The last time I saw this movie was probably 1995. It has aged like everything else from the early 90s: awkwardly and beautifully. Just the way I like it.
This week has been pretty mundane: I made some webpages, sent some e-mails, made some phone calls, and handled some money business. My cousin, a freshman here, came by while I was in the middle of that last one — surrounded by piles cash. That’s right, cuz, I’m making the big bucks now. Tell the family.
I just made a grooming appointment for Cyb. It was like a mental wrestling match between the groomer and myself. Every statement out of her mouth was a qualified one: We’re open until nine but all dogs must be picked up by eight. I have a 5:30 opening but we cannot take a standard poodle any later than 3. We’re open on Sundays until 7 but I only have a groomer here until 5, and all dogs must be picked up by 6. What the hell happens between six and seven on Sunday, if you don’t have groomers or dogs? Why are you even open? Ten minutes of this, but I made it through because Cyb’s emo-fro is getting out of hand and causing her to run into things (walls, me).
My house has an eating disorder. My dog eats underwear and cat-socks, I eat apocalypse soup and bananas, and my VCR eats tapes. I respond to each of these, respectively, with action (move that hamper!), acceptance (who doesn’t love bananas?), and anger (Speed! How will I watch Speed? This is an outrage). And then I go eat a banana and calm myself down.