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Sep. 5th, 2003

I shouldn't admit to it really, but this is the sort of joke I can't resist (brought to you courtesy of my friend Sky):

An old farmer went to town to see a movie. The ticket agent asked, "Sir, what's that on your shoulder?" The old farmer said, "That's my pet rooster Chucky. Wherever I go, Chucky goes."

"I'm sorry, sir," said the ticket agent. "We can't allow animals in the theater." The old farmer went around the corner and stuffed the bird down his pants. He returned to the booth, bought a ticket and entered the theater. He sat down next to two old widows named Mildred and Marge. The movie started and the rooster began to squirm. The old farmer unzipped his pants so Chucky could stick his head out and watch the movie.

"Marge," whispered Mildred.

"What?" said Marge.

"I think the guy next to me is a pervert."

"What makes you think so?" asked Marge.

"He unzipped his pants and he has his thing out," whispered Mildred.

"Well, don't worry about it", said Marge. "At our age we've seen 'em all."

"I thought so too," said Mildred, "but this one's eating my popcorn."


It's been kind of a weird morning. It started off with a discussion as to the ease and benefits, or whys and wherefores of plastic surgery (i.e. tummy tucks) as opposed to the less obtrusive option of a strict regime of diet and exercise - and that led me to wondering if there is such a thing as an arm-lift?

Because it looks like my prayers have not been answered and the dreaded flabby upper arm syndrome has taken tentative hold on me. OK, I'm 41 -if I say this to myself enough times, it may eventually sink in- and things may not be as high, as firm as they were 20 years ago, but I can live with that. Well, sort of. I have a healthy respect for pain and am, generally speaking, all for avoiding surgery when there's no clear medical indication and a reasonable alternative treatment that's readily available. Having said that, all the diets in the world aren't going to give me a supermodel's bod ever. Plus, I find them impossible to adhere to.

But I hate to see the flesh on the underside of my upper arms start to wobble when I make certain movements, like waving. It's not a pronounced wobble yet, and it's gone as soon as I stretch my arms completely, but if I allow this trend to go unchecked, I'll have upper arms like jello by the time I'm 10 years older. Will dumbels help? Aaargh - what am I saying? I know I'll never be able to stick to a training regime. I know because I've tried it a few times, but I just get bored so easily. There's nothing in a gym to hold my interest for very long, and I always feel like a right wally pressing weights and pretend to be running on machines. Also, I can't stand the smell of the locker room...

Then, seguing from a fairly innocent discussion of JM's sartorial defects, certain rumours that have been making the rounds on Internet about his supposed personal tastes became the next topic under scrutiny. I've read some pretty vitriolic posts on the subject and it's one of the reasons I now avoid certain bulletin boards and areas of fandom like the plague. Firstly, because I don't hold with flaming and character assassination; secondly, because I feel that it's none of my business what he does in his personal life; and thirdly, because however much I try to forget what little I've read, it still tends to rear its ugly head at times and marrs my enjoyment of the man and his art -- briefly and only to a very limited extent, but still...I don't believe he's a saint and I wouldn't want him to be, but I do want to believe with all my heart that he's basically a good and worthwhile human being.
Another, fourth, reason is that it makes me despair of my fellow 'fans' and want to distance myself from it as much as possible. I have no doubt that a lot of it is the green-eyed monster talking (and no, this is not a dig at SMG/Buffy!).

And I've finally been able to make an appointment with a social worker to have my Dad assessed for having him taken into a home, rather than having him continue to live in sheltered accommodation as he has been doing for the past three years. When we filed the application last May, Dad was in full, albeit grudging, agreement -- but now he's no longer convinced of the necessity of round-the-clock care and I 'm worried he'll hate me for continuing on this path.

And oooh - cool new lay-out! Takes a bit of getting used to, though.

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