul – almost enough money to pay off last month’s Amex bill. Next up for sale on Ebay will be his collection of cookie jars. He went through a collecting phase a couple of years ago, and now he’s ready to sell. He’s got, I dunno, fifteen or so of them, and they’re taking up a 7-foot bookshelf which could be put to better use. Ebay is the shit, man. Did everyone watch Who wants to marry a multi – millionaire last night? I wasn’t nearly as creeped out as I thought I’d be. Yes, it was basically a pagent – was the bathing suit segment really necessary? – but I actually found myself liking 3 of the 5 finalists. Naturally, he didn’t choose any of the 3 I liked, but I didn’t have to marry a complete stranger, so more power to him. I was so nervous when it was time for him to make his choice that I couldn’t even look directly at the TV. It’s the bitchypoo way of life – if I’m not looking directly at it, it isn’t happening. None of the Unchosen seemed all that heartbroken, I noticed. I could swear I even saw a few relieved faces. ]]>

not believe Thorne married Macy. What is he, insane? I can’t stand that damn Macy, she’s always fawning over Thorne and touching him and calling him Honey. Gag me. And I wish Eric would just fall off the face of LA. Bastard. And how is it that I’ve been praying desperately for Rick to find out the truth, and now I feel sorry for Amber? I hated her from the moment I saw her, and now I get all teary-eyed when I see her crying. I loathe that smug, bitchy little Kimberly. She needs a good smack upside the head. Just so you know. ]]>

V.D.: Searching for a Cure. I woke up this morning feeling nauseous. I wandered around the house, trying various cures ("Maybe I just need to go to the bathroom!"), but nothing helped. I went into the kitchen to grab a couple of boxes of Gevalia coffee to take to work with me (Fred has a coffee maker in his office, and nothing but the best for my baby), saw a baggie full of chocolate chip cookies, and that was all she wrote. I stumbled across the kitchen and barfed my brains out in the sink (shaddup, I cleaned it out after). Still shaky, I called Fred and told him I’d either be in to work late, or not at all, and I’d let him know either way. Naturally, as soon as I told him I’d been sick, he jokingly spazzily shouted "You’re pregnant, aren’t you?!" Gad. Anyway, after sipping a coke and eating a handful of cheerios to settle my stomach, I took a short nap with the kitten and felt marginally better. I still feel nauseous and haven’t eaten anything since the cheerios and a couple of cokes, but there’s no danger of my hurking up bile all over my desk. At least, I hope not. It was a pretty quiet weekend. As I mentioned in my last entry, the spud spent Friday night at her friend Maria’s house. Well, I found out this morning that Maria’s parents took Maria and the spud to the mall, and while they were there, Maria decided it would be a good idea to spit from the 2nd level of the mall onto, as the spud put it, "a crystal-making guy." The spud suggested that it wouldn’t be a very good idea, but Maria did it anyway. The security cameras caught her doing it, and a security guard came over and gave Maria hell, then spoke to her parents, who also gave Maria hell. Is it wrong that hearing about that incident gives me a whole new respect for Maria? Aside from doing a little laundry and getting groceries, I spent most of the weekend reading – finished the John Saul book and read Nice in about three hours – and scanning work receipts, then burning them to a cd. Have I mentioned how much I love my scanner? It rocks, bigtime.

There were other things I was going to blabber on about today, but the nausea has come back full-force, and I’m concentrating on not sending a huge explosion of bile at my monitor. Hopefully I’ll be feeling better tomorrow. But I wouldn’t count on it! Take care, y’all. —–

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wretch/ retch to use correctly. No less than three times this week have I read the sentence (roughly) "I thought I was gonna wretch." No you didn’t. You can’t use wretch as a verb. Wretch, as defined by merriam-webster, means 1 : a miserable person : one who is profoundly unhappy or in great misfortune 2 : a base, despicable, or vile person. You cannot come into my house, look at the litter box and wretch. You can look at it and become a wretch if you so desire, but that’s your prerogative. No, when you see something gag-worthy, you retch. Retch, people. Definition?: to make an effort to vomit; also : VOMIT. Ah, now, that makes sense, doesn’t it? You would certainly retch if you were faced with the nasty, germ-ridden box of litter located next to the washer in my house. And I’m the wretch who has to clean the damn thing. Everyone clear, now? Good. Don’t let me see you using the wrong word again. Have you ever noticed that if you read or say the same word over and over, it ceases to make any kind of sense? I’m looking up there where it says retch and thinking, "That doesn’t look like a real word. It looks like a made-up word." Does, doesn’t it? Say it to yourself ten times. Retchretchretch. Anyway. Here’s a cute picture of the kitten, because I know you simply don’t get enough of those. If you look closely, you’ll see that her right pupil is noticeably bigger than her left. I’m not sure what’s up with that, but it makes her look a tad brain-damaged. Which would explain a lot. And here’s a picture of Spanky, sitting on top of my monitor, next to my Coke reindeer. He’s such a sweetie. Every night he jumps on my desk looking for love, and every night I pet him half-heartedly and turn my attention back to my beloved computer. And he sits and stares at me with love in his eyes. Well, that’s not really love in his eyes in this picture. That’s more of a feed me, bitch look. But he loves me! Really, he does. So, the weekend is upon us, and the spud is spending the night at her friend Maria’s house. Maria is from Guatemala, and I just can’t understand a word the child says. I’ve mentioned before my difficulty understanding those with accents, and Maria is no exception. The spud’s social life is picking up this year. I’m not sure whether it’s the new school (Madison rezoned last year, and she’s going to a different school from the one she attended for the previous two years) or the fact that she’s in fifth grade and girls get more social at that age, or what, but last year she only had one friend whom she saw outside of school with any regularity, and this year there are three or more who call all the time. Heh. "All the time." The phone rings for her about three times a week, and I consider that "all the time." With the spud gone for the evening, you might wonder what Fred and I are doing. Chasing each other naked through the house with whipped cream and ice cubes? Watching porn and doing it (you know, IT) on the floor of the living room? Taking this opportunity to do it (IT) in every room of the house? Well, no. Sorry to disappoint you, but I have two words for you: period, and yeast infection. Okay, that’s three words, but you get my point. This fine evening, we ate McDonald’s in front of the boob tube (yes, I know, we eat too much fast food. I’ll take that under advisement, alrighty?) and watched Stir of Echoes. It’s pretty damn good – I found at several points during the movie that I’d been grinding my teeth out of nervousness. I recommend it. (The movie, not grinding your teeth) After the movie, we – can you stand the excitement?! – made the grocery list for tomorrow, and here we are, each in front of our own computer. At least Fred’s getting something productive done – I’ve been sitting here and typing, then surfing for a bit, then typing a little more. It ain’t exciting, but I like it fine, thankyou. I may or may not update tomorrow and Sunday. I haven’t decided yet, and I intend to just go where the day takes me this weekend. Y’all have a good weekend, now. ]]>

/server, but typed several instead. I never fail to type Fredex instead of Fedex, but that one’s understandable. I end up having to backspace and retype several times in any given paragraph, and it’s annoying as hell. Maybe it means I’m not giving my full attention to what I’m typing (apparently so – I just had to back up and insert the not in that sentence). Or maybe my hands are developing early-onset Alzheimer’s. God, I hope I never have Alzheimer’s. The spud has to learn the Preamble to the Constitution in the next three weeks, and she’s spazzing. It’s five sentences, and she swears up and down that she’ll never be able to memorize it in time. Her main concern is all the big words, so Fred tried to help out. He put the American Rock tape in the vcr, and played the part where they sing the Preamble. The spud was not swayed from her opinion that she can never learn it all in time, so Fred subjected her to the "If you give up instead of trying, you’ll never get anywhere in life!" speech. I’m not sure what effect, if any, it had on her. Thank god tomorrow’s Friday. As usual when I take a day off in the middle of the week, today flew by, but I’m still looking forward to the weekend. ]]>

driving me out of my mind. The kitten has been incredibly clingy today, and not only took a nap with me, but has been following me around, not letting me out of her sight for a second. She spent all last night snuggled up next to me, until 4:30 when she insistently climbed up so that her fuzzy little belly was draped across my face, and her sharp little claws were resting on my face. Naturally, she gets so happy in this position that she begins kneading her paws on my face, until I get annoyed at the incessant pinprick feeling on my face (hey, it hurts!) that I make her get down. Okay, so I don’t have much to say today. I’ll see you back here tomorrow night. G’night! —–]]>

real doctor, as we always say, and not one of those "doc in a box" doctors who are so conveniently located around the corner) and charmed a 1:50 appointment out of them. So I left work early, went to the spud’s school to pick her up, and made it to Dr. Judy’s right at the stroke of 1:50. We only waited for ten or fifteen minutes before going back for the weighing and blood-pressure taking, etc. They did a flu test, which involves – have I mentioned this? – sticking a long-ass q-tip up your nose and rolling it around. The spud was admirably stoic throughout it all, and the upshot is that she has the flu. Dr. Judy prescribed Relenza for all three of us (Fred, the spud, and I, that is). I swear upon all that is holy that I’m going to get a flu shot next fall, and so is the spud. I’m tired of this being sick crap. Tomorrow, I’m going to go see Dr. Judy for my ear, out of which I still cannot hear anything but constant white noise. Fred swears up and down that Dr. Judy can fix it, because "Dr. Judy can fix anything!" Two years ago, Fred was having serious back pain, and saw doctor after doctor, and only Dr. Judy was able to figure out that it was "chest wall pain" and treated it successfully. She’s also very nice, which in my opinion is a big plus. Because I spent part of the afternoon sitting around a doctor’s office, we had McDonald’s for dinner and rented a couple of movies. We watched Blue Streak, which stars Martin Lawrence and cutie-pie Luke Wilson. It wasn’t a bad way to kill an hour and a half. Dr. Judy decreed that the spud shouldn’t go to school tomorrow, so I’ll be staying home also – and lemme tell you, my heart’s breaking over that. I intend to stay up late, sleep late, and do a lot of nothing for most of the day tomorrow, though I have to run a few errands along with my trip to Dr. Judy’s office. Y’all have a good humpday! —–]]>

Cool, isn’t it? It’s like a valentine for me from the kitties! Really, what other journaller will thrill you with pictures from the litter box? Fred’s dad and stepmom came over Saturday night to watch Heart and Souls with us. I’ve seen the musical parts from this movie about 45,000 times, because my husband is nothing if not obsessive, but I hadn’t seen the actual movie itself. It’s pretty good, but I don’t think I adore it quite as much as Fred does. I don’t think anyone adores it as much as Fred does. Have I mentioned that he thinks he lives in a musical? —–]]>