I had the weirdest dream about Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt last night. Angie was my friend and she needed to disappear for a while so she was hiding out in an odd attic in her Mother's house. Everyone was trying to find her, including Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. I went to her house to see if I could help her in some way. Her housekeeper showed me how to get to the little loft/attic area where she was hiding out. I was so happy to see her, I adored her and was so relieved to see that she was okay. We hugged warmly. I took Maddox for a while, held him and played with him. Then Brad came and they looked so happy together that I finally understood why all of this pain and upset had to have happened. I still felt sorry for Jennifer though, who showed up shortly afterwards, angry and hurt, trying to catch them together, so we all had to hide from her in this attic -- afraid to move or make any noise in case she would discover where we were. I don't understand it, I just dreamt it.
Eeew I just saw the creepiest ad for KY Warming Body Touch and Personal Lubricant. It was just so, well, weird. It looked like a typical bland ad, with white on white models selected just so they wouldn't have any "edge" to offend anyone. But they were advertising sexual lubricant which is an edgy kind of thing and would be better served with real looking people being open and honest, instead of these corny sitcomy models demonstrating the product in the creepiest way, very, wink, wink, "It's for shoulder massages and...other things." Yech.
Anna is here (Bonilla not Voog ; ) in my room watching the Wimbledon update that I grabbed for her last night using the DVR. She just pointed to this handsome God of a young tennis-playing man and said, "El es fabuloso!" I'd have to agree. Now she's saying, "Ooh, ooh, I like, I like," and pointing to Federer. These DVRs are a lot of work, in terms of keeping up with the vast amount of programming you have to make time to either watch, fast forward through for the good bits, or erase before the next shows roll around and replace the one's you haven't managed to get to. I used to think Scott was such a TV freak before I got one myself, now I've just reinforced my old lesson about not judging other people lest you be judged yourself. It seems like any time I lay any kind of value judgment on someone it comes bouncing back at me and before I know it, I've turned into them. I must have thought some awfully mean things about a fat, neurotic, cat-rescuing, apron-tied, valium-loving-chocoholic somewhere along the line, because I sure woke up as one today.
Beau's computer -- the one that his little "friend" (or I should say ex-friend) kicked -- is still being repaired. It spends most of it's time in transit between the "depot" wherever and whatever that is, and our house. They keep picking it up, repairing a few things, and then sending it back to us where we discover that it still isn't working, and then we get to repeat the entire process again. We're so sick of this that I finally just came out and asked the guy in Pakistan who answers my calls, how many times we'll have to send it back and forth before they'll replace the unit, and he actually said, "Oh, I think maybe three or four times." Despite the hassle of having to go through the motions with these people who I can barely understand, I am so relieved I opted for the super expensive computer replacement insurance plan. We could have drop kicked this thing on purpose, for all they care, and we'd be in the same place, with someone who is not being paid nearly enough, to use English as their second language, to cheerfully read off a list of some very basic tasks to us. They must have some kind of management strategy that accounts for some sort of frustration dropout rate that saves them millions of dollars or something, because why else would they force relatively intelligent people to call India where they're forced to waste hours "troubleshooting" the problem.
I'm watching one of the many shows I've recorded, The Glass Menagerie. I love Tennessee Williams, actually I love almost any Southern writers. Here's a quote;
"I told you I'm going to the movies...You're right! You're absolutely right, I'm going to opium dens! Yes, opium dens; dens of vice, and criminal hang outs. I joined the Hogan gang mother. I'm a hired assassin. I carry a Tommy gun in a violin case. They call me Killer -- Killer Wingfield! I'm leading a double life, a simple, honest double life. By day I'm a poor warehouse worker, but by night I'm a dynamic tzar of the underworld. Mother, my enemies plan to dynamite this place. Oh yes, they're gonna blow us all up, sky high some night, and then I'll be glad, very glad, and so will you because then you'll go up, up, up, over Blue Mountain, you'll go up on a broomstick, you'll go up with your seventeen gentlemen callers!"