2002-01-23 - 11:50 a.m.

On the internal soundtrack: Theme from "Hill Street Blues". It's very loud.

"Hill Street Blues" is back, on Bravo this time. We were watching it the other night and Poindexter turned off the sound during the opening titles. I asked why, and he said he was sick of the song. He heard it three millions times back in the '80s. It's fairly new to me, so I still like it.

Naturally, last night, when the theme came on and he was in the kitchen artsy-fartsifying a tuna noodle salad thingie, I grabbed the remote and turned it up loud enough for the neighbors to hear and started dancing in my chair.

Much to my surprise, rather than shrieking at me, he started dancing in place as he stirred. Waggling his hips from one side to the other. Cracked me up.

It's times like those, when my husband is doing something that has to be seen to be properly appreciated, that I wish I could have a special "superpower", I guess you could call it.

I wish my mind were like a VCR on an infinite loop of tape, so that I could replay things I see at a later date, for myself and for other people.

By the way, the artsy-fartsified tuna noodle salad tasted fucking amazing and I overstuffed myself on it. I was making it myself, but he shooed me out of the kitchen and went to work on it. He put dijon mustard, onion powder, chervil, parsley, mayo and I don't know what else in it. He's a nut, fooling with a tuna noodle salad like that, but it was delicious.

Having an amateur chef for a husband is fun.

The other night on TV, Billy Bob Thornton was giving an interview. He said something about feeling like he didn't really "fit in". Whatever that means.

E: He doesn't "fit in"? With a hot wife like that, who cares?
P: Yeah, I know where I'd be fitting!

More discussion about Anna Kournikova:

E: (taunting) Anna lost in the FIRST ROUND!
P: She's doing very well in doubles, I'll have you know.
E: Hmph.
P: (lasciviously) She must do better with another girl.

Today on the Metro (Jay and I had a meeting downtown), a woman was holding the handrail attached to the seat in front of me. She had a pretty engagement ring, and I asked to see it. She seemed to enjoy explaining the design to me. It was actually a separate ring with garnets that wrapped around her solitaire.

I get very angry with people who don't understand how the Metro escalators work. It's "Stand on the right, walk on the left". Today some bright individual stood, legs apart, arms crossed, right smack in the middle of the step. "EXCUSE ME," I said. Jay and I like to walk on the escalators.

On the drive home from work, I was stuck in traffic at a light. There was a flock of birds, maybe fifty of them, swooping in a single mass in circles around the intersection. What the heck were they doing?

I saw that "JEW-1" license plate that I've mentioned before. I mentioned it to Poindexter. He wondered the same thing I did. "Does that mean "#1 Jew in Virginia?"

I saw another license plate a couple weeks ago that said "Bollix". Do you think that would pass the naughty-word license-plate censors in Britain?

When I got home from work, I dragged Poindexter out for a walk to pick up my hemmed pants at the cleaners. When we were getting ready to leave, in walked a woman with a little boy and girl, both under five. The little girl was wearing a red cowboy hat, like Jessie in the movie. The boy had a hat, a vest, boots, and even a sheriff's badge. They were adorable.

"Does this have anything to do with 'Toy Story'?" I asked.

"It has everything to do with Toy Story," said the mom, smiling.

I told her how much I loved the movies, and the story of how I got my aliens and Buzz Lightyear and Evil Zurg. The boy overheard the discussion and started shouting quite emphatically about the characters.

"Evil Zurg is the COOLEST!"

"Yeah, he's pretty scary," I said.

"He KILLED Buzz LIGHTYEAR!"

Funny kid.

As soon as we were out of the store, I said to Poindexter, "He had everything except a gunbelt."

Poindexter said, "Yeah, I noticed that. I was gonna say 'Where's your gunbelt, kid?' but figured I'd better not. Y'can't say anything these days."

Neither of us could remember if Woody had a gun in the movie. So I went and looked it up. From the official site (link):

"Woody has a holster but doesn't have a gun. Experts believe the gun was lost during the epic production of 'How the Den Was Won,' when Andy was six and home from school for four days with the chicken pox."

Sigh. I could go on a rant about the demon-ifying of guns. I guess what I hate is the one-sidedness. TV and the movies are FULL of bad people using guns for nefarious purposes. You can't watch an action movie these days without it being a bloodbath. Meanwhile, the idea of people using guns to defend themselves (most often merely by brandishing them, not by actually shooting anyone), to hunt for food they actually EAT, or merely for target shooting or plinking because it's fun isn't portrayed at all. It's not exciting enough, I guess.

Y'know what I would like to see? A movie that shows that it is very difficult to shoot a person 100+ feet away, while running, with a short-barreled pistol. For godsakes. A lot of dramatic shots in movies have been ruined for me lately because I say, "There's no way in hell he could get that shot."

It was warm today. I was very warm. I don't know how that happened. I was running around downtown in only a blouse and wool jacket. Tonight on our walk, I didn't need my hood.

Speaking of my hood, I figured I had better show this to y'all. As I told Kevin, I bought the thing thinking I would look all romantic, like the French Lieutenant's Woman, see:

Unfortunately, when I wear the hood pulled well over my head to keep warm, like this,

people have different ideas. I've been told I look like a monk, a Jawa, or the Grim Reaper. In all the time I have had this goddamned coat, only ONE PERSON said I looked like the French Lieutenant's Woman, probably because we were on a beach in winter at the time. Jeez.

Anyway, back to my story.

We were at the stop light and Poindexter leaned down to kill me,

Well, there's an interesting typo. Let's try that one again.

We were at the stop light and Poindexter leaned down to kiss me. "Your lips are cold," I complained.

He said, shocked, "Your lips are WARM!" And leaned down and put his cold clammy lips on mine again.

"Cut it out," I said. "Yours are cold."

"Why are you so warm?" he asked.

I really don't know. I'm cold all winter long, and I hate it, but today I was warm. I enjoyed it.

Poindexter's latest thing is to put on an old camouflage jacket of mine (formerly my brother's; I stole it because it matches my eyes), plus his homey hat, when he goes out, running his errands. He says he scares people.

Honestly, I think he does. Especially in anal-retentive, yuppified suburban Washington. It's just one of those stereotypical things that people get worried about. Guy in a camouflage jacket, driving a pickup truck. Must be a dangerous nutcase.

We don't "fit in" here. ;)

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