According to someone, my life is
My life is rated R.
What is your life rated?
but seriously, these people don't know me at all, because I am as G-rated as they come.
In other news, I'm watching The Birdcage for approximately the bazillionth time, but it never fails to amuse. Actually, the original La Cage Aux Folles is one of my all-time favorite movies, and really, the two are almost word-for-word the same, when you see the original in French with the English subtitles. I first saw it about 20 years ago, and have loved it ever since.
In other news, you cannot even imagine the disgusting sludge that is being called air today in the New York metropolitan area. It's worse than living in a sponge; it's living in an old disgusting sink sponge that should have been thrown out years ago. Oh well, it's something for the Republicans to enjoy in the city this week.
As for my international offspring, one of them seems happily settled in her "awesome" apartment, which I know is a studio in student housing, in Deutschland, and the other is writing plays in Scotland. (I love to say this shit. I can't believe it's even me. Remember, I live in the same town I moved to when I was 8, which is where the only real job I've had as adult is, and where the Hubs has lived since birth.) K called again yesterday after she had moved in so she could give us the phone number, and must have made an Internet connection, since she posted that brief review of her apartment in her Germany journal. R called a few hours ago to pump her boomer parents with questions about Bruce Springsteen, who is apparantly the topic of today's script. (I reminded her that her sister, as a baby, would grab the front of daddy's black concert t-shirt and say in a hushed, yet reverent tone: "Da BOSS!" and then, as she got older, followed that with "Roots Beanstein! Roots Beanstein!", but I don't think she can work that into the show.)
In other news, and for those of you too young even to contemplate such things, I realized today that I have become a contestant in the last great race of menopause: hoping that it all ends before the fibroids become bigger than my head, necessitating the removal of the whole damn thing. *sigh*. *deep sigh*. Man, I hate this whole uterus thing. And not that I haven't been begging for the elective hysterectomy for years, but crap, not now. Now, I've got to go back to work. Come January, well hey, I'll be happy to take a month or more off. (And I'm projecting here; it's not like a have a diagnosis or anything. I'm just saying.)
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I'm watching The Birdcage
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Sweet Sorrow - 06.12.2007
So ... - 12.19.2006
Christmastime Is Near - 12.18.2006
Fifteen Years - 12.17.2006
A Message From Our Sponsor - 12.16.2006
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