If I were inclined to put a bumper sticker on my car, it would be this one:
I took Zoe and Katie to see Cinderella Story today. The best thing about the move (besides that totally yummy Chad Michael Murray, and how lascivious of me is that???) was a trailer for Princess Diaries 2. I’m so looking forward to seeing that and I’m mortified that I feel that way.
Yesterday was my company’s annual summer event. It was unusual in several respects: usually it takes place on a weekend, but we got to play hooky yesterday–Thursday; usually families are “encouraged” to attend, this year it was staff only; usually it takes place on the hottest day of the year–whether the picnic is scheduled for May or any month until October, yet yesterday it was a comfortable mid-80′s; and normally the summer event sucks, but this one was a blast.
We went to a Dodger game. It was the Dodgers vs. the Colorado Rockies. And despite the fact that I am no baseball fan it was a hoot. We had great seats–they were in the shade all day, behind home plate with a perfect view of everything that was going on. My two best work girlfriends who know a lot about baseball explained things to me and I caught on quickly.
The game moved along at a good pace and the home team won so I think that always makes things more interesting. And unlike most Dodger games where the fans leave shortly after the 7th inning stretch (ooooh, baseball lingo), the game was interesting enough to keep everyone in their seats until the end, at about 3:15.
But the point of this entry starts before the game.
On the way into Dodger Stadium (like every other public gathering place in the world any more) you are subjected to a bag search. But here’s the wacky thing about the bag search at Dodger Stadium–they only inspect your bag if it is more than 14″ across. My bag is apparently only 12″ across so I was spared some buffoon pawing through my lipsticks and tampons.
But that got me thinking.
Apparently bombs do not fit in purses (or any other kind of bag) smaller than 14″.
What with the TNT, wires, duct tape, and alarm clock you have to hook up to it, not to mention the plunger thingie that you get when you order your bomb from Acme Corp. I guess what you need is a bomb tote, and those are always more than 14″ across.
Zoe is sick. I am sick. Chuck was sick. Then he apparently gave it to both of us and left town. He’s a giver my husband. None of that is the point of this entry. I guess I just felt like sharing.
Chuck is out of town. He phoned tonight at about 8:00 as he does every night. Zoe’s alleged bedtime is 8:00 so he always calls to say goodnight to her. When he phoned I was sitting at my computer. I shared with him that we both felt like crap and thanked him for being such a giver. He suggested that reading his two new entries would cure what was ailing me (as if), so to humor him I went over to his journal.
I kinda started reading but it’s really hard to read and talk on the phone at the same time so I told him I’d read later.
He insisted, however, that I read at least the top entry and that he’d gladly wait. So I read. I chuckled (no pun intended, but that cracked me up) and told him I was going to click on the link.
The very second, I mean the absolute very second, the picture opened up, I hear through the phone Chuck’s impression of angel music.
We’re so in synch sometimes it even frightens me.
As I was driving home tonight, listening to NPR, a piece came on about the 9/11 Commission. I don’t even remember what they were talking about. Some documents going missing and Clinton (because you know it’s only a matter of time before this whole thing blows up in the Shrub’s face and he turns it all around and blames Clinton for it) are floating around in the back of my head, but it was the whole 9/11 thing that got me irritated. Again. So I stopped listening.
I have issues with 9/11. More specifically, I have issues with the fact that “that day” is referred to as simply 9/11. Are we so lazy that no one can be bothered with saying September?
By chance, Steve happened to pop over this evening and I brought this up to him and the old man. To say I was mocked would be an understatement. And they used my issue as a jumping off point to completely hijack the conversation and bend it to their will. I’ll just say that Black September and 7/11′s were involved.
Steve finally got around to asking why it bothers me. And to be quite honest, I’m not sure I really know, beyond the fact that I feel that just saying 9 minimizes things.
He asked me if I say September 11, 2001, and then the whole thing digressed even further to a discussion on how I say 2001: two thousand and one? two thousand one? twenty ought one? blah blah blah.
So…I left the room. Because, yeah, I’m a grown up.
But it bothers me. I know that. I mean it really, really bothers me.
As I’ve mentioned somewhere before (and I’m too tired to look for the link, but have at it if you like), one of my responsibilities at work is the safety of my fellow co-workers.
And while my daily commute does not involve concealed weapons (but maybe it should–I live in Los Angeles after all), nor is my life in potential danger on a daily basis, like a fellow blogger, I am aware of the shifting geo-political tides. I am also very fashion-conscious.
So as a public service to those of you out there in web-land….because I care deeply about your safety, and your fashion-sense as well dammit, I’ve added a new feature on the right over there. Scroll down toward the middle for a terror alert, now available in 23 fashion colors.
Click on it for full details. Click on it early and often.
While I would be the last person to get involved in, much less start, a flame war, I feel it is in my best interest and a matter of defending my honor to speak up about my husband’s last entry.
1. I did not have some sick Christpher Columbus fetish thing going when choosing kitten names. Nina was very adventurous, and so I felt Nina fit, and when describing the whole adventure name thing I mentioned the other two ships. End of discussion.
2. Knuckles is a stupid name for a cat. I stand by my veto.
3. Zoe named the other two kittens. And we tried to do the whole gender identification thing. But the reality is you can’t tell right away. You can’t tell for at least a week. So oops, our bad. I can live with that.
4. Princess Fluffy Cuteness. Yeah. I was teasing Zoe and Katie. It was comedy. You had to be there. But trust me. It was hys-fucking-terical.
Thank you and goodnight.