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Thursday, December 27 2001
I had a dream in the middle of the night and it left me with this thought: "If there's anything my time spent with Italians has taught me, it's that there's something just so addictively wrong about an Italian Grandmother, something that keeps sending you back for heaping platters of seconds and excessive thirds."
The weather has taken a turn for the bitterly cold. Outdoors, water no longer prefers to remain as a liquid. Indoors, we're all going stir crazy. I let the cats out in the backyard whenever they want to go, but even fluffy Noah, who should be able to handle a Montana blizzard, wants to remain inside the moment he sees what he's facing. So Sally and the cats are bored out of their minds, and they continually, I mean continually, look to me for entertainment. Today it was so crazy that I had Sally and Eddy Edna both trying to sit in my lap while I sat at my computer.
I just walked past Sally and, in an effort to dash her expectations, I announced, "I'm just going to cut off my pubic hairs, Sally." It was the first English I'd spoken in at least a half hour, and she looked at me with a form of canine resignation. I wasn't putting on shoes, so there would almost certainly be no immediate romp in the Prospect Park. As promised, I went into the kitchen and fetched the scissors. In one snip I removed all the pubic hair that one snip can possibly take. Mind you, this sort of hair cutting is not an infrequent occurrence in my life. I'm not an especially hairy person, but for the most part I resent the hairs that I do grow.
Oh yeah, I saw a really bad movie on HBO. I knew it would be bad the moment the voiceover said, "in search of a new home: Mars." Any copyeditor who would allow there to be nothing between that colon and the word "Mars" defeats the whole purpose of expensive special effects.
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