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Thursday, February 26, 2004
From God to Pseudo-Italian Cuisine . . . and Beyond!
First of all, thanks to the outpouring of feedback about my religious quandary. Your comments were very witty and insightful. You’re all going to Hell.

Okay, fine, The Passion of the Christ IS just a movie. But haven’t you ever seen a movie that changed the way you thought about something? No? Well, you obviously haven’t seen Snoopy, Come Home.*

And you’re going to Hell.


I can’t tell you enough how much I love pizza. I wish I had the gastrointestinal fortitude to eat it every day. Seriously, I had it for lunch today . . . two slices “as big as [my] head.” I’m stuffed.

Really, why are we attracted to the things that cause us such distress? Like a woman that can’t stop seeing her abusive boyfriend, I can’t stop going to Taco Bell or eating shitloads of pizza. My new favorite lover pizza is made by California Pizza Kitchens . . . they come frozen and cost, like, $7,264,300.45 apiece. But they fuckin’ rock! Try the Jamaican Jerk Chicken.


Mia had her 18-month appointment today. Everything checked out normal (well, relatively . . . that kid’s gonna be tall when she’s done growing up). But, apparently, she’s a little behind on her vocabulary. The minimum requirement for 18-month-olds is “daddy” and “mama” (or equivalents), plus five other words. So, I’m there in the examination room trying to think of what other words she can say. (I don’t think “uh-oh” counts. Nor does pointing to her nose and/or bellybutton on command.) And now, as bad parents who don’t read to their daughter enough, we get to take her to be “evaluated.”

(insert sinister music)

For the record, we’ve read her George W.’s favorite book quite a bit. And now when I try and read to her, she takes the book away after a minute or two and wants to play with it. I guess I’m supposed to discourage this sort of disruptive expression, huh?

* Or is it Come Home, Snoopy? Look, I’m tearing up already.