Edit to my previous post: All right, I'm eating my own damn crow. It's EIGHTY THREE degrees outside and the parents went to look at pools. It'll probably snow tomorrow, just to piss me off. Oh, and you want to have some good fun during your lunch break, go in the Alabama chat room and get into a debate of why Birmingham is called the Tragic City. The answers shall astound you.

Wow, someone actually signed the guestbook. Do ya hear that, people? Someone SIGNED the guestbook. Novel idea. No, I'm not bitter or lonely. But honestly, thank you, Sassy and I probably should walk more. But I do use the ancient (I swear to God, I will post a picture of this thing, it's from the 70's or 80's) exercise bike that was found on the porch of the house. Haven't seen any results thus far, unless we can count a sore ass as a good thing.

Is anyone else noticing that more and more senior citizens are out and about driving those hideous looking PT Cruisers? Mom and I went out today, grabbed a bite to eat, she bought me some new Avenue bootcut jeans that make my ass look better than it has any right to and driving we saw seven, count em seven, senior citizens driving those things. I don't know about you but if I was pushing 75, I don't know how I'd feel about driving an automobile that so closely resembles a hearse.

The No Name Goddamn Cat got loose last night. Oh, and dinner plans fell through like you wouldn't believe. Last night wasn't the greatest night in regard to things going like they should. First, I took out some hamburger meat (three pounds but I intended to grill burgers tomorrow) to defrost at 8:30 in the morning. Three thirty in the afternoon rolls around and I feel the meat, it's frozen fucking solid. So I move the plate to a spot in front of the window, hoping, perhaps, that the sun will speed up the defrosting process, knowing full well that we won't be having hamburger by the time Chris gets home at 5:30. Fine, I ration, I'll just call him at 5 when he gets off work and ask him if sauteed zucchini with olive oil and angel hair pasta is okay or, knowing him, hot dogs and chips. Five ten rolls around and I try to call him and he tells me he'll call me right back. Five twenty, Five thirty, five forty five, six o clock, he calls me back. "What'd ya need, honey?". I love him dearly but the urge to kill him at that very second almost won over that love I feel for him. I informed him of the "situation" and he decided on hot dogs, came home, changed his mind and decided on pizza and salad. Fine, we order the pizza, I go to make the salads, turns out we have no damn dressing. I knew living next door to my parents would come in handy one day. I ran over there and "borrowed" a bottle of Italian dressing and made some quick salads with that, bagged salad mix and some gorgonzola cheese. The large chicken and spinach pizza came and he opened the door for the pizza lady who wanted him to sign the credit card receipt. Well, damn, we have no pens in our house, he'll have to run to his car to get a pen. He does and in the process, leaves the front door open. The No Name Goddamn Cat has got loose five or six times, via open windows, a heating vent and so forth and this was it. He got out, Chris came back in, I realized the cat was gone and I ran out there, calling for the damn cat. I called, I walked up and down the street, I looked under bushes, the house, the neighbors yard and so forth. I couldn't find him and that was that, I was convinced he was gone.

This morning around six something, I'm lying peacefully in bed, dreaming weird dreams about diarists going to a concert in Canada, including Natalie, Angeline, Christine and Weetabix (yeah, okay, this either means I really need some new friends and I'm projecting unto the journals I read or, well, I spend too much time on the Internet), when I feel twelve pounds DROPPED ONTO ME by the jackass I call a boyfriend. Yeah, he heard the damn cat meowing right outside the damn master bedroom window and went out and got him. Even right now, I'm still terribly torn between relief that the cat wasn't killed and actually wanting to kill it myself for making me worry so damn much. If the cat keeps escaping, it really is going to be time to find a new home for him. It's like having a child but worse, this child can jump on the everloving counters and squeeze out heating vents.

Hopefully we will take notice that I am now using the boyfriend's actual name, Chris, instead of "him", "the significant other" or the shortened version, "the s/o". The divorce has been final for like over a month, I figure it's more than okay for me to use the actual name (the reason I wasn't being that the Sex Toy Stealer had been threatening to "start shit" so just to cover all my bases, I didn't use his name). It's a refreshing change of pace, let me tell you.

Now I must run to the store and pick up some Ro-Tel for cheese dip to go with the chips and grilled hamburgers we're having for dinner tonight. May 7th needs to hurry the fuck up and get here. Not that I'm looking forward to his mother flying into town, I mean, I have other reasons than that. I don't have anything against her (hell, I never met her) but how smooth can this go? "Mom, meet Nina, my future FOURTH wife". Ugh. Better yet, "Mom, meet Nina, the woman who's shacked up with me throughout two divorces". At least she can't question my damned loyalty? Why do I always see a TV movie in the making when I think about my life?

before & after