You know what I think? I think that new Peter Pan movie is totally going to get creamed. You can't open any movies right now. It's all about the Hobbits.

In other news, someone somewhere has done a Google search on "creamed on Peter Pan" and found this site. And that someone is Michael Jackson.

Ahhh, shoot. I just don't seem to get tired of the young boys thing. This movie must be such a high for the guys that have always dreamed of the day when Peter Pan would be played by an actual young boy.

That brings me to a point. I was always a little worried as a kid about the Peter Pan thing. I remember not understanding why Sandy Duncan was playing a young boy. Why not just get a real boy? What IS this shit, I thought? (I was one of those kids with the preternaturally adult inner monologue) But it's true: why does this happen? Maybe Mr. Carroll should have just written a story about Petra Pan, the Russian girl who flies around and stalks a girl named Wendy because she has vague lesbian tendencies coupled with a desire to have a new Mommy. I honestly think this would be a solid tale for the youngsters.

I just cracked myself up with a visual I probably shouldn't type, but it is packing day for The Move and I am off in space somewhere anyway. What if Captain Hook was Captain Speculum? A very vicious 'gina snapped off his hand once and now he is on the prowl for the evil labias that did him in.

Wow, I think I just ruined Peter Pan forever now. Whenever I see that commercial with the kids flying to that Coldplay song, I will be picturing Jason Isaacs holding up a hand with a speculum at the end.

"Smee! Over there, off the starboard! Argh, it's the Vagina! It's comin' for me, Smee!"

This sanctuary is completely awesome. Monkeys are so amazing, and they deserve a place like this, after all the shit we give them.

The office is moving to a new building on Monday. In the meantime, the atmosphere around here is so strange. Everything we have has to be labeled, including the chairs. This cracks me up for some reason. Sticking coded labels on the chairs and securing them with tape... this is not what I went to school for. Then again, my whole job is not what I went to school for.

Today is the final full workday before The Move. People are allowed to wear crappy clothes today because they are in packing mode. There are boxes piled everywhere, and these boxes are making me want to move them around and make forts. Perhaps me and the sales guys could have a war. I would win, because Malcolm is here with me today. I will be able to capture precious fort territory when I send Malcolm out into No Man's Land. His CUTE will stop the fighting. What am I talking about? Forts? Wars? Jeez, it's Christmas. Tidings of comfort and joy and all that. I need to get with the Jingle program.

Also, lots of dust is being kicked up in all this packing. I am sneezing a lot as I try to type. This is not doing wonders for my keyboard. I'm going to have to employ the Clorox wipes before the day is through.

The most amusing thing about this upcoming move is that someone has taken down the hot dog picture. Yes, the oversized photo of a juicy, delicious hot dog (on a bun and everything) has been taken down from the kitchen and labeled. It is coming with us! Someone had to take it down and label it; someone has already thought of where in the new building the glorious hot dog artwork is going to be hung. I have been laughing over this hot dog for two years now. Every time I go in the kitchen, I can't help but notice this gigantic HOT DOG leering down at everyone who dares to rummage through the Candy/Snack Tray(tm) or operate the microwave. It's very sobering to realize a large hot dog model is watching your every culinary move. If it's not the bosses watching what you are doing at your desk, it's the fancy pork product lording it over you as you try to eat or snack. Never a moment's rest around here.

Malcolm is asleep already. He is obviously unaffected by The Move. I think I will curl up behind my desk and go to sleep, too. Because I am also unaffected. I just decided.

From Weird Al Yankovic's classic song, "I Want a New Duck" (to the tune of "I Want A New Drug" by Huey Lewis and his 'News'):

I want a new duck
Not a swan or a goose
Just a drake I can dress real cute
Think I'm gonna name him Bruce

One that won't raid the ice box
One that'll stay in shape
One that's never gonna try to migrate or escape
Or I'll tie him up with duck tape.

... That is my definition of a fine song. Thank you. Quack quack, quack quack quack.

Today I remembered college.

Sometimes I forget I actually went to college and that I earned myself a bachelor's degree. College flew by in an intense wave of not-making-any-lasting-friends and worrying-more-about-what-I-was-doing-outside-of-classes; such as working and doing theater and writing stories. So yeah, college was not memorable, really. Not a bad time, per se, but still it wasn't something I need to write home to anyone about. It's a bunch of yawns, really.

But the thing I remembered today was I took some halfway decent creative writing classes. In one class, I wrote a short story about invisible mute people who go on talk shows. Another story involved a blind date some girl has with a guy who plays in a band called "Pineapple Suck Muffin." That right there was literary genius. I wrote some interesting stuff back in the day. I am curious about where the hard copies of those stories are right now. Maybe that's something I need to look into. I think the world may finally be ready for a well-edited version of the story about the guy from Pineapple Suck Muffin. At last.

I really can't wait to go see "The Return of the King." I haven't had the time all week so far, and I need to go with someone who will appreciate the movie, and I don't know when that can be since some people's schedules are very busy straight through Christmas. I really hope I don't have to wait until after Christmas to see this movie. Christmas is, like, 6 days away, and that is too long.

Of course, I do need to watch my extended-version DVDs of "Two Towers" this weekend, first. But still. I simply can't wait much longer. A lot of people have seen it already and I am really glad no one is spoiling anything for me. I have not read the books. One day, I might, but truth be told, they seem a little long. I'm afraid I must admit that I am more about the instant gratification these days.

I am having Christmas Decorations Anxiety a little bit today. I'm having an office party at my house tonight for a couple of hours, and I think my house isn't decked out enough in wreaths, garlands and lights. Maybe I can do a little last-minute decorating today. Maybe I should get the staple gun out and staple things all over the walls and windowframes, and perhaps to the bushes out front as well. What sort of things, you ask? Who knows? I have boxes labeled "decorations" and I really don't know what evils lurk in the hearts of cardboard. But heck, I will decorate with whatever's in there, even if it's dead squirrels and wadded-up tissues.

I am on the verge of joining an all-women's gym. This is exciting news for me, because I have been missing having good workouts, and because my medical problems/ prescriptions caused me to gain some weight this year that I can't wait to shed like a snake skin. I visited LA Fitness yesterday, and the guy at the desk was this lunkhead guy named Matt who "couldn't find his keys." Or so he said. He was listening to me and nodding, but he was feeling around under the desk for his keys. After I had just finished a lengthy dissertation on why the atmosphere of a gym in so important to my workout, he looks at me with a blank look and says, "Sorry, it's just that I can't find my keys."

An awkward pause followed, in which I said, "Yeah, well. If you can't find your keys, that can leave you discombobulated, that's for sure." To which he stared a little more, and with an open-mouthed grin, he finally nodded. "Oh, yeah, right." He had never heard that word before.

He gave me a tour of the gym... or, I assume the only places we could get into without his keys. It was crowded and it stank of sweat and chlorine. Normally, this wouldn't bother me--I have come to expect these smells in a gym-- but I had already visited the cool little women's gym, and they actually had aromatherapy scents in there, and it was lit very nicely and was not crowded at all. I realized how much guys really can screw things up. They are bigger, they sweat more (and it's smellier sweat), they are noisier, and they can't seem to leave the free weights area. This gym in particular was so crammed with equipment in too small a space that there were treadmills in the hallways, with guys running on them as we squeezed past. "Matt" showed me the room where they had elliptical trainers and bikes, and it reminded me of those big stalls on cattle farms, where the cattle are lined up in little pens on top of one another, awaiting their death. The machines were directly on top of one another, and in very tight rows. The walls were white and sterile, with fluorescent lights overhead. Two TV screens were blinking out close-captioned news stations. Boring and depressing as hell.

Needless to say, I didn't join and Matt tried his best to give me the hard sell, dropping down the monthly fee by about 3 dollars (whoa there, Matt, slow down!) but I told him why I didn't like the gym. I even got into why I don't want to go to a gym with men anymore. I probably shouldn't have told him that I am looking for a place where we can have Menstrual Yoga classes, but I was feeling fiesty.

Wonder if Matt ever found those elusive keys. He was still hunting around in his pockets as I walked to the parking lot. Oh, man, gross.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
They are fucking liars. Because, look out, world, Malcolm has learned a new trick.
He will stand up on his hind legs and dance for a piece of cheese. He only started doing this a couple of weeks ago.
And he is 13 years old. With cataracts. What's that I hear; is that the sound of naysayers shaking their heads in disbelief? Well, quiet down out there, loudheads. It's true.

What you can't teach an old dog to do is find a decent looking hooker on a Saturday night. They always bring home the "shaky" ones. Sorry. Science has only come so far.

The other day when Tom and I went to see "The Last Samurai," I admit I did partake in some graffiti in the bathroom.

There I was in my stall after the movie... which is very long and will make your bladder ache with pain if you drink lots of soda, which I did... and I look over and see someone had scratched into the gray wall:

I LOVE REGIN (with an unfinished A, so I knew it was supposed to read, REGINA)

I had a flash of inspiration. When I finished my bidness, I stood up and pulled a pen out of my purse and wrote my own embellishments to the graffiti.

I added a little "A" after the "E" and before the "G", and drew the "I" out so it looked like an "A". I turned the unfinished "A" at the end into an exclamation point. Then, I wrote the name "RONALD" under the word "LOVE". Finally, I added my own sentence at the end... "ME TOO!"

So now, anyone else visiting that stall in the ladies' room at the UA Pavillions movie theatre in the Scottsdale Pavillions will read on the wall in that stall:
I LOVE RONALD REAGAN! ME TOO!"

I was pretty damned impressed with myself with that one. I am normally a law-abiding citizen, but I had to take this opportunity for a little random comedy. Lord knows I would laugh if I saw that on the wall while I was pissing! Ohhh, hoo boy, I am just a funny, funny, bitch.

Sons of Norway meetings were really sumthin' special to me and my sister. Whenever we got that call from our Oma that she wanted to take us to a special SoN picnic or "rummage sale", were were all a-twitter. And by "a-twitter", I mean we were "actively trying to beg our mother not to make us go."

What was so bad about a little picnic or junk sale? It was just boring and weird. Every year my grandmother would say the same thing: "Oh, this year there will be a LOT of kids going. Not like last year. And... they're having watermelon!" And every year we would be forced to go (my parents would say thigns like, "It's nice to spend some time with your grandmother") and every year there would be NO KIDS there and the watermelon would be warm and/or non-existant.

No kid in their right mind wanted to go to these events. Whenever we got suckered into going, and I would see the lack of children, I knew there were a lot of kids that were smarter than me who had managed to get out of going. I know I tried the "sore throat" route once or twice; and one year did get out of it because I was going to camp.

The Sons of Norway is a group of people who get together to celebrate their Norwegian heritage. They apparently have "meetings" where they do something Norwegian, I guess, and eat gross foods and say words with umlauts over the a's and o's. It's almost exclusively a club of people 65+ years of age, with very dry, very dull, senses of humor. These are the grandparents that, when a 5 year-old grandkid comes up to them and asks for a soda, they will say things like, "No, I have a better idea, how about some of this carrot juice? Come on now, drink up." Then they'll go back to talking to their boring friends about Paul and his new Norwegian goat-hair cardigan and how so-and-so's wife is in the hospital again with that bronchial infection that's going around, and so on and so forth. VERY fun indeed.

The grandparents always did this yearly summer family picnic thing to get their families to come out and appreciate the Norwegian heritage. There would be some grown children there, looking tired and bored, and that was about it. Like I have already said, there were hardly ever ANY little kids there. When you are 7 years old, you totally have to have other kids to play with when you are stuck in a stuffy VFW hall for 6 hours on a Saturday, when you could be home playing Atari or swimming in your pool.

The thing is, all the grandparents ever wanted to do was SHOW OFF their grandkids. Trish and I would have to wear cute little outfits and our mom would give us matching ponytail ribbons or something, and then Oma would parade us around the VFW hall to all her old cronies, who all looked exactly the same and all smelled like mothballs. After that, we were sent off to "play." There was nothing "family" at all about this picnic. She had to talk to her friends. And ignore the grandkids, again.

"Play" consisted of coloring some ditto-ed picture of a barn and some kids wearing traditional Norwegian garb, using some dull colored pencils; wandering around the hall and jumping from tile to tile in a vain attempt to amuse yourself; visiting the bathroom and repeatedly hitting the hand-dryer button and putting your head under it; sitting in a chair quietly and not making a lot of noise. The last one was the grandparents' suggestion.

Food was always sucky. One year we had boiled hot dogs on rolls that were sort of stale. Share this bag of chips, kids. Soda? Here you go; here's a Tab. No, we don't have full sugared soda here because sugar makes kids crazy. Have a cookie out of this tin someone picked up at the drugstore on the way here, because we realized we hadn't planned on any other kid-friendly foods. If you want, you are welcome to have some boiled lutefisk, creamed fish eggs on crackers, beef brisket simmered in lard with salmon, and other things I am making up right now to try to illustrate how gross the food was. Sure hope you like fish, because that's all you're getting.

The funniest things I remember involve the other "children" who actually did attend these picnics. They were always mutated in some way. We had deaf kids, who were very hard to play with if you didn't know ASL, which of course, we didn't. We followed that up another year with the Blind Girl. She spent the whole time sitting in a folding chair, smiling in the direction of the adults, and fingering some sort of Braille toy. No chance of running around the VFW hall with the Blind Girl. We also had some of those hyperactive, no-sugar kids, and a few kids in wheelchairs or with Downs, I think. Point is, there were NEVER any kids like us. The good news was, we won the "cutest kids at the picnic" contest every year, by default. (There was no contest. But hypothetically speaking, we damn sure would have won.)
The Sons of Norway held a play one time when I was a little older. It was an original play, by one of the members. It had something to do with these two people laying in bed and dreaming all this fucked-up shit. For instance, they "dreamed" that there were two fishermen in a boat. The "fishermen" were actually two old ladies dressed up in bait-and-tackle hats, sitting on the floor behind a woman in a brown leotard, who was laying on her side on the floor. This woman in the leotard was portaying "the Boat." At one point, the "fisherman" broke a bottle on the side of the "boat" to christen it. And bruise the woman, I guess. The audience was in hysterics!
For the finale, the people in the bed dreamed of a wedding. And here comes my grandmother, making her big theatrical debut... she came on stage wearing an old curtain on her head for a veil--for she was the bride-- and carrying a bunch of fresh carrots as her 'bouquet'. Her "groom" was a woman dressed as a man, with a fake drawn-on mustache and slicked down hair. It was highly disturbing. Luckily, I had brought one of my best friends, and she and I (and Trish) spent the whole "show" laughing our asses off and making up mean names for all the people in the play.
And finally, the Sons of Norway felt a need to hold an annual Rummage Sale around Christmas time. All manner of junk was thrown all over these tables at the VFW hall, mixed in with Christmas-themed crap, like those reindeer made out of twigs and styrofoam balls with red pom-poms glued to them to be snowmen, or something... cripes, I hate that shit. One lady was selling a table full of crocheted tights. You know, like pantyhose, only it's... tights. They looked so itchy and so dorky. My Oma offered to buy us a couple of pairs, but we got out of it by telling her we had "plenty of tights at home" and taking her up on her offer to buy us small chocolate Santaheads instead.
That was the Sons of Norway. A vaguely uncomfortable celebration of your "whiteness." Ehhhh. Can't say I endorse this. Glad you're proud of your heritage and all, but god damn... do you have to be so BORING about it??

Psst, hey, kid. Wanna go crazy? I have a real quick way you can go crazy in time for the holidays. It's called Singing the Uff Da Song.

This all started because the other night, Tom and were driving behind a car that had the phrase "Uff Da!" on its license plate frame. We got all excited, because that is a phrase Tom says all the time. He "inherited" it from his father. Basically, you say, "uff da" when you are full after a meal; when you have sneezed an excessive number of times; when something was exasperating, in general. It's kind of like saying, "Oh, MAN!" or something, I guess.

Tom said he thought it was a Swedish phrase. Swedish. Well, anyway, besides me being in love with a semi-Swede, I decided it was time for me to finally do a Google search on "Uff Da" once and for all. Who knew what I would find?

Turns out, I find it's actually a phrase of MY PEOPLE, the Norskys. Know what a Norsky is? It's a "Fun loving Norwegian." Hot damn! Norwegians say Uff Da. I guess the Swedes might, too, they probably steal a lot of stuff from the Norwegians. I can just see the Swedes backing up their old van to the border of Norway in the dead of night and them all rushing out and taking things of out of Norwegian homes while the Norwegians sleep, all passed out on lutefisk and curdled goat cheese.

Anycrap, in my little searches on Uff Da, I came across the following song, which was posted on a "Norwegian Jokes" page:

"Here is my favorite norwegian joke. I sing it all the time in the shower. This song can be sung to the tune of "The Camptown Races":

Norskie ladies sing dis song....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Bake dat lefse all day long....All da uff da day

(CHORUS)
Gonna bake all day! Gonna bake all night! Ill spend my Kroner
on potatoes und flour to have me an Uff da day!


Vent to da store for some lutefisk....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Vether vas so cold und brisk....It vas an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a mackinaw....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Greatest yacket I ever saw....Lefse saved da day!

(CHORUS)

Vent down town in my Model T....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Tire vent flat und I said "poor me"....It was an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a patch....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Now I got to bake me anodder batch....All da Uff Da day!

Well, know that you have that stuck in your head, I believe my job here is done. I think I need to do a little more Norwegian research, and soon, I will post more about the Sons of Norway meetings my sister and I were routinely subjected to as children. Teaser: what do fish balls, your grandmother wearing a curtain on her head to pose as a "bride", blind children, crocheted tights and warm Tab soda have in common? A lot.

This may be the most exciting story about rival bus gangs you will ever read about this week. And to think-- it appeared on busride.com!
Bus Ride. When you want to impress your cellmates.

Today me and my sister were talking about the topic of women named Judy who have "issues." Anyway, we came around to the most famous of all Judys, and that is of course, Judy Blume.
Turns out Trish never read "Blubber." When I asked her why, her answer was: "It's too mean-spirited."
There it is. Blubber= mean-spirited.
We're OK with "Superfudge" and "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing." But no on the "Blubber" and whatever that one was about Sheila the Great. Sheila, as drawn on the cover of the book, had big nostrils and bad pants.

An advertiser/ manufacturer of bus parts sent me an Olde-Fashioned "Country Santa with Waterball" recently. Oh, it is glorious. It's a resin six-inch-tall statue of Ole Saint Nick, and he's leaning on a water ball. A water ball is apparently a lot like a snow globe, only there is a resin squirrel inside holding an acorn and smiling out at Santa's jacket.
This beautiful treasure was all the sweeter because when I opened the box, it was already broken. Somehow, Santa's wintery, holly-festooned walking staff had snapped off, leaving the tip and a resin cardinal (bird) in the bottom of the box.
Like anyone who is appreciative of a free gift, and anyone who appreciates the random humor of broken Santa resin figurines, I placed the Country Santa AND his Waterball on my desk in a very visible, high-traffic spot (next to inbox), with the broken staff/cardinal piece lying alongside it.
When my coworkers come into my office, they almost always pick up the broken piece and try to 'attach' it to the Country Santa. It demonstrates that well-known psych 101 principle of mental completion. We always mentally complete a picture of a circle with one piece of the circle missing, or a broken line becomes a complete line in our minds. This Country Santa with Waterball is always mentally completed by the employees of Power Trade Media.
Let's see them complete it when I smash it out in the hallway. It will be funny to see them scramble. And, of course, it will be most fun to smash something. It's been awhile since I purposely smashed anything. I think I could use a good smashin'.

I am busy so here are some random thoughts/ observations:
* I edit with a green (not red) pen; must be very fine point, never medium otherwise my edits look messy on the copy
* I saw "Willard" the other day. So weird! And I loved it for that. Crispin Glover could end up being one of my sorta-heroes, because he is so unique. Although it was super sad when the orange cat named Scully tried to get away from the rats to no avail. Well, as a whole, the movie entertained me.
* I also saw "Dumb and Dumberer," and that bitch of a movie is worth it, if you can believe it. It's really worth it for the scenes with Bob Saget. Bob Saget could also become one of my new sorta-heroes. Although I have liked him since "Half Baked" to be perfectly honest.
* I think my rib is out of place. I can't breathe right. I hope the chiropractor can help! See what coughing too much can get you, kids? That's right, not enough oxygen.
* I think I'm sorta "fat." But then again, I think anyone who caught the rerun of "The Simple Life" last night is thinking they are fat compared to super skinny Paris Hilton. Cripes, that's another thing; I can't believe this no-talent pile of bones is getting so much attention these days. Seems like every time I turn on the radio or TV, or check my e-mail, there is a mention of Paris this, Paris that. Blah Blah Blah. Shut up! Let's see some more pictures of cute kids, like Maddox (Angelina Jolie's cute little baby) and of course, Jack and Lily Rose Depp. That'd be something schweet.
* Chuck Barry, Guy From My High School Homeroom, ended up visiting my father's house the other day and ended up writing me an e-mail today. It's a small world, after all. Hi Chuck. :)
* I have now spent about 12 minutes of time writing this entry, when I should have been completing my latest article. I so, like, totally, have to go. Ohmigod.

Wow! It looks like I was kidnapped, or something catastrophic happened in the middle of my last post. It cut off my entry mid-sentence yesterday. I had no idea until today. I also had no idea until today that Michael Jackson was into the young boy action, but go figure. I didn't test very highly on my SATs. For a genius, I sure am a dummy.

Anyway, whew, I think I could have "The flu". The dreaded "the flu." Maybe not though, as my fevers come and go like a drunk uncle through your bedroom window. But I feel like utter hell. I had to stay home today because coughing fits have left me sore and tired out and yucky feeling. I worked from home though; transcribing about 3 hours' worth of interviews for an article that, as of 10:30 pm, I haven't been able to finish yet despite my best efforts. Transcribing sucks so, so much. Half the time people are all mumble-mouth and I am spending precious minutes rewinding and trying to figure out what the fuck Gerald at the bus garage just said. Most of the time if I try to transcribe with a fever, every other word sounds to me like "whore" and/or "skank." Again, I can probably uncover something in my upbringing that makes me think like this (maybe I should look into that drunk uncle thing).

I finally caved in and after I had some dinner tonight, I went over to the drug store to purchase a humidifier. Nonchalantly I stroll through the handy automatic doors and head into the store. But! Before I can get through the vestibule, I am stunned when a LIFESIZE fake Santa starts gyrating and waving its hands around, a tinny voice screaming, "Have a holly jolly Christmas, blah blah blah blah nightmares for years...!" directly to my left. Yikes! Seriously folks, this thing was straight from the Devil. Yeah, the Big Guy with the Capital D. Scary as your aunt, whom your uncle has left passed out on roofies in the back of the volvo.

This huge moving Santa actually made me stop in my tracks and stare at it. I mean, give it a good once over, and by once over I don't mean hand-job, although some of you are thinking that-- I mean, I took the time to look at this thing rather than run away. Its hips were literally swaying from side the side, and I could hear the plastic and metal creaking through the cheap fabric suit it wore; the eyes blinked slowly opened and closed, and the arms, bent up at the elbows, looked ready to drop down onto my shoulders and pull me close for a soul-draining. The voice sang over some really crappy music, which is weird in and of itself: imagine if, when you opened your mouth to sing a happy tune, actual background music came out along with your voice? You'd probably give up the ghost because you were so disgusted with your mutated self.

Anyway, ewwww.

I knew I was looking a little funny, my face screwed up and my mouth slack as I stared at the horror. It cost almost $200, too. Some jackoff is going to actually BUY that thing. I know it. There are probably dozens sold around the country as I type this. Thousands of people are getting ready to lose their souls, unbeknownst to them, because a careless relative has chosen to let satan into the house for the holidays.

Randomly, the image of the pig's head on the stick from "Lord of the Flies" just popped into my head. I am not exaggerating now, I could handle that pig's head on the stick, with the flies and everything, swaying back and forth and singing "Dominic the Donkey" in an off-pitch Courtney Love voice easier than I can handle going back to Osco and having to walk past that evil Santa again. Does that make me weird, or I am just a well-adjusted person? I don't know anymore.

I can't stand it when parents just don't discipline their kids, or even just teach them basic social skills. I'll be in a store and some kid will just be screaming at random, and the parent just sort of holds a finger to his or her timid lips and goes, "Shhhhh..." and that's it. If they even acknowledge it at all. Sometimes they ignore it and keep shopping or chatting with their friends, using the ole' ignore-it-and-the-problem-goes-away philosophy (which never works, except in the case of pimples). Even more hilarious is when parents try to REASON with their kids. Oh my God! Why the hell do some mothers say, "No, you need to be quiet now, Dakota, because if you do we can go to the candy store after this." And the kid keeps screaming. Mom will repeat her little ridiculous statement again in a softer voice, perhaps attempting a little eye contact. Nothing will happen. Except shoppers in the vicinity will all hate her and wish her and her spawn lots of pain.

You know what works? Actually disciplining a kid. I'm not saying you should beat your kid, but seriously, putting a little fear into them is not going to be a bad thing. My mother, for example, wouldn't even have to say ANYTHING if I started raising some hell while we were out somewhere. All she needed to do was give me the dreaded LOOK. This look was pointed, direct, and it said clearly, "You stop it NOW or you will regret it." I would always quit screwing around if I got this look.

My parents hit me a couple times in the beginning to lay the groundwork. But after that, I didn't need to get hit at all, because, like I said, the LOOK was all they needed to do to reinforce that respect and fear. Wow, when I read that back it sounds absolutely awful and non-PC. But I do think you have to train kids like you train your dog. The primary step to training an animal always involves, first thing: ESTABLISHING WHO IS THE BOSS. Don't show your kid a photo of Tony Danza, either, you wiseass. But just don't let your kid (animal) step all over you! You need to set the barriers and the hierarchy. Otherwise the animal (kid) will run wild and step all over you, taking advantages wherever it can.

Anyway, that said, today I went to this crappy little "Japanese grill" fast food place called Shogun Express. I ordered my steamed veggies and headed towards the soda fountain to fill my cup. This mousy woman in a pink sweater was there with these two horrible little blonde boys. One boy was probably about 4, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and he had blue marker on his face. He was loudly yelling something and running all over the area, in and around the legs of other customers. His brother was just as obnoxious, opening up the cabinet under the area where they have straws and napkins and fucking CLIMBING INSIDE and pulling out clean drink-cup lids and spilling them on the floor.

And the mother/guardian? Oh, she is just sort of zoning out and saying in a soft, 'nurturing' voice, "No, Joey, don't do that, honey," and then trying to get napkins and avoid being run down by little blue-sweatshirt bastard, who is practically tripping everyone in the place. I am filling my cup with soda when blue-sweatshirt reaches up and tries to grab my cup! I look at him and turn away so he can't reach it. I glance at the mother, but she is oblivious.

I see that the demon children and their guardian have taken one of the prime tables near the window. I target a table about two away from them, in the corner, so I can eat and read my book in peace. As I am walking to this table, I pass little Blue SweatShirt Kid, who is sitting alone at the table. He looks up at me, points, and yells, "DOOFUS!"

I was really pissed off. I snap at him, "That is NOT NICE to say. You don't talk that way to people! You hear me, that is NOT NICE at all." I glare at him and sit down, feeling a lot like a stern teacher. I also worried that the dumb mother-person would have heard me and yelled at me. I have been yelled at by angry parents before. (In Pizza Hut once, I yelled at a kid who was fucking around and climbed into our booth while we were eating dinner and his Dad stood up and screamed, "I'll discipline my OWN kids, thank you very much!" all snotty.) But, today, the mother was overwhelmed by snotty little Climb-Inside-Cabinet brat and didn't hear me.

I ended up moving to the other side of the restaurant because the Blue Sweatshirt brat kept staring at me and I could hear him �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

People always say the weekend goes too fast but mine really did. On Friday night, Tom took me to the Phoenix Zoo for "Zoolights"... which, if you are not hip to the PHX scene, is a Christmas-lighted display all over the zoo grounds, with music and small pettin' zoo areas set up here and there. It's very pretty. They hang lights everywhere, except from the animals themselves. Since it's dark, it's not possible to actually see the animals, which is the only drawback. I love dem animals, I do.

Tom once worked at Zoolights; he was a "sprite"-- meaning, a guy in a sorta-queer looking costume with a shiny vest and hat. His job was to stand guard over some young girls who were dancing at the entrance. Just stand there, smile, and welcome people to Zoolights. He did this nightly in often-freezing weather (yeah, it gets cold in Phoenix). I think this is cool. It's not as impressive as Tricia's stint as Chuck E., but it will suffice.

At Zoolights, we walked through and got our $7 worth of lights and music, and crowds. There sure were a lot of all those things. They played "Carol of the Bells" an awful lot. That's that Christmas song that sounds a little bit psycho. It gets louder and LOUDER and the bells get closer and closer until AHHH! You're dead! We also noticed a lot of snack bars. They were all selling hot pretzels and hot chocolate for $2.75. Yowzas! Families were swarming the place; young, old, stupid, insane, high, coked up, drunk, dead, you name it. In fact, we had a nice time simply resting on a bench and watching people walk by. We particularly enjoyed a stately old black gentleman walking into the Arizona Trail alone, the biker-looking guys who were screaming, "Monkey!" as they walked past the light-up monkey shapes in the trees; and the various Babies Who All Look The Same.

I also did a lot of Christmas shopping this weekend. I really don't enjoy that so much. I am overspending, despite my best efforts. This is mostly because I find myself buying presents for myself. It's the old story... girl goes shopping for presents for someone else, winds up several thousand dollars in debt due to sales on clothes in her size.

And, I painted some stuff. Craft stuff. Stuff I can't disclose here, as they are gifts for some people who read this blog. Tom knows that one thing isn't for him, because he watched my ill-fated attempts to "add color" to a portion of the item last night. He laughed at me. I deserved it, too. Holy crap, I am not the greatest when it comes to crafts. Not even in the top tier of crafting. I am somewhere in craft purgatory, methinks.

Gee, aren't you excited to see your Handmade Gifts from the Inferno??

Malcolm has updated his blog. Check that out, while I try to get all this blood and gore washed out of my keyboard. Rest assured, I will have the swords cleaned and returned to you by this afternoon, as promised. The kill went well.

I am home sick today, and it would be the perfect time to get some writing done. But instead, I am checking e-mail and thinking about watching some TV. This is horrendous. But I really do think that the more I think about writing and how I SHOULD BE DOING IT, the harder it becomes to actually do it. It used to be, writing was an automatic thing for me when I was growing up. I could write every single day, for hours on end. I finished two books by the time I was 15. Today, I am hasslin' myself because I have yet to finish a novel I started in 1996! 1996. And the whole thing is mapped out in my head and I think about it every single day, and yet I am not actively writing much of it. Why is that?

Well, whatever it is, it is maddening. I think I need to chill out a little.

Oh, Jennifer Love Hewitt, you are quite the character!

This is kind of old news, but I just noticed a headline from a few days ago that reads: "Love Hewitt Pukes, Yelps at White House" and I had to read it. In fact, it is safe to assume that if you put the words "puke" and "yelp" in any headline, I will definitely read it. And if you add "White House," I am so there I am practically early. Dare I wish for the mention of J-L-Hew on top of all that? Sweet Lord! I will have an orgasm right away; one that is so intense I will go into seizures.

The story reads like a sketch on SNL. There is petite lil' Jennifer Love Hewitt, attending a solemn ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and whammo, she starts vomiting. Then a bee stings her and she is yelping--not once, not twice, but repeatedly. I am not really surprised. Because come on, whose idea was it to invite a luminary like Jennifer Love Hewitt to this sort of ceremony? What, were actual lawmakers and societal movers-and-shakers unavailable or something? You've got to expect some sort of shenanigans with a dame like "Love Hewitt" in the house. They're just lucky she wasn't parading around in a knock-off Audrey Hepburn dress and mouthing off about Carson Daly to anyone who would listen. I bet she does coke, too. Yeah, coke and bacon. Why bacon? Because of this image: visualize a coked-up Jennifer Love Hewitt, sitting at a West Hollywood bus terminal at 3am on a Tuesday night, eating practically a whole pound of bacon out of her grease-stained purse. No one would expect this from the dainty ingenue. But these things happen all the time. I know it.

Some other things that Jennifer Love Hewitt could end up doing, based on the place and occasion:
* Suffer a bloody nose at the Oscars and then get bitten by a mongoose under the seats and disrupt Cuba Gooding Jr.'s "Radio" Best Actor acceptance speech

* Have explosive diarrhea while hot air ballooning with Make-a-Wish Foundation children and then get bitten by a moray eel she mistakenly thought was dead when she brought it on board for the ride

* Spontaneously abort "something vaguely Carson-ish" while attending the Pope's funeral, and then having a feral dog run into the church and knock her down and chew on her clavicles for awhile

Whew, I am done for the time being. I really hope we hear more about this Love Hewitt chick. She sounds like she's a lot of fun.