Friday, Mar. 21, 2003 - 10:14 p.m.

7:15 a.m. As my trainer, Mr. World, loads two sides of an iron bar balanced with many weighted disks I make mental note of words I dislike. They include, but are not limited to, the following: organic; pedestrian; fattening; almost; compulsion; need; forgettable; normal; Mr. World.

8:35 a.m. Pop into Starbucks for a venti decaf drip with room for self serve non-fat milk, a maple oat scone and L.A. Times.

8:40 a.m. It�s difficult to concentrate on the crossword puzzle due to the little boy at the next tables constant yanking on his mother�s skirt while making an eerie mouth smacking reverberation through crimped lips. The women seated next to me proudly removes her bosom and with a well-practiced movement thrust her well-worn areola into her well-feed toddlers eagerly awaiting puckered slurping lips.

8:41 a.m. What�s a four letter word for "Landlord�s charge." Starts with an "R"�

8:42 a.m. Damn it. She could at least feign embarrassment or at least cover her tit and feeding child with a blanked or sweater or napkin or something. I mean we are in a Starbucks for Christ�s sake. Rather than pulling her blouse down to expose her boob why doesn�t she put the kid up under it so that anyone wanting a latte isn�t subjected to what this women believes to be natures miracle.

8:48 a.m. My level of irritation is approaching dangerous magnitude and I�m afraid I won�t be able to control my inner-bitch much longer. As much as I�m dying for it to come out and unleash it on this poor unsuspecting woman I�m equally nervous I won�t be able to control it once it�s loose.

8:56 a.m. I can�t stop myself from thinking of nasty things to say to her. Why can�t I just gather up my stuff and move to another table? I want to ask her, "He�s so cute. How old is he? 6? 7?" or simply scream at her, "Put your fucking tit away woman!"

9:00 a.m. Unable to stand it any longer I try prying my gaze from the Madonna and child and separating my ass from the chair with intention to leave. I naively think I�m home free when all of the sudden leaking from my lips, like lactate from the feeding child�s, I say, "I hope you�re taking precautions for whisker burn?" On her mortified stare I continue with, "Seriously lady, you�ve got to be kidding with this routine." And I�m gone.

11:50 a.m. The knock on the office door makes the dogs go wild, barking and growling, but as soon as the door is opened they revert back to harmless little pups. Holding the dogs back I open the door to find a cowling mail deliverywoman. I assure her "They�re fine they just get excited when someone knocks on the door." She relies, "Close the door. Close the door." I wonder if this is her first day. I wonder if these are the first dogs that she�s ever come across while delivering the mail? I pleadingly tell her, "They�re fine, just hand me the mail." She panics and says, "Close the door, close the door and I�ll just drop the mail on the doorstep." With tried patience I assure her once again, "They�re not going to hurt you. Just hand me the mail." To which she replies, "I�m not supposed to be around dogs!" To which I reply, "Then quit your job!" My slamming of the door is quickly followed by her throwing down the mail while yelling, "We�ll see if you ever get your damn mail again."

12:00 p.m. Inner-bitch: 2 Self-Control: 0 �and the day�s just getting started.

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