You may find this hard to believe, but sometimes I have TOO MUCH tact

Sometimes I just want to look at people and go, "You're being stupid. Do what I say."

Sometimes. Or all the time. One of the two.

Anyway, it was kind of a lame weekend, in that I spent 75% of it moving and the other 25% sleeping. In any case, I've decided that Mary's high school English teacher was right; we are all developing T-rex arms from typing too much. My forearms were screaming after hefting just a couple of boxes. Unfortunately, I'm not really sure what I can do in normal life to strengthen those muscles. Scooping ice cream seems somewhat self-defeating, and Lord knows I don't want to move any boxes (or any thing, really) that I don't have to. So I guess I'll just go through life with weak arms. The tragedy.

The highlight of the weekend: I was packing boxes in the kitchen, when all of a sudden I hear a giant sploosh! from the bathroom. Regs, my 10-pound, negative-IQ cat, comes streaking out into the living room, tail thrice its normal diameter and a peeved expression on her pointy kitty face. Her chin, front paws, and stomach were dripping, and I discovered a large puddle around the toilet. I looked at her and said, "Well, that's what you get for being a pottymouth." And then I laughed for an hour. You can't buy that kind of entertainment.

Finally, the Olympics are over and I didn't really write about them, although I of course watched as much of them as I possibly could. Bob Costas was annoying, Michael Phelps was hot, and Svetlana Khorkina was a bitch. On a side note, the name "Svetlana" cracks me up, because that's the fake name Mary and I always intended to use when we wanted to sit in on one another's classes or meetings in college. "This is my cousin Svetlana. She's visiting from Russia." We never actually did it, but it was amusing to think about, since neither one of us looks particularly Russian.