02.04.03 - 7:39 p.m.

I know I just sent Dan to the grocery store to get laundry quarters, but I am officially declaring housework to be Off-Limits tonight. Because it is Trash TV and Pedicure night, dammit, and I have my fluffy J.Lo pants on and they just feel soooooooo nice. How can something so ugly and trendy feel so damn good?

I'm finally getting a little excited about my annual trip to Florida, mostly for the cheesy Disney goodness I will see whilst there, and to finally show Dan the nerdy wonder that is EPCOT. Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow! Yeep! I will not get to stay in the Adult Bedroom, as that room will most likely go to Dan, and I will have to sleep in the bedroom with the adjoining bathroom. The one with the sunken tiled tub that you enter through swinging saloon doors. At least it has a partial door, whereas the bathroom connected to the Adult Bedroom does not. Who designed my grandparents' house, anyway?

Did you know that A&P, as in the grocery store, stands for Atlantic & Pacific? The company's full name is The Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company, Inc. You learn something new every day.

And seestor? I got your message and for once, Moomy was right. You do sound mumbly on that continent over there. I have no idea what you tried to tell me, but I hope it was that you got me a hotel room. I love you!

To make this entry have some semblance of a point, I will now tell my Groundhog Day story. Yes, timely, I know. My hometown is a few hours away from Punxsutawney, PA, so when I was in high school, my then-boyfriend Jordan, his friend Carmen and I decided we'd like to skip school and go to the Groundhog Day celebrations there. This required getting up at 3 a.m. and having Jordan's dad drive us in the family van, but somehow this seemed like a perfectly normal request to make of one's parents. So we went. After getting little sleep on Jordan's family's living room shag rug while listening to Carmen watch Star Wars over and over again, I was none too impressed when we pulled up to what could loosely be called a clearing in the middle of the woods with a sign proclaiming the area to be Gobbler's Knob.

What, you're surprised with the state that has towns named Intercourse and Virginville would have a place called Gobbler's Knob? I'm not. And the woods looked NOTHING like the cute little gazebo with the polka band in the movie. For three hours we stood there in the fucking Pennsylvania cold, surrounded by drunk men who thought it was a great idea to climb the trees. And what better way to pacify boozy hicks than to bring out white trash women in parkas and bikinis and play Garth Brooks?

Just when I thought I couldn't hear another lyric of "Friends in Low Places," or listen to another toothless man shout "SNOWBUNNY!" at a barely clad female, I was saved by the official Groundhog Day pageant. And THAT was a lot like the movie. Men in top hats and tails walked onto a stage, read some rhymes from faux parchment scrolls, and rapped on a fake stump housing Phil. He was pulled out in all his tubby glory, spoke his pronouncement in "Groundhog-ese," and returned to his stump. I can't even remember what the verdict was that year - all I recall is the way my toes tingled oh-so-disturbingly.

We trudged back to the van. We stopped at a crappy diner on the way home where I ate crappy scrambled eggs. And then I went home and slept. So should you choose to attend, be warned: no Bill Murray, no Chris Elliott, not even Brian Doyle-Murray will await you at the top of that hill in PA. Just drunk men. And women. With frostbite in very sensitive places. The end.