KIBBLES N' BITS . . .

One of my favorite law school professors had a three-legged dog. Another of my favorite law school professors looked and acted like Mr. Magoo.

There was a perfectly intact hotdog bun lying smack in the very center of the road on the way home yesterday. All the drivers in front of me slowed down and maneuvered to avoid hitting the hotdog bun. I did too. I don't know why I slowed down and maneuvered my car to avoid hitting a hotdog bun. It all just seems so silly now . . .

My NYC roommate G and I often joked that we had a number of diseases. I don't really know why we did this -- I suppose it wouldn't be funny to anyone who actually had a life-threatening illness . . . or to anyone else -- but we did, and it was funny at the time. Our favorite diseases: dysentery, meningitis, cholera, Mad Cow, tetanus and paranoid-schizophrenia. If we still lived together, I bet we'd have added SARS to the list. Anyway, yeah. It was quite common for one of us to walk around the apartment complaining of sore neck muscles, and having the other one ask mock-frantically: "Quick! Look at the light! Are you sensitive to the light?!" God forbid one of us coughed: "Keep yer cholera away from me!" C'mon, cholera is always funny.

Where do all the lost pen caps of the world go? I must have about 12 pens in my home "office" that don't have caps; another 3 or so at work. I just don't know where they went, or why I would have sent them there.

C&M are having one of each!!! Boy and Girl. Good on them for the equitable gender distribution. I can't call them Noodles anymore -- they're real gendered beings now. My only hopes for them now are that they hang out for the full 9 months and get nice and fat; that they slide right on out like they're supposed to with everything in its rightful place; that Boy grows up to love his mommy and treat her nice and buy her flowers; and that Girl torments her dad and gives him his due. Let justice prevail.

For the last several days, I have been restless and itchy, feeling an overwhelming sense of anticipation that I am on the cusp of something big, something momentous, something potentially life-altering. I was thinking maybe it could be The One strolling into my life to sweep me off my feet. Or a dream employment position requiring my presence. Or perhaps some other once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet new people, travel to some amazing location, sing on a Broadway stage, etc. Or, maybe, sadly, pathetically, infuriatingly, I was just anticipating the speeding ticket I received this morning. My first ever. I'm no longer a traffic-infraction virgin; the seal has been broken. If I don't fight this thing, I get 6 -- that's right, SIX -- points on my license. (Don't ask how fast I was going.) So sad. I need to start anticipating better things . . .

A single male friend of one of my friends emailed me the other day, to see if I wanted to get a drink sometime. The answer will probably be no, for several reasons: (1) despite being in possession of my business card, he spelled my name wrong; (2) his grammar and punctuation were wretched . . . and that matters to me; (3) in the span of two sentences, he made FOUR spelling errors . . . and that matters to me; and (4) he managed, in those two sentences, to sound like an ass. OK, before you get all up in my KoolAid about the grammar, let me just say: if you (a) can't make the effort to pay attention to everyday details like putting a period at the end of a sentence; (b) can't make the simple connection that the name on my business card is my name and that is how I spell it; and (c) can't even try to give good email, then I don't trust that you have the attention span, depth of care, or generosity of wit and humor necessary to be with ME. Plus, I was recently informed that his mother (i) wants him, the younger of two sons, to find a woman able to take care of him in the way that he's used to being cared for at home; and (ii) does not want a daughter-in-law who is "too smart" -- she shouldn't be "better" than her husband or show him up in any way. And we wonder why so many Korean-American young men are emasculated mama's boys . . . keep them AWAY from ME, thanks!

This week's Sports Illustrated (6/23/03) has a fan-ta-bu-lous article about Rickey Henderson. Go online and find it. It's hilarious. Especially the part about him getting on first, holding up two fingers towards the opposing team's third baseman, Floyd Rayford -- thereby totally confusing Rayford -- then two stolen bases later, standing next to Rayford. AND Henderson refers to himself in third person . . . or "third party," as he would put it. Awesome article. You're a fool if you don't read it and love it.

I woke up with an intense amount of gas in my belly. I don't really know where it came from. I was feeling all healthy and fit yesterday evening after a hard workout and a lovely light dinner. This morning, I feel like a sheep suffering from bloat. No burps are coming up, no poots are coming down, and all my other functions are normal, so what the heck is this all about?! God. Someone just stick a needle in my side and let the air out . . . Baaaa.