The Furious Spinner

I am a couch potato today. After I vacuumed, did three loads of laundry, and washed the dishes, I plopped down on the couch and haven't gotten up since. Okay, technically, I have gotten up many, many time: made three meals, made Mario's lunch, answered the phone several times, called the Honda dealer to yell at them, tried to fix the frozen windshield wiper fluid reservoir, drove the car to the garage in town, kvetched about the Honda dealer who put in the wrong kind of fluid in reservoir, did the dishes again. I've been quite the hausfrau today.

I just watched a Lewis Black comedy special. I think I was him in another life. Except for all the sexual references. It seems that comedians are obsessed with their penises. (You never hear me talking about, say, my vagina.) It's not just male comedians. It seems to be an overall male obsession—at least in all the movies and TV shows. Maybe it's because our works are all tucked up tidily (and prettily) out of sight, so we're not always thinking or talkin' about them. I guess if that which brought me so much pleasure was out swinging in the wind like it is with my male compadres, I'd be a little obsessed too—a little obsessed about getting it out of harm's way. But that's just me.

I wonder if the new King Kong is anatomically correct? I just looked it up, and the penis of an adult male gorilla is one and a half inches long. (BTW, I'll just clue you in right now: if you go to Wiki and look up "penis," be prepared. It ain't a pretty picture. And picture is the operative word. Ewwww.)

Mario just got home. I told him I was writing about penises. He said, "What is there to say?" So I had to trace my thought process back to Lewis Black. Phew. Now I can let go of this sudden obsession. Or momentary interest.

I don't think I'm going to see Brokeback Mountain tomorrow with my friend. Since I'm having trouble with the car I don't want to promise to be someplace at a certain time and then have to back out. He wanted to bring his ex-wife. I said, "Well, I know it's none of my business but I don't like the way she treated you and I don't really want to spend time with her. I love you; I don't love her. In fact, when you were married she didn't want anything to do with us, so why does she want to spend time with me now?" We've known each other so long and have been such good friends that I felt comfortable saying all that without him disowning me. We talked for another hour, only spending about five minutes on the ex. We got to talking about evolution since his son is an evangelical christian. He told me that 51% of Americans don't believe in evolution.

"No, that can't be true," I said. "Really? Is that true in the rest of the world?"

"It's an American phenomenon."

"Geez, Louise." Can we really be that stupid? I was raised Catholic. (Regular readers know I am no longer of the cathols.) We believed in God and in evolution. They did not contradict one another. (I know that's a terrible sentence given the meaning I'm trying to convey, but it's late and my brain is fried so be tolerant.) One was religion; one was science. Most everyone I knew believed in evolution; they also believed in God. Who are these fruitcakes?

Speaking of fruit...(sorry) our blueberry cake is done. I didn't have enough of any of the ingredients, but it was still good. You can hardly go wrong with blueberries. Unless you don't like blueberries.

This post should be called the babble post.

I don't think I can think intelligently as I get ready to leave on our trip.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. (See, I've lost my wit. I'm actually witless...or else I'm just realizing it.)

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