I was thinking...

Some random things I have been pondering lately:

1. If no one actually understands David Lynch movies and most people hate them then why does he keeping making them?

2. Are my achy knees more accurate than the local weatherman? I'm thinking yes.

3. How exactly did Kyle McLachlan go from brutally hot to absolutely not in less than a decade?

4. Same question: Mickey Rourke.

5. If Eric was going to follow in the footsteps of Dog the Bounty Hunter what would his bounty hunter name be and would Ozzy sing his theme song?

6. Could I get acquited for murdering a tailgating Hummer driver when there is 2 inches of fresh snow over ice and the driver is from California?

7. Where does that lost sock go?

8. How do I go about becoming a movie star's personal assistant? Preferably John Cusack's. I totally want that job.

9. Isn't a period torture enough? What's up with the freakin' cramps? Dammit.

10. Seriously? David Lynch? I. DON'T. GET. IT. I mean, he wrote it and thought, "this is awesome I should show it to someone" and then that person went, "this is awesome we should really make this into a movie" and then someone else went, "you are totally right, here is a big check" and another person piped up with, "this is a great script I should really star in it." Then, as if that wasn't bizarre enough, people made the movie and someone else distributed the movie and then people paid money to watch it. I dare any one of you to go watch "Lost Highway" and tell me what the heck that movie is supposed to be about. Actually? I just challenge you to watch the whole damn thing.

Last but certainly not least:

11. How in the name of underwire does Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife manage to function with those freakin' enormous boobs. It's like two torpedo shells strapped to a walrus. A walrus armed with hooker nails and a tazer. Three words for you: Breast Reduction Surgery.

Oh - one more thing before I go...here's a little story for you. It's a true story entitled "How Jayna Committed to Diet and Exercise." Enjoy.

Sunday night Drew and I are watching Eric play hockey. I know. SHOCKER! The game is pretty much Eric's team scoring goals while the other team looks just a bit confused and maybe even a little surprised to find themselves holding hockey sticks and wearing skates. Think: Operation Shock and Awe on Ice.

So the game quickly deteriorates to cheap shots and lots of shouting. One particular player on the other team got incredibly beligerent and got kicked off the ice. Drew, me, another wife and another little boy are sitting right by the ice entrance and as the player exits he is yelling profanities at the ref. Lots of "F*#$ your mother" and "F*@% you" -- you know -- the poster child for good sportsmanship.

So, I yell at him that there are small children in earshot and he needs to shut up. He yells "F^&! you." I yell at him again that he needs to shut it since this is a family rink and there are small children that can hear him. He then turns to me and screams, "F@#$ you!"

Yeah - I love a robust vocabulary as much as the next girl, but this is where I got just the teeniest bit irritated. Don't worry though...even though I was sitting at the perfect level to kick him square in the face and had on the perfect shoes for face kicking I managed to restrain myself. Whee!!! All hail my self control! Small children around, remember?

Instead of introducing hockey player to boot tread, I stand up, point the Mom-finger in his face and say, "Listen Porky" --- quick interjection --- this guy and Porky the pig? Twins. Seperated at birth and I am not even exaggerating. --- ahem...back to the story... "Listen Porky, you need to shut your mouth because there are small children here and if you can't shut up then get out of here. RIGHT. NOW."

He looks up at me and says, "Porky? Look who's talking...Tubby."

Jaw -- dropped.
Ego -- crushed.
Motivation -- FIRED UP.

And that is how I learned to love carrot sticks.

THE END.