I just got back from Tae Kwan Do. I learned how to knee a dummy in the gut, and then after that, the best place to land your foot to most effectively elbow the dummy in the face. I learned a new punching combination. I held a big black pad while some dude kicked it and knocked me back several feet. Over and over.

I also took the "Outstanding Female Angler" honor in a fishing tournament Sunday. Can you believe that crap? I'm so goofily proud. I fought and landed a 65 pound tarpon. I love fishing with J and E.

We also watched a tough movie over the weekend - The Fast and the Furious. I may write a review later, but for now, all I'm saying is that it's probably not a good sign when you find yourself saying the last line in a movie in tandem with the actor. For the record, I do a pretty fierce Paul Walker imitation.

I've also been doing a better job of standing up for myself lately. I'm not a hardass... yet. But there's hope, I think.

I went out with a couple of girls from Tae Kwan Do last week. Some schmuck felt the need to touch my ass.

Jamie's Brain: "Did that guy do that accidentally or on purpose? Wait a second... THAT was no accident. Fucker. OK, time to turn around and give him the Look. Yeah. Now, back to my dri-- wait a minute. While the Look is extrememly terrifying, it hasn't really proved effective in the past. And how could I face all the Diaryland kids if I just glare at this fuckface and let it go? They were so supportive with so many suggestions the last time this happened. I can't let them, or I'll be laughed out of the Land, and Andrew would feature me as 'Wussy Diary o' the Week,' and I'd have to give up all this fame and money. Wait, there's no money. Or fame. But I still can't just let this guy go!"

So I lifted my knee, and brought down one of my three-inch platform boot heels as hard as I could on his hairy, skinny little calf. Other than some snide comments, he didn't do anything else. I hope he's walking around with my footprint embedded in his leg.

Oh, and I met the other girls at the bar, but on the way, realized it would be a bad idea for me to bring a hundred dollar bill into a bar on Ladies' Night, so I should probably break it. Since I refuse to prance around my local grocery store in pleather pants and a backless shirt, I started hitting gas stations, hunting for lollipops and change.

At one, there were several men sitting outside the entrance, drinking and smoking. I braced myself as I walked by, but the comments didn't start until I was leaving. One of the drunks stood up, looked at me, and drawled, "Honey, does your mom know you're wearing clothes like that?"

You guys, I actually had a comment. Usually, I find myself arguing with people like this in my car, 10 minutes later, long after I've left the jerkoff behind.

I looked at him and said, "Does your mom know you're hanging out outside of a gas station, drinking beer out of a paper bag?"

The expression on his face was priceless.

I know, I'm still just a wannabe tough chick. But it's a step.