12/26/2005 - 2:08 p.m. | decided to take an asterisk

Now that all the holiday junk is over, and it's just me alone in the house (well, me and the mouse*), trying to stick to my promise to write, distractions are just coming out of the walls. For instance, I happen to know that my dad bought a copy of GTA3 for his Playstation. I could spend the whole damn week playing that shit. But I won't. And there is a "Suite Life" marathon on the Disney Channel. But I won't.

*Possibly the next stage in evolution of mouse, the One Who doesn't like Peanut Butter. A super strain. What the fuck will we do now?!

Yesterday was joyful, I'm sure. Maybe because I managed to keep a slow, steady buzz going all day long, but I'm sure the Christmas spirit played some factor. In the morning it was my mom's side of the family, in the evening my dad's, and plain old awkward family connecting throughout!

At least there are some damn little kids in the Legrenzi family now. I haven't received a toy in years - not that I mind books, CDs, and cash - but it leaves me quite out of things to mess with while we sit around nervously. Luckily, babies have come and with them the promise of far, far too many toys, some of which I can confiscate and use for my own nefarious purposes. For instance, somebody had this little suction cup dart crossbow, and for a toy, the thing had some dead-on speed and accuracy. I was shooting Weebles from across the room. They rarely fell down, though :( Usually I can get my dad (equally bored) involved in staging some of the challenges, e.g. rolling a cart lined with targets across the living room, and thus we don't have to talk to anybody. Thank Jehovah.

My mom, not having had an art project of mine to show off since like the fifth grade, pulled out my stupid portfolio for what felt like everyone in a block-wide area. I know she's just proud of me or whatever, but this isn't like the stuff I did as a little kid. Everyone gets it when I write a social studies paper or make a construction paper cat well. The ads were a different story entirely. The younger people seemed to get most of them, even appreciated them in some cases, but I'm sure it only compounded theories in the older ones that I am some sort of disturbed freak. And my grandma? Well, I can't even tell if she could actually read them or not, but I'm sure lines about eunuchs and good-looking boobs would only darken her skies a little more. Sorry, gram.

My one aunt, on my mom's side... something seems up with her. I used to be her favorite, and while I know I can never compete with tiny babies these days*, she's seemed a little put off with me of late. I sat there and thought about it, trying to think of what I could have done to have wronged her, but I got nothing. So we blame menopause.

*They are admittedly adorable, though you won't find me clawing for their attention. Mostly I like how Allison points at stuff. Each point has a clear translation in my mind, which is maybe why it's so funny. "I see you purchased some new ducks for your wall." "Look, there is my father. There, across the room. That's him." Admittedly, they may be said with a British accent in my head.

The Walsh party was all right this year, but that could because it was so short, and I was so lit up. I went a little fast on the Malibu and pineapples (getting mocked mercilessly by the oh-so-though barstaff along the way... this middle-aged rail of a woman), which had me swimming for a while. Luckily, it was all worked rather quickly out of my system when three tiny family members, ages 4-7, made it their personal mission to destroy me. Don't ask me how it happened, either. We were in the vestibule part, drawing things on the windows all nice and friendly, and suddenly I am being attacked on all sides, leaped upon, kicked, hairs pulled. Max, the youngest, was the worst of the lot. He's always been a terror at these sorts of things, but never one aimed in my direction. The boy bites. Hard. I've got a wound on my arm that Shelly would approve of, and what am I supposed to do? I mean, I could just murder the little kid, but that's no good, and I can't muster enough authority to yell, and I'm certainly not telling, so what? I say to him, "All right, Max. If you bite me again, you're out of the game." So he stops. And throws a wooden doorstep, ricocheting off my head. Clever girl.

And then things flip around just as fast. We leave this party (me all sweaty and wounded) and go back to his house, and suddenly Max is all friendly and nice with me, one on one. I mean, granted he was still a little jumpy, but he mostly stayed in our little area, and we played together. He had an equally cool dart gun, which I will be purchasing tomorrow. It's a friggin' double-barreled shotgon, and you have to cock it open just like the real thing and the empty shells fly out. It is the coolest thing I have ever seen, and as I help Max reload it, I teach him to snap it closed one-handed like a badass. "Yeah, boy! Now you a cowboy! Gonna fight some mad zombies!" I don't think he knew what I was talking about, but the feeling was mutual:

Max: What are you wearing?
Me: Brown pants and a striped shirt.
Max: I wish you weren't wearing your pants so I could see your weiner.
Me: That's odd.

Maybe he's not quite as ADD as I thought. Maybe it's just I only see him in social situations, which get him crazy wound up. Incidentally, my parents purchased him what they had deemed as the most possibly annoying toy in the world: this monster truck that blares out all these loud engines noises and knock-off KISS music. He was dancing like a silly little motherfucker.

Meanwhile, my mom was making arts and crafts with Maddie, who has sprouted up insanely in the year since I've seen her. I know, I sound just those old people (although you won't hear my saying it to her), but I swear she grew like a foot and went from hardly speaking to like forming rather eloquent sentences and stuff. I'm told she's inherited the Walsh intelligence, although that remains to be seen considering she bit through a glowstick and ran through the house spraying radioactive spit everywhere. Nevermind, that's awesome. Anyway, Maddie, as precocious seven year olds tend to be, kept arguing that her work was better than my mom's. Somehow, this hit home with my mom, who talked about it the whole ride back. "Mom, she's 7." "I don't care what she said - I know I did better than her." Of course you did! She's SEVEN!

On the way home, my mom was starving for McDonald's. The one freaking day of the year the place is closed and then she wants it. Instead, she devoured like a quarter of the uneaten Jell-O salad sitting in back with her. With her bare hands. What an animal. Chunks of goo and whipped cream were all over everything.

I had a dream last night that I was the star of a Disney Channel show (or, more likely, a Nickelodeon ripoff show like "Zoey 101") called "Bleep!" And even though I've watched those damn things a thousand times and seen the lessons coming from miles away, I was seriously upset when the cute girl I thought liked me turned out to be just using me to get her boyfriend's band into the big talent show. I really liked that girl, damn it! She was pretty, and her arm was soft that one time I grabbed it, and we were both 15. Ah, but I guess my character was the one written never to find love. Poor Jeff on "Coupling." I think that's what inspired me. The episode with the Israeli woman was on last night, and it always kind of puts me down. SO CLOSE, Jeff! SO CLOSE. Go watch it, so you know what I'm talking about.

I woke up today and jumped around for a while, as the one true benefit of being home like this is that I can dance around the whole house shirtless without anyone likely to step in. And no, I don't do it naked. I don't even understand that whole thing. People like Kyle or Dank get a hotel room, and they walk around it naked the whole time. I guess it's supposed to be liberating, but I don't think I could really stand it, my dong flopping around for me to see. I don't want to see me naked. Me naked is fairly fucking gross. I'm fine with down to boxers, but the whole area they cover is just weird and foul-looking. None of that.

Anyway, I went to brush my teeth, and I noticed I had two big rather prominent cuts on my cheek. Those little kids are flesh demons. When added to the absolutely stupid gash on my nose (My bad there - I was trying to get that last annoying bit of nose hair with a razor and mostly ended up slashing my nose to bits... Got the hair, though!), I look quite the punk rock. I almost hope they scar a little bit. Oh, that? Yeah, got into a fight with this bruiser of a guy wearing a class ring Super Bowl ring. He just grazed me a bit, though. Shoulda seen what I done to 'im, you should.