today's real rant
Thursday, Sept. 16, 2004,

I know I promised a real entry later but I�m feeling rather harried. So it�ll be short.

I needed a break this afternoon so I went down to the first floor to check something out. Now, there are three scales down there. One in the washroom, one in the locker room, both spring-type. One in the gym, counterweight-style. So I weighed myself on each. Results? Washroom, 284. Gym, 280. Locker room, 275.

Dear locker room scale; I want to marry you, even though you are a shameless liar.

I have actually been using the cruel washroom scale to weigh in every week. I think I�m going to change to the counter-weight one in the gym, adjusting for the difference.

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Tonight is A&E TV Crime Spree, as I like to call it. American Justice, Cold Case Files, and The First 48. My favorite tv night of the week lately.

Too bad I�ll be cleaning the moron�s room for him. If he gets any lazier, I�m going to start calling him Jabba the Hut.

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That�s right, the room has still not been cleaned, and the bed is due tomorrow. So he will win the frickin� war of attrition, again.

He started in last night with his I don�t know what I want dinner BS, and tried to get me to agree to order in a bunch of grease-soaked, salt-sodden garbage. Nope. I announced that since I had to go to the store anyway, dinner was coming from there.

I made him get dressed (yeah, in his jammies as soon as he gets home. Bum.)and come with me to the store, where I bought small boneless pork chops, pre-made potatoes, and salad greens. Got home, threw the potatoes in the mike, the chops on the Foreman, and the salad in the bowls. We even had applesauce. Fairly healthy, and easy, and on the table before 6:30. I wasn�t really in the mood to argue.

Unfortunately, he also brought home a half-gallon of his favorite ice cream. Which is, of course, the most fattening, and highest in salt of all flavors�butter pecan.

I really don�t even know why I�m concerned about trying to keep him alive when he is so damned determined to die.

He won�t die, though. Nope. Oh, he�ll have a stroke, all right. But dying would NOT be the most selfish and soul-sucking option, would it? No guarantees that he�ll ruin my life if he dies.

No, he�ll be a drooling veg who lives for another 25 years, and I�ll be the one who has to change his stinkin� diapers.

As it is, he already thinks this health crisis is his license to play the invalid, and not lift a fucking finger.