This is especially true for George Clooney. He's so much more attractive to me know than even on ER, much less Facts of Life or whatever that show was he was on.

Yep-- I'm still not a fanatic by any stretch, but I didn't get the Clooney-lust until Ocean's 11. Same for Brad Pitt. It was like that movie made me go, "Ooh... look at them with some wear on them... ain't they nice?"

They're still not my favorites, but I can appreciate their charms far more.

Clooney is def. shaping up to go the distance the way Connery did... just getting better and better with time. Well, of course, can't be sure of that until it really happens.

Sorry bout that.

I'm sitting at home doing laundry on a Saturday night. I need a life.

And "pop the cherry" and "Laura Bush" in such close screen proximity is WORLDS of wrong.

I hate to whinge when others are having a worse time of things than I, and frankly I'm doing so much better than I was....

But I'm stressing hard about money, and feeling blue and lonely the last few days. I don't like being single. I don't know where to go to meet new people, and have no prospects among the people I do know, and at a stone's throw from 40, the odds are pretty heavily stacked against me.

I think it might be comforting to think that things happen for a reason, or that it will all work out, but I don't really believe that.

Anyway, feeling blue and lonely lately.

{{{Sean}}}

Sorry, I don't have much to offer besides virtual hugs. Replace "40" with "30," and I could have written that post. I don't know what the answer is.

Thanks, Hil. Virtual hugs will do.

Hugs all around, with a side of happy healing dance for all who need it.

I'm thrilled to report that, except for a resurgence of his issue in the bumular region, Bartleby is healing nicely. Today he initiated a game of play for the first time this week and actually drank water voluntarily.

Since Monday, he's not taken a single drink in my house. Not sure why. He took two drinks elsewhere, but no water here. I finally started adding water to his wet food, just in case.

But today, after our rousing game of 'throw my plastic, squeaky champagne bottle and then try and to get it away from me', he took a nice long draught.

Phew. Much relief all around. Things are getting back to normal.

I ran out of internet. And I'm still earwormed with "There Are No Cats in America." This song just never goes away. (And also, I'm thinking way too much about that movie. The metaphor just doesn't work. In Russia, the cats are pogroms. To the Irish mice, the cats are the English. To the Sicilian mice, the cats are the mafia. Which don't all really work as being the same sort of problems, but whatever. But then, when there are cats in America, they're the guys who run the sweatshops? Which makes some sense in terms of oppression, but no sense at all in terms of "You might be randomly killed in your house.")

My shoulder's feeling better enough that I'm just on Tylenol tonight, not anything stronger. So I have no idea where this urge to analyze cartoon mice is coming from.