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November 30, 2002

I am always, always going to go Christmas shopping on Sunday nights at 5:30 p.m. It wasn't crowded at the mall, there weren't any big lines at the cash registers, and even though the only thing left in the vending machine I passed was Mountain Dew Code Red (gak!), it was all very relaxing.

How sad I felt for the girl working at Dippin' Dots, the "Ice Cream of the Future." I remember getting free samples from them when I was in high school...how futuristic can the stuff be if I was eating it 15 years ago?

I paused at a kiosk that sold cell phone face plates to see if they had anything hideous enough for me to buy for Andy's stocking.

"Hi, do you own a cell phone?" the far-from-enthusiastic teenager manning the fort asked me.

"No, Asshat, I thought I'd immerse myself into the culture slowly and just get myself a face plate for now."

OK, so I didn't really say that...but I thought it.

I'm a little obsessed with the word "asshat" today. I don't know why. The following people are asshats:

• George W. Bush
• Avril Lavigne
• People who send spam
• People who work for Herbalife and put up those "WORK FROM HOME" and "29 PEOPLE WANTED TO LOSE WEIGHT" signs (click here to see Andy's little web site about these folks)
• People who are mean to old people
• Jennifer Love Hewitt
• I really have no use for Bjork.

I'm all about lazy these days.

That's Dana and Wendy with my bunny. See the happy bunny? Nothing to be afraid of, ya mook!

These are pictures of my fabulous friend Ericka, who is oft-mentioned on these pages. She has lost many, many, many pounds and she kicks ass. She's also participating in a marathon at Disney World in January that will raise much-needed money to help fund research to help to cure leukemia and lymphoma. Sound like a worthy cause? Then visit her web page and donate some money. She thanks you very much. (Did you see those pix up there? She's an inspiration.)

Yesterday, Andy and I celebrated my birthday by doing my favorite thing: going to a movie orgy at the AMC Theatres. First we saw Solaris. I have one word for that movie:

What?

And another:

Booty!

Yeah, after I'd been shown George Clooney's naked rump twice, I saw no need to stick with the story, and I passed out on Andy's shoulder. Then we went our separate ways to see the new James Bond and the hot-Oscar-buzzin' Far From Heaven. I'll leave it as an exercise to the gentle reader to figure out who saw what.

Quinn spent Thanksgiving draped in the finest gown, a gift from Aleta (owe me e-mail much, Aleta?) when she was born. She is pictured with the some of the Cool Kids in my family, the ones who sit at the far end of the table, whispering and sneaking wine. It kind of saddens me that I don't fit in down there, but rather with the people who contribute food to the gathering and worry about driving in the dark.

Quinn's reluctance to be in my sister Peggy's arms has nothing to do with Peggy, and everything to do with getting back to the Mothership. Lately, she is all about being on me, being near me, climbing me, touching me, or just being held by me.

On the way to the mall tonight, I listened to NPR, which is heaven for a talk-radio junkie like me. I happened to catch the beginning of a program featuring winners from the Third Coast International Audio Festival, which is "a celebration of the best feature and documentary work heard worldwide on the radio and the Internet." I was so happy when the program began that I was nearly cooing with glee. I only got to hear one of the finalists, but man! Did I enjoy it.

My friends make fun of me for my love of talk radio. "Am I driving with my father???" Colleen asks when she gets into my car and hears WGN playing.

I almost never listen to music in the car. I can't stand it. I don't know what's happening to me. On the way home, I listened to essays about Hannukkah and didn't want to get out of the car when I got home because I was so engrossed.

Sometimes I feel like I'm definitely 33 years old.