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Powers: Who Killed Retro Girl? Brian Bendis

Mama, Terry McMillan

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I'm not sure what to say about this, really.


This is my aunt's dog, Charlie. He's a long-haired wiener! Ha ha!

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Man, Seattle weather has been a tease lately; you look out the window and bask in the bright sunlight and crackling blue sky, the clear horizons and stately white-topped mountains, the yellow heads of daffodils poking up everywhere - so you go skipping outside to roll on the grass and whinny, and right away your ears fall off because IT'S FEBRUARY, YOU DAMN FOOL.

Last Sunday, JB and I took a bus from Bellevue to the UW campus, because I was trying to see how hard it would be to ride public transit to and from work. In theory, I can take another bus from the campus to about a block from my office, but on Sundays, this route is apparently not in service. Whither bus 68? Not picking up our wind-chill-frozen-yet-sunglasses-wearing asses, that's for sure.

I'm not sure about this bus thing. On one hand, I can use my commute time to read and listen to my iPod and maybe think of journal entries that aren't focused on the weather, jeez, but on the other hand...it's a bus, and smelly people on the bus, and long waits at bus stops, and not getting home until 7:30, etc. We'll see.

And yes, I AM a selfish horrible person whose only considerations on this issue involve my own comfort level, instead of, say, the environment or our local traffic problems. In my spare time, I smack baby seals over the head with pool cues and mail care packages of Ex-Lax to Ethiopia.


I turned 31 over the weekend, sort of a less-than-thrilling life milestone, if you ask me. In a way, I wish we'd run off to Vegas in order to embrace my fading youth and indulge in a rare display of irresponsible behavior (you know, like staying up past 10 PM with a caffeinated beverage), but us 31-year-olds don't just jump planes, we have vacation time to get approved first.

(Random: thinking about Vegas just made me flash on that noxious "smoking section" in the McCarran airport that's like a plexiglass cube, people all jam-packed in there puffing away like chimneys, the translucent walls slowly turning yellow-brown. BLEAH.)

I did have a nice day, though, surrounded by family and being presented with lovely gifts. While I may not be excited about becoming a year older, I am totally down with any event that includes people giving me things. Which reminds me, I'm 31 and 4 days old today! Send popcorn balls!


I'm ashamed to admit I am STILL watching American Idol. I can no longer pretend it's only for the campy value of the terrible, brain-damaged applicants who chose The Darkness' "I Believe In a Thing Called Love" (touching youuuuuu.....touching meeeee...) as their song of choice. No, now we're down to the actual talent, the contestants who are beginning to display evidence of makeovers and too much Stevie Wonder exposure.

Why? I hate the songs, hate their gelled-up hairdos, and their straining, palpable desire (my GOD that sounded dirty, I should totally write Harlequin smut) makes me nervous as hell. I hate the dumbassery of whatshisame, the guy who calls everyone dawg, I'm disturbed by Paula's glassy Vicodin gaze, and even Simon's initially entertaining curmudgeonry is stale and predictable at this point ("That was extraordinary. Unfortunately, extraordinarily bad.").


Oh, but the worst thing about the show? The absolute bottom of the barrel, the moment in which I must face facts: that I have wasted yet another hour of my life with a Fox program, and there's no getting it back? It's this:

"Seacrest: out!"

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