Saturday, we did insane amounts of laundry... pillows, sheets, couch cushons, the works. The people at the laundromat were shocked and appalled by the amount of clothing we hauled in there. We just kept bringing in more and more baskets and bags from the car. It was almost embarrassing, until I remembered I was only at the laundromat. I think the ancient laundromat lady has a little thing for Neal. He's very good at laundry. He's the best ironer I've ever seen and can fold like a mutha. I think these are the qualities the ancient laundromat lady looks for in a man. Back off, bitch! He's mine, and I will kick your wrinkled, Tide-scented ass!

Whew. Anyway.

While in the Laundromat, I picked up an issue of Vanity Fair. There was an article on Lara Flynn Boyle. The accompanying photograph showed her in a bikini-thing, hands on hips. People, listen to me. Her head was so unnaturally large for her body, I couldn't stop staring at the picture. I hope, for Boyle's sake, that they took her head from another photo and stuck in on someone else's body. Because, man. That was a big freakin' noggin. She looked like one of those horrible Steve Madden ads where the warp the model's features. I wonder if she keels over a lot from the excess top-heavy weight. I'll bet her spine is scrunched down. Poor, poor Lara. Supersized-skull freak.

After laundry and hugehead staring sessions, Neal and I had a little brunch and then headed to the beach for a while. We vegged. Big time.

Then we got pretty and went to Miami for shopping and dinner. I had to burn through various gift certificates I'd received for xmas. I bought perfect pants.

Dinner was good. I had a great big steak, and they actually cooked it rare, as opposed to medium-rare, what I usually get when I order rare. Miss Budina got the leftovers.

On the way to Miami, I realized I hadn't left the Keys in several months. No wonder I've been feeling all cabin-feverish and antsy and annoying.

Neal is out of town again. Most of you know I hate that. It would be helpful if while I'm home alone and nervous and it's dark and a little scary out Miss Budina wouldn't act like the lunatic psycho cat from hell.

She rarely meows. She wouldn't shut up last night.

As a result of the laundry marathon, there's a basket sitting in the middle of our living room. I couldn't count the number of times Budina would back up, sprint toward the basket, take a flying leap into it, and slide across the room like she's a member of the Fuzzy Rubbermaid Bobsled Team.

When I was on the phone with Neal, had my legs folded up kind of like I was in a sitting fetal position. She climbed up, balanced on my top leg, stuck her head about a half inch from my face, and wouldn't move. Just stood there. I kicked her off when she started flexing her paws, pushing her claws into my thigh.

She's been all over the windowsills, and every now and then would poke her head through the curtains and gaze at me like I was supposed to applaud the beginning of "The Budina Show."

She won't stop staring at the front door, convincing me that there's an ax murderer standing behind it that her feline capabilities can sense and she's trying to warn me.

I can't wait till Neal gets home and spoils her like usual so she'll stop driving me insane.