Or not, as is your preference.

I've voted in four elections in my lifetime. I registered as soon as I turned 18, which was just in time to vote in the '92 election and have voted every presidential election thereafter.

I've yet to have my chosen candidate actually win.

I'm beginning to think I'm the kiss of death, at this point, and I would love, love, love for the curse to be broken today. There are signs that, perhaps, the tide might be turning in my favor. I had no luck with picking governors, either, until the last turn-over here in Oklahoma when my Democrat went in. So, perhaps, the streak has come to an end and November 5th will dawn seeing me having finally picked a winner.

At any rate: Get out and vote, people. Vote, or you lose your right to complain for the next four years. I'll be going after the kids are out of school, so they can come with me and see how the last step of the process works (they've both been very interested in this election). So, good luck to me (with tongue in cheek) but, most importantly, good luck to us all. May whomever wins be an improvement over what we have now (the bar's set pretty low on that). And may the people who oppose the candidate who wins have an open mind and give our new president a chance....maybe they/we will be pleasantly surprised.

I went grocery shopping at Walmart this evening.

They are already playing Christmas music.

Now, I'm no Scrooge. I love Christmas music and, in fact, the whole Christmas season leading up to the actual day. However, this is not the Christmas season. This is the Halloween-stuff-is-still-on-the-shelves-and-isn't-even-75%-off-yet season. This is the "I've got a trip to California and a Thanksgiving menu to plan before I can even think about yuletide" season. I, personally, will end up listening to Christmas music pretty much all day for several weeks straight but not until after Thanksgiving. Two days after Halloween is really going overboard. It felt skeevy and just plain wrong to hear "White Christmas" right now, when I still have jack-o-lanterns on my front porch and the kids' costumes haven't even been washed and put away yet. But I suppose nothing says "the birth of our Lord" quite like severed heads and plastic Dracula fangs at 50% off.

It's going to be a long eight weeks.

1) Why is it that when we have all afternoon for Eliza to nap, she falls straight to sleep, but when I need her to be up by a certain time because we have to go somewhere she spends twenty minutes yakking and playing around, thereby ensuring that she will not be awake by the time we need to leave and I will have to wake her up to go?

2) Why is it that when we wake up on time in the mornings we almost never walk out the door when we are supposed to, but if we wake up half an hour late we somehow get out the door a few minutes early? It's not like I don't tell the kids to hurry even on the days we got up on time.

3) Why is it that 90% of the things we (my immediate family) do are twice as difficult and/or complicated as it is for everyone else? The satellite guy is here to install Directv (which we've had for years, at every house we've lived in). He already came and left without doing anything once, because he didn't know how to get a second co-ax outlet where he needed one. Then I figured out a solution to that problem and he came back this morning. He's been here for the better part of 2.5 hours and seems to have made very little progress, and now I hear him on the phone with someone. I get the sneaking suspicion he's going to come tell me there's some OTHER problem that makes the installation impossible. For crying out loud, all I want is my satellite back! WIth TiVo....is that too much to ask?

(P.S.: Hi! I'm back from the dead....or the comatose-after-moving, anyway. We're off to Dallas this weekend for fall break but I'll have my computer with me so perhaps I can work on sweeping the cobwebs out of this place.)

I am in dire need of a dental checkup (I said dental, not mental, smartass) so I called the other week to make one. I told them I was available before 11:30 on Mondays and Wednesdays (the times that all three kids are at school). They had a spot available on the 29th at 8:00. It took the girl a minute to find that and I suspected that if I turned that down there'd be a considerable wait, and since I have a tooth that's been giving me occasional pain I didn't want to put it off any longer. That left me with a little bit of a quandary. I need to be there at 7:45. I could, technically, drop both the public school kids off that early, as there's a before-school program. However, that leaves Miss Eliza at large, because preschool doesn't begin until 9. My best and, really, only option is to drop her off with Robert's dad and brother. However, I'm not entirely convinced they are equipped to deal with an insane toddler on their own, and I'm not sure how kindly E. would take to being left there with the two of them. So my solution is as follows: I will take both Eliza and Madalyn to FIL's house in the morning and leave them there. This way Madalyn can keep Eliza company and help watch her and get her breakfast. I will go ahead and drop JZ off at school since he wouldn't really add much to the scene at FIL's house; indeed, if anything he'd add to the amount of work. I should be done by 9:00 and will then deliver both girls to their respective schools slightly late. It's the best I could come up with.

Now, normally we get up at 7:15 and leave the house around 8:15. Tomorrow we need to leave around 7:30, though, and I need to shower first, so we'll be up around 6:30. I have decided JZ can eat breakfast at school and Madalyn and Eliza can eat at their grandfather's house while I'm at my appointment. The getting up early and eating elsewhere and my going to an appointment (which necessitates a real outfit as opposed to pajama pants and a t-shirt) all require, I feel, some forward planning on my part. Some people might be able to simply mentally acknowledge, "Yes, we need to leave earlier and do things a bit differently tomorrow" and then move on, but not I. These are the things I've done in advance of our altered routine:

*Ironed my shirt and the kids' school clothes (though the ironing of the kids' clothes is the usual for me).

*Hung JZ's outfit in the usual location but hung the girls' outfits on the back door, by which we exit. This is because the two girls will be going to FIL's in their pajamas so they can eat breakfast and not ruin their school outfits. Madalyn will get them both dressed after they eat.

*Located shoes and underwear for everyone and set them out where they can be easily accessed.

*Placed into a bag one box of cereal, a granola bar, Madalyn's toothbrush and paste, and two headbands (to keep the girls' hair from getting into their food while they eat).

*Grouped together in the fridge one Gogurt tube, one cup yogurt, Eliza's cup of juice and a container of strawberries, which I de-leafed and sliced. These are to be placed in the bag with the rest of the food just before leaving.

*Wrote a note excusing Madalyn's tardiness and put it in her backpack.

*Sat the older children down and explained what we will be doing tomorrow and why, and briefed Madalyn on what I need her to do and what I expect of her while she is at her grandfather's house.

*Had all three children in bed by 7:30 in respect of the fact that they will need to be up earlier than usual tomorrow.

When I look at that list it seems perfectly reasonable and rational, but it also occurs to me that it might seem a bit, oh, I don't know, excessively fussy to others. I suppose it would vary from person to person as to whether the outside observer would view this as being dreadfully control-freakish (why not let FIL and BIL get breakfast for the girls?) or very together and well-planned. I'm not even sure what I would call it, myself. My opinion fluctuates madly from day to day. All I know is, despite having spent the day packing a U-Haul, I simply could not sit down and relax until I had done every possible thing I could do to ensure that the morning would go smoothly. It boggles the mind how someone can be as lazy and procrastinating and yet so fastidious and painstaking. With such two diametrically opposing sides, it's no wonder I drive myself bloody crazy.

My parents' bathroom is divided -- the toilet and shower are in a small room and then the sink is in in an anteroom. From when we moved in in 1986 until about 2005 the trash can was always right next to the toilet. Then my mom moved it out to the anteroom for whatever reason. Despite it having been out there for several years now, I swear to God, 95% of the times that I go to throw something away in that bathroom I first make a move toward the toilet before remembering the trash can isn't there any more and changing course. I find it interesting that I just can't seem to shake the conditioning of nearly 20 years.

Even stranger than that the following: I lived here with my dog, Baby, for seven years before moving to Oklahoma. Her food and water dish was always kept on the kitchen floor in front of the microwave cart. When my friend would come over with her baby, or anyone else would stop by with a little one, we'd have to put the food and water up to keep the kid from playing in it. It attracted them like magnets. Sometimes I wouldn't think of it in time and we'd catch whomever it was playing in the water.

Now, Baby has been dead 9 years now, I haven't lived in this house in nearly 12 years, and that friend's baby? She's now 16. And yet, on more than one occasion, I have caught one of my kids heading that direction out of the corner of my eye and "Uh-oh, the dog dish!" has flashed through my brain, along with a brief inkling that I should be jumping up to move it.

So am I the only one stuck in the past? Has anyone else any habits that were so ingrained that you can't entirely un-train yourself, even now?

I've lived here for going on a dozen years now, and, despite that fact, I still have the occasional, "Wait....how did I get here, and what am I doing in Oklahoma?" moments.

Today I was driving down I-35, listening to "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns N' Roses. Quite out of the blue I was thwacked upside the head by the realization that if you'd told me, back when the song came out, that, nearly twenty years later, I'd still be listening to the same song while driving to my house in Oklahoma with my kid in the back seat (and two more at home) I'd have told you to lay off the hallucinogens. So then I laughed. A lot. Because what else can you do? Life is funny. It's a little effed-up, too....but mostly it's funny.

P.S. - Right after that they played "I Want Action" by Poison and my next great revelation was how wholly inappropriate that song is when there's a seven-year-old in the car (another idea I'd probably have pooh-poohed back then, incidentally). But I took a chance that the screeching guitars coupled with poor enunciation would insure that most of what Bret was saying would go over her head, and I cranked it up. I may be old and living in Oklahoma but I'm not dead.

Step one: Get a haircut. Go from just-below-shoulder-length to just-above-chin-length. Have bangs cut in after not having any for her entire life. Then, just for fun, get violent red highlights (think Ronald McDonald). Go home and speak to baby in your normal voice. She'll find it very, very disconcerting.

Step two: Just after baby begins to get used to the new 'do, leave the state. For five days.

The end result is yet to be determined but I have an unshakable suspicion she will be in therapy in fifteen years and this will all come out, somehow.

I arrived in Louisville, completely knackered, around 1:20 this afternoon. I had my usual night of crummy pre-trip sleep and then got up at 5:00 to get ready to go. To make up for it, though, the gods of good trip fortune smiled upon me and the travel was relatively painless. I made good time to DFW, despite some morning traffic. When I arrived there I found that both remote (read: cheapest) parking lots were full and my next-best choice was the express lots, which run $10-11 a day instead of $7. The night before I'd been researching parking and I had joked with Robert about the terminal valet parking, which will cost you a cool 24 bucks per day. I thought it was ridiculous and he said, "Yeah, that's for people with expense accounts." I agreed and we moved on.

Well, lo and behold, I arrived at the express lot and the gentleman manning the entrance produced a coupon and asked me if I'd be interested in trying the valet service -- for $10 a day! You can't beat that -- that's what I would've paid at the express lot, anyhow. And I have to say, now that I've seen how it works, it's a pretty neat idea. You drive into the parking garage at the terminal, to the one-hour parking aisle. The valet takes your information and gives you a claim ticket and you just bop right across the street and into the terminal. When you return they will have your car waiting at your arrival terminal, right there in the one-hour parking section. I still wouldn't pay twenty-four clams a day for it, but it's sure worth the ten.

Anyway, back to the trip: the flight left on time, glory, hallelujah. (Perhaps it was American's last-ditch attempt at trying to make their customers happy, to make up for their crap new policy ) It was a simple, 1-hour-and-35-minute affair and we actually arrived a little early. My bag was one of the first on the carousel and the shuttle I had booked showed up a little early. There was no line to check in, being that most people weren't/aren't arriving until tonight or tomorrow. I stopped and had the concierge make me dinner and brunch reservations and I was still in my room by 2:20. Yes, it was very painless, which sort of makes up for having to rise at an ungodly hour.

After I relaxed in my room for a couple of hours I went to dinner at the steakhouse next door (pretty good but nothing to write home about) and then went to the festival grounds. I was there a couple hours, listening to music and buying t-shirts for the kids (oh, and eating a funnel cake). Now I'm tucked in for the night. My room is overlooking the festival grounds so I can hear the music from the stage closest to the building pretty clearly.

Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to make it out of bed in time to go here Pete Best speak (Pete is the Beatles' original drummer who was chucked out in favor of Ringo). At some point I will likely meander downtown and go to the Borders that's there. Besides that, there isn't much in the way of shopping so I'm not likely to get into too much trouble. My main activities for the rest of the weekend will be listening to music and eating. There's something to be said for not renting a car -- it keeps me from leaving the immediate area and wasting half a day doing stupid crap like finding a Gymboree or something. After all, I did come to rock, so rock, I shall.

And now, good folks, I will bid you a fond farewell. I am sitting here looking at the bed, faced with the prospect of my first solid night's sleep in nearly eighteen months and it's both exciting and scary. What if I'm completely unable to sleep for more than three hours straight, having been conditioned to wake frequently? That would kind of suck. However, even if that's the case, I know I at least won't be awakened for the day at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I might wake, out of habit, but you can be darned sure I will roll right over and go immediately back to sleep. So that's an improvement, right there.

Good night to you all.....and to myself, as well.

Yet ANOTHER weekend has gone by and we didn't move the crib. WTH? I truly feel if we'd move her into another room we could make some serious headway, and yet we're still farting around.

On Friday I slept late and when I got up Robert left to go run errands and was basically gone all day till Madalyn got done at Boys and Girls Club. We had already decided to go to have a family night out so we did that and then didn't get back till past Eliza's bedtime. Then, Saturday, I was gone all day and she was in bed when I got back. Today I slept in, then, when I got up, she went straight down for her nap. When she got up we had cooked so we ate and then R. had stuff to get done before he left for work again. So, it's not as much a matter of us being lazy as it is having all kinds of other stuff to do, and the fact that it's going to take at least a couple of hours to complete the entire transfer (and it's not really something you can leave incomplete until the next day -- we need it finished by naptime or bedtime).

I can say that she did better last night than she had done for a week-and-a-half prior. She just went through yet another phase where she was up every 1-2 hours. Last night she slept for four hours once, and then three after that. So hopefully she is cycling out of that awful pattern so that, this week, I can get a bit more sleep.

Oh yeah, and I just realized we're going to be gone next weekend, too, so that puts it off another week. Ah, well, after not sleeping for nearly 13 months, what's another two weeks?

I frequently diss country music, and I like to pretend I'm scoffing at it because I'm far too urbane and sophisticated for it to appeal to me. The truth is I don't like it because, quite often, it makes me cry (or, at least, want to). If I were to listen to the local country station from, say, 9 to 5 tomorrow, there would probably be at least ten different songs that made me bawl like a baby. When I go into a business that is playing country music I tend to tune it out in case a real tearjerker comes on, so I won't make a complete fool of myself. The first time I ever heard "Austin" by Blake Shelton I was in some store or another and I had the devil of a time trying to disguise my sniffling.

Today I was in Hallmark, shopping for Webkinz for the two older kids, and I let my guard down. There was country playing and I actually focused in on what was being said, and the bastards got me again. Once I clued in what the singer was saying, there went the waterworks. I came home and looked up the lyrics to the song I heard. Here it is:

She was staring out the window of that SUV
Complaining, saying "I can't wait to turn 18"
She said "I'll make my own money, and I'll make my own rules"
Mama put the car in park out there in front of the school
Then she kissed her head and said "I was just like you"

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast
These are some good times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this"

So, there you go: the real reason I hate country music. How is it those cowboys know just what to say to tug at my heartstrings? Snuff dippin', hat wearin', ugly-belt-buckle sportin' hillbillies. Gah.

(P.S., if someone could please tell me when and how I became such a sentimental fool, I'd appreciate it.)

I'm watching Super Nanny right now and the family has two preschoolers and then six-week-old twins, and my palms are literally sweating and my stomach is knotted up watching those babies cry and watching the parents trying to get them to sleep and feed them and all the other stuff. I am just SO not a newborn person. I know that, in the grand scheme of things, it covers a really brief period of time. But it goes by really slowly for me and it's just never enjoyable, as sad as that sounds. I honestly start feeling vaguely panicky when I start trying to envision myself going through that again. It kind of bums me out that that will be the bulk of my experience having tiny babies....I'm kind of envious of (though also completely baffled by) people who adore and revel in the newborn stage. But, it is what it is, and I can't change the fact that I'm simply not suited to be a newborn mom. I've given it three tries now and have had the same results, more or less, every time. I think it's safe to say that, if I ever get the 'baby bug' again, it will not be that I truly want another baby but that I'm wishing maybe mine weren't quite so big. And since I'm aware enough to realize that I don't foresee any regrets in the future.

Now if we could just get that last one sleeping through the night I'd be 100% satisfied with our current stage in life. (Hell, at this point I'd be thrilled to get her "only" waking up once!)

We have a built-in, decorative fireplace in our living room and it's got a tile floor. I let the kids sit on the tile to eat sometimes, which they did tonight. I also put Eliza on the floor to play while I ate. She immediately commando-crawled over to the tile and started helping herself to JZ's plate (after he was done). She ate a little bit of the food and she's now playing in the leftovers and I'm letting her. Why? Because she's HAPPY and NOT CRYING. Yeah, I'm going to have to vacuum over there in a minute and maybe even run the Bissell Little Green machine but, by gum, I got to eat my dinner in peace. Hey, at least I took the forks away from her.

After I clean up we're going to start her first knife-juggling lesson.

What is with old ladies' obsession about babies' feet, specifically whether or not said feet are encased in socks?

I was approached in the grocery yesterday by a nice older lady. The first words out of her mouth were, "Her feet look cold!", a comment which left me looking perplexedly at Eliza's feet, trying to figure out how the devil she could tell. Eliza's toes were not blue; nor were they the telltale black of dead, frostbitten flesh. They were normal, pink, chubby baby feet (that I want to butter, salt and eat for lunch because they are so cute, but that's another entry).

I could understand if the temperature outside was in the forties or fifties or, heck, even the sixties. But time of year matters not to little old ladies. In a perfect world there would be nary a naked baby toe in all the land, on any day of the year. "It's 97 degrees outside!" I protest. Yes, they acknowledge, then wag their fingers at me: but the air conditioning is on in here. "I know, and it probably feels good -- because it's 97 degrees outside!!!" Alas, my argument falls on deaf ears -- mainly because their hearing aid batteries have died, which is why they are at the store in the first place.

I suppose this is an issue on which we must agree to disagree. Perhaps at some future date the little old ladies will realize we are not raising a generation of consumptives, despite modern mothers' foolhardy refusal to mummify our baby's feet. Or perhaps a study may be published that shows a strong correlation between increased juvenile delinquency and a failure to sport appropriate footwear in infancy. Then the little old ladies can nod knowingly and mutter, "We told you so!" at us in the shops and, before you know it, I and my generation will be those little old ladies, patrolling retail establishments everywhere to admonish young mothers of sockless babes.

Note to future self: remember to also ask why baby isn't wearing a hat.

When I found out Bret Michaels, lead singer of Poison, was doing a Bachelor-style reality dating show, I knew I had to watch. (Rock of Love on VH1, Sundays) Hey, I may be the world's biggest Beatles fan but I still have a soft spot for my 80s hair metal bands. I thought it might be fun to see so I set my TiVo, not sure what to expect but curious how it would all pan out.

Well, several episodes in I am still watching, but only for the sheer train wreck factor. First off, I expected a lot of beautiful women -- you know, real model types, like you used to see in Poison videos. Instead the producers have presented us with the motliest collection of ladies I've ever seen under one roof. There are some seriously fugly broads in that house. Several of them look like old leather pouches due to continual baking in tanning beds. As you might suspect there is not a set of natural boobs in the joint, which might explain how they got on the show in the first place despite their overall unattractiveness.

All this wouldn't be so bad if there was a single likable girl in the group. On The Bachelor there are always a few girls to whom I take a liking and who I think the guy should choose. But, in this bunch, there isn't one. They are all loud and obnoxious and bitchy. The quieter ones have already been sent home for not making asses of themselves -- oh, I mean, they "didn't know how to party". It's quite shocking how rude and disgusting these women are. They are, by and large, drunk, foul-mouthed, cigarette-smoking, morally-bankrupt skanks, for lack of a better term. They start drinking as soon as they roll out of bed. They curse like sailors. They get in catfights with each other. Watching the show I can almost see the fumes rising from those girls. I imagine they must smell something like an ashtray that's been doused in bourbon. I am sure that some of them are fairly safe but Bret should seriously consider a round of penicillin if he gets too friendly with a few of them. Yes, it seems the producers culled the finest trailer parks across the nation to find these women. It's really too bad they didn't try to think outside the box and tap some classier sources for potentials.

And, no, this is not sour grapes on my part. I am long past my teenage-crush days. I was merely interested in the show as you'd be interested in an old friend from high school -- you wonder how they're doing and wish them well. I know Bret has been unlucky in love and I was hoping he'd find someone lovely out of this whole deal. I tried to find someone to root for but I couldn't. There's not a single woman on there who hasn't struck me as trashy. The best I've been able to do is find a few to root against because they are the worst of the lot. I've been completely astonished as I've watched the show because it really seems as though they scraped the bottom of the barrel to find contestants. And I've been equally astonished that Bret seems to think they are all just wonderful. He keeps blaming rock and roll for the demise of all his previous relationships, which is probably true in a roundabout way (though not the way he's thinking). I think it's true in the sense that he keeps hooking up with these chicks you'd find backstage after a Poison concert. Perhaps if he'd find a nice girl who had something going for her other than silicone and alcoholism he'd have something that lasted.

I was just watching an episode of "Gene Simmons: Family Jewels" in which Gene and crew visit London. I'm just catching little bits and pieces of the sights in the background and it's making me pine like crazy. How can you miss somewhere you've never gone to begin with? At the risk of sounding melodramatic, my heart positively aches to go there. It must be done, and soon. I can't wait ten years or more.....I don't even want to wait five. And yet the costs of taking a family of five across the pond must be astronomical. It would be easier and more feasible to consider just myself and Robert going but I don't know that I would want to make a trip of that magnitude without the kids (plus who would watch them even if I'd consider it?) Madalyn and John-Zachary want to go there nearly as badly as I do, anyway.

I guess I should start a savings account. And who knows what will happen in the future? Perhaps we could be closer to being able to swing it than I think.

I've never been accused of being hip and/or happening but I've always tried to embrace some sort of standards. However, age and motherhood and laziness and necessity have all combined to cause me to do progressively more dorky things as time has gone along.

Case in point: I'm about to order a fanny pack.

Now, granted, it's not the kind of fanny pack that might immediately spring to mind; the kind that was "in" back in the 90s and is still sported by tropical-shirt-clad, polyester-shorts-wearing tourists. It is what is now referred to as a "lumbar pack" and is actually worn in the fanny region rather than hanging off the front like a 450-denier kangaroo's pouch. It's larger, more square in shape and looks fairly sporty.

Also, I don't intend the thing for everyday use. I have a very specific need in mind: Abbey Road on the River. This, as you may recall, is a four-day indoor/outdoor Beatles music festival which I will be attending for the third year in a row at the end of May. I will have the baby with me and, for most of the time, she will be attached to me via a sling. Because she will be quite the load all on her own I need to keep my personal possessions to a minimum and also keep them as hands-free as possible. A backpack would be both too large and impractical, as I will already have the sling wrapped around me and would have to put a backpack on over that. In the same vein, a purse with a strap that goes across the chest wouldn't work, either. So this is really the best option. I should be able to fit all my essentials in the pack along with wipes and a couple extra diapers and we'll be all set.

I will continue to be vigilant, though. If I find myself being seized by the urge to wear socks with flip-flops, appropriate action will be taken. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Well, 9 years ago, today, I married the big lug in Las Vegas.

As a symbol of our enduring love and commitment, he went out of town for work yesterday and won't be back till midnight or later tonight. I guess that's no worse than last year when I jumped ship to go spend the night with Paul McCartney. Or three years before that, when I sent him back to Oklahoma and stayed in California because I didn't want to go home that early and he had to be back for work.

Romantics, we're not.

We do plan to get a babysitter in the next week or so and go up to one of the big, fancy new casinos they've built around here and spend an evening being irresponsible. That's more our scene than flowers and jewelry and long, romantic dinners. Shovel down the food as quickly as possible and bring on the gambling, I say. The demon liquor won't be involved this year, my present condition taken into consideration. 'Tis probably just as well; one vice at a time is enough for two old married farts like us.

Happy anniversary to us, at any rate!

Happy birthday to me.

Happy birthday to me.

Happy birthday dear....uh, me.

Happy birthday to meeeeee.

Why is it that when I don't want the cats all up in my face....they're all up in my face? But when I'm lonely and could use a little company? The little hairballs are nowhere to be found.

Case in point: when more than half my bed is being taken up by Robert already, Cosmo, the 14-pound slab of hairy, striped dead weight, must insinuate himself between us every night, pushing me over to the very edge of the mattress. However, when Robert is gone overnight and there's actually room and I wouldn't mind having Cosmo around he is gone with the wind.

Maybe it's a just an evil cat thing. Are dogs like this?

The very first movie I ever saw in the theater multiple times was Labyrinth. It was the summer between sixth and seventh grades. My mom didn't take me to the movies a whole lot -- we're talking once every couple of years -- so I'm really not sure what made us go see that movie in particular. All I remember is we both liked it -- a LOT. We went back to see it at least twice more and I know I saw it at least one other time with my cousins. I even got the comic book....er, graphic novelization of the movie.

In the years following I saw the movie numerous other times when it had been released to HBO and the like. I probably rented it once or twice on VHS. However, it's been years and years since I've seen the movie. I know I haven't seen it since I moved to Oklahoma, which was 9.5 years ago. Even so, I looked up the movie on IMDb yesterday and read the quotes page and I could hear, in my head, the exact tone and inflection of the voices of the characters when they said the lines -- that's how many times I watched it.

The other day a friend online put up, as her avatar, a picture of the little worm Sarah meets in the labyrinth. This sparked a conversation between a few of us about the movie and someone mentioned that, yes, it is, indeed, available on DVD. All the talk about it had made me long to see the movie again so last night I went out in search of it and found it. I wanted to show it to Madalyn but it was too late to start it when I got back home so I have saved it till today. When JZ wakes up from his nap we'll go pick Madalyn up from the after-school program and come home and watch. It's a crapshoot whether she will like it or not -- like myself as a small child, she is sensitive to a lot of things and gets, for lack of a better term, creeped out easily. (The reason I've never read The Hobbit is because my mom took me to a viewing of a cartoon version of the book when I was about four and it gave me the creeps. I've never been able to pluck up the desire to read the book since.) So, she may love it or she may be completely unimpressed. I know I will enjoy it, though. It's a great movie.

I would really like someone to explain this to me. Why is it that if you eat something just before going to bed you actually wake up painfully hungry, whereas if it's been a couple hours before bed since you ate you wake up feeling pretty normal? There must be some kind of biological explanation for this but I'm at a loss to surmise what it might be. It doesn't seem logical to me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: an update.

It never ceases to amaze me how completely and utterly socially dysfunctional I am.

It seems as though at the advanced age of 30 (and three-quarters) I should be able to hold down a fairly lengthy conversation, or at least make a passable stab at it. But, no, unless you engage me about the Beatles, or California, pretty much all you're going to get out of me is a lot of head-bobbing and smiling and not much in the way of actual words.

I will meet someone in person and manage to force out, at the most, three sentences. And then I will go home and proceed to carry on a lively conversation with that same person via email or a message board. This seems slightly abnormal.

I don't really understand it, either, because, at any given time, I have 147 different things on my mind, 146 of which vanish completely from my brain as soon as a conversation is initiated. The one item I'm left with is usually something along the lines of "I like sandwiches" or "My feet are sweaty." It's like, one minute my brain is buzzing with the frenetic energy of Robin Williams mainlining espresso, then someone speaks to me and all of a sudden I'm Rainman. (But I'm an excellent driver.)

So, anyway, this is a shout-out to anyone who has tried to engage me in conversation and run headlong into a dead-end. It's nothing personal, honest. You may rest assured that I go home afterward and am kicking myself for the rest of the day for freezing up. Next time you have something to say to me, it would help immensely if you could email me a detailed outline of the topics you intend to cover, preferably three to five days before the actual conversation is to take place. I'm quite sure that if I have some sort of advance warning I can prepare a script that I can follow and appear darned near normal. Certainly that's not too much to ask, is it?

Are you a people-watcher? Do you look at people and wonder what's their story?

I am not a huge people-watcher. Like I know people who like to go to places like fairs and other public events just to watch people. I am not that interested. I don't mean to sound self-centered; it's not that. I think it's a personality thing. The people who have told me they like to do that are "people persons." I am SO not a people person. One of my favorite quotes, which I'm thinking of having stitched on a sampler, is from Albert Einstein and goes, "Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not too sure about the former." A people person looks at any random member of the public and sees the potential of a new friend, or at least an interesting story. I look at the same person and also see potential -- the potential that they will do something really, truly, mind-numbingly stupid or offensive. (Yes, I'm a cynic, but give me a break. I spent 2.5 years working with tourists.)

That said, though, I will admit that, every so often, I get intrigued by someone I see and I would love to know what is his/her story. Or sometimes it's a group of people, or, even more broadly, an entire situation. Take tonight, for example. I tried to go to bed when Robert did but I couldn't sleep. I could tell I was really dehydrated. My tummy felt yucky so I couldn't stomach drinking tap water and my water cooler bottle was empty. So I decided to go to Love's to get some Dasani. There I was, at 12:30 a.m., driving downtown. I passed probably 10 other cars and I couldn't help but wonder what the drivers' stories were. Why were they out at almost 1 in the morning on a weeknight? Some of them were easy to surmise. The guy in the yellow Mustang -- probably a college student. You expect them to be out late. But what about the mini-van I saw? Where were they going or coming from? Was it good or bad that had them out on the streets at this hour? And did the people I saw in Love's make any assumptions about MY story? Did they think I was a person who worked a late shift somewhere? Did they think I was drugged up, or coming from a bar? I don't especially care what they thought, mind you; but I am curious. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks of this stuff.

Eh, forgive me, it's 1:20 a.m. and I'm rambling (of course, I ramble any time of the day so I don't see what difference the exact hour makes). Back to the original question: are you a people-watcher?