My Clown Door Isn't as Good as it Used to Be.

I've got a case that went to trial last week [at work] and we are waiting for the results. It's been busy, and might get busier if the judge decides we need to have a penalty phase next.

Last night Mr. Zoom and I were watching Bad Santa. Neither one of us had seen this movie, but the concept appealed to me. Problem was - it was broadcast on Comedy Central and all of the editing for general public consumption left approximately 3 words in the entire film.

That's ok, because even without the full colorful dialogue, I could tell I didn't much like this movie. The only time Mr. Zoom and I laughed was when everyone kicked everyone else in the nuts. Because no matter how lame something is, a good jab in the nuts seems to make boys laugh every time. As long as it's not them getting the jabbing.

So there we were, laughing about the scene when I did something horrible. I went to sit up and laughed at the same time, and I KILLED A CLOWN! Right there in front of Mr. Zoom.

Understandably, he ran around the room in circles laughing and yelling "This is the greatest day ever". I laugh cried, wanting to cry more than laugh, and grabbed a blanket so that no more dead clowns could get out (at least audibly).

I'm not saying girls never kill clowns. I'm saying we usually try to keep that activity out of the presence of our husbands. At least I do. My body betrayed me, and if my family history is correct, it can only get worse from here. After all, my FAM once walked up a flight of stairs in front of me, and each step was followed by a little fouf. She laughed, turned to me and said "Oh, I just can't hold them anymore."

It's a good thing my house has no stairs in it.