like a virgin...

...i've been tagged for the very first time, so i'm gonna give you all my answers (because ed intends to have me unleash all my quirky goodness upon the world)! this could get messy, so i suggest you have a towel or disposable wipes nearby.

six weird things about me:

-- when i was a child, i used to think you could "catch" every conceivable old-person disease (be it cancer to crotchetiness) just by being around them or touching their things. this meant trips to my grandparents' homes were angst-filled. i'd spend lots of time in the bathroom washing my hands and holding my breath.

-- when i eat a sandwich, i take a bite from the top right corner and then the top left, then proceed to eat the crust in one continuous circle around the sandwich until i get to the middle. when eating pizza (always with a fork) i eat the tip off, then go up and take the top crust before eating the middle (a two-fer there, my beauties).

-- i can name virtually every song i hear within seconds of hearing the opening notes. in many cases, i can also name the band or artist performing it. i cannot, however, tell you what i did last night because i can't remember.

-- i will eat anything made with tomatoes (tomato soup? all over it. ketchup? i'll fight you for the last drops) but i absolutely won't eat an actual tomato, and you can't make me. they're slimy and disgusting.

-- with every chain letter email i delete, i secretly hope i'm casting out all future such emails the world over. alas, sorry, you're probably still getting emails asking you to add your name to an ever-growing list or threatening your good luck. i'll keep working at it.

-- i love being pregnant and sometimes wonder if i'd be cut out to be a good surrogate.

that's probably not all there is about me, but it's all that comes to mind at the moment. i suppose to find out more about me, you can consider the following:

-- my biggest sexual turn on is: someone who can scratch the surface. have a conversation with me about something that doesn't revolve around the obvious and you'll have to poke me and say "hey, did you hear what i just said?" because there's likely a 'thought bubble' floating over my head considering what you must be like in bed.

-- on a scale of 1-10, how jealous do you get (have you gotten)?: i've got little reason to be jealous at this point in my life, but in the good old days, i could be pathetic. like 8 pathetic.

-- have you ever had sex with someone you work(ed) with? daily. i'm my own boss, so to speak. and there's probably been verbal sex with the work spouse. but considering my work experience has most often involved men and women old enough to be my grandparents, the answer is no.

-- wash up, cuddle or fall asleep? sex in my house typically takes place in the middle of the night and can take awhile, so by the time all is said and done, i simply want to curl up and sleep (or, obviously, answer the telephone).

-- which is more important of the two in "chemistry," physical attractiveness or sexual performance? difficult to answer. i've considered things beyond physical attractiveness before ending up in bed with someone. good performance is just icing.

-- what kind of birth control do you use? the 'greatest american hero' method - flying away on a wing and a prayer.

i kinda feel like i should be telling you my turn ons and turn offs ("i like strong hands, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and walks in the park, and nasty people make me so angry i just want to stomp my feet") and hoping you open up my centerfold after answering those questions...

ok, given you all my love, boys and girls. time to hit the showers. i've got a meeting with my boss scheduled...

'cause someone has to be the next judy blume

monday, jan. 14, 1985

dear diary,
you may have noticed that i skipped over a few days. well, get used to it because i feel that i may be doing that from time to time. heck, i may even do it for a whole month (!). i mean, if nothing exciting happens over that period of days, why should i just bore you telling you how bored i am?! that just doesn't make sense to me!

you have probably noticed that there has been no mention of tommy lately. well, here's an update. i still like him considerably! it's crazy. i started out when he came up here again this past summer not to be in love with him, but the more i saw him, the more i thought about him and, obviously, that led to unleashing all the good feelings i have for him. it's really quite bizarre. i'm sure i'll love him one way or the other until i die and that's a long way off!

--------------------

ah...teen angst. can you smell it? that, my friends, is some shitty writing, courtesy of my angst-ridden, hormonally-fueled teenage heart. if i like you, trust i'm not going to like you a smidge. no half-ways with me. uh-uh, baby. with me, it's all about digging you considerably! until i die so very much later in the future!

god. being 14 totally kicked ass! i miss it nearly as much as i miss my fantasy husband, one mr. simon le bon, to whom i was most faithful except when his bass playing cohort, john taylor, smiled at me from under that floppy hair and fedora. my love and respect for the man who not only gave duran duran its voice, but was singing to me every time he performed "hungry like the wolf" is detailed in many a letter. in one, i confessed honeymooning in rio would be "scrumptious" (groan quietly amongst yourself, for i've done enough groaning for us all upon rediscovering that one).

but of course, what i miss most of all about teenage life is the passionate "he's just gotta love me or i know (know!!!) i'm bound to perish, dear diary!" (yes, a snippet from an actual entry) means by which i lived my life during a time when everything was a drama. every time my mother spoke to me it was with scorn meant purely to make life a living hell. every cross-eyed glance from my best friend from across study hall must have meant she hated me (apparently we didn't like each other as considerably as we thought, seeing as how i've lived so long now without her in my life).

and i wrote all about it in my diaries. i was compelled to retrieve these books (or 'journals' as i called them as i got older and had actual sex to write about in them. today, of course, they're called 'blogs') when i came across a book at the store this week called "mortified" by dave nadelberg. subtitled "real people. real life. real pathetic.", i knew immediately this book would speak to me on a classical level, much like some would rank "to kill a mockingbird" or "fahrenheit 451". the book, the offspring of a successful live show on the west coast, features childhood journal entries, confessions and stories, each introduced by the now-adult authors. letters to unrequited loves. notes passed in the hallways (i have a shoebox full of these, btw. "do you wanna go with me? check 'yes' or 'no' and get this back to me by third period." "geez! isn't mrs. swan a total butt?! can you believe all the stuff she's making us read?! does she think we're robots?! doesn't she know we have other classes?!"), and diary accounts. any of us who ever put a pen to paper as a teen surely believed we were destined to be the next great writer, and "mortified" is a testament to how pathetic that idea really is. a delightful first course of whine and cheese, and so up my alley.

i, of course, planned to step in whenever judy blume prepared to retire. i felt fully qualified to help young girls through life's greatest dramas, be it their first period or their first sexual encounter. nevermind that i'd only experienced one of those "firsts" when i was ready to offer up help. i spent many summer days under the shade tree in my front yard crafting tales of romance, redemption and redeeming rewards all in her spirit.

that anyone actually paid me to write for my livelihood shocks me when i go through some of the things i penned, whether it was something only for my eyes or the lame attempts at poetry i struggled over my senior year in college so i could graduate (with a creative writing minor, mind you). notice i'm sparing you the poetry? if you ask nice, maybe i'll unleash a bit of the prose my professor never failed to label as "trite" in his critiques (you were so hoping i'd unleash something else, weren't you? been missing that tease, haven't you?).

--------------------

friday, jan. 18, 1985

dear diary,

i saw tommy today. i was walking from my locker past his and he turned and smiled at my pitiful self (ha!) and i went up to him and we talked for a few minutes. i was so happy!! it almost felt like i was floating on cloud nine (sidenote: i actually didn't go to high school in the 50s). he has a way of doing that to me. just being near him and talking to him makes me feel special. why can't he realize the effect he has on me and do something about it?!"

--------------------

epilogue: oh yes, my friends, tommy did something about it later that year. boobs and tube tops have a special kind of magic. i wrote about it in detail in later diary entries, in perfect judy blume "forever" prose.

are you there, judy? it's me, and i'm still waiting...

'i wasn't jumping, for me it was a fall...'

in the middle of the night, i'm chatting online with an ex about the status of our present day relationships. we do this, more than a decade away from the other, for two reasons, really. first, to affirm for each other that we've created full lives apart from the other and second, to avoid admitting we still have lingering feelings that can still slip through in our words. whereas we only talked in random thoughts in our years together, now we dissect our respective lives and, yes, on more than three occasions, we paint pretty pictures for the other about our present worlds.

the pretty pictures part is key.

around 2 a.m., the conversation switched from our conjoined past ("i remember you always wanted the lights out," he taunted. "that's just until i got good at it, baby. then i wanted you to see everything i could do," i teased back) to our present.

"so how are things?" he asked. "really..."

whether it was the hour and the fuzz filling my brain, because i knew this man on such an intimate level, or simply (ok, not simply) a combination of those two ingredients, i spilled out my frustrations and concerns about my life to him. communciation issues. connection issues. a feast of worries, really.

before you fault me for telling someone who i know probably shouldn't have this much information about my present day existence, do know my husband is as up to speed on things. we revolve around each other nicely. routinely. somewhat lacking. but nicely, for sure.

after many queries and responses sent back and forth, dissecting and reattachements, he offered me this:

"sometimes you simply have to take a leap of faith."

were he in front of me at the time he offered that thought, i'd have laughed in his face at the irony. a man who failed to step off the edge with me years ago was telling me it was time for me to forego dipping my toes in and take a gigantic belly-flopping dive into the unknown.

"interesting advice coming from a man who still lives near the home he grew up in, won't tell his girlfriend he loves her and is scared of being a father yet talks with such longing about wanting a child," i countered, questioning his credentials to council such a thing.

"that's just it...you don't see that?" he replied. "fear of failing or of not being loved back keeps us from just letting go and trying something. we only want the rewards brought about by a change if we can receive them with no effort."

if you explore 'leap of faith' online, you'll be bombarded with topics, most of which revolve purely around taking risks in business or finding peace in whatever deity you wish to worship. there are no instructions on stepping out and letting go, on how to cast all your wishes out there for whatever reward is meant to be. it seems sometimes rather cliche to say you're taking a leap of faith when that phrase can be applied to anything ranging from merging multi-billion dollar companies to sampling a brussel sprout to see if you like it.

the more he and i talked, the more we agreed we were both guilty of not bending our knees, offering up some kind of prayer and taking that bounding leap into the unknown in our respective lives ("look how long it took me to even tell you i loved you, even though i knew that was hardly a risk," he said). that's what i think taking a leap of faith truly is. something unknown and very risky. it's being willing to make a change from the 'comfortable familiar,' even if we dislike the comfortable. have i ever taken any leaps? honestly? i don't know. i can't seem to think of a time when i felt i was standing on the edge of something major, all the while sucking in air just to survive the idea as i questioned myself and tried to talk myself into it.

and i can see that as both good and bad, really. ok, maybe it's complacent or lacking in the ability to take that first step toward change.

but for now, i suppose, until i can answer all the questions that must be answered the next time i'm asked how things are...really, you'll most likely find me a bit toward the back, toes quite dry.

i've got to keep control...

this can either be filed under the heading of "you're a control freak!" (cross-referenced with "can you just sit down and shut up already?") or "eh...at least we finally had sex again."

sunday afternoon, after a seduction move that played out a bit like this:

me (crawling up my semi-comatose husband, prone on the couch): "so, gov'nor...fancy a bit of a poke?"

husband: "ah, let us make haste to the sleeping chambers, wench!"

cut to the bedroom (after a stern talking administered to the boys, who were told we were going to be "napping" and that means please ignore us when we tell you to sit down, watch the next three - if i'm lucky - episodes of spongebob and don't make a sound). Twenty-some odd minutes into a spectacularly executed handjob (yeah, i'm a giver), the telephone rings, and without missing a beat, i unfurled the fingers of my left hand and reached over to grab the cordless from the nightstand, all while maintaining a hold with my right.

didn't even think twice.

obviously, i barely thought once.

the handjob continued up to the point i heard my mother's voice on the other end of the phone. after that, it's quite amazing i didn't burst into the teenage girl i was the time my mother found me entangled with a boy on the living room couch. flustered, embarrassed that i'd been touching 'things' and utterly unable to make eye contact with her piercing beams of scorn.

i actually laid there and talked to my freakin' mother! there was no "can i call you back in an hour or so, cause i'm gettin' some and it's been awhile." no "remember what sex is, mom? well before i forget, i really gotta end this call."

i laid there and listened to her tell me about her afternoon trip to a funeral visitation! for 20 minutes!

this should have been the mood dampening signal that there'd be no sex on this day set aside for rest and rejuvenation. the biggest clue ever that i obviously have issues with multi-tasking and perhaps i need to seek out a little help on how to stop and do one thing at a time and do it well before moving on to the next thing on my list.

however, bless him, my husband finally took it upon himself to distract me quite nicely with some mattress-gripping oral (and in case you're wondering, that's unusual here at our palace. um, the mattress-gripping part).

lucky for me a conversation with my mother involves a lot of "yes" and "uh-huh" comments, enhanced with the occasional "god." it was only afterward that i was freaked at the notion that my mother, unbeknownst to her, contributed to my sex life this weekend.

so, i suppose, all ends well that starts kind of well. sure, this wasn't enough for me to be able to quash my need to do 20 things at once. and ok, yes, i'm a smidge creeped out at the idea that i actually stayed on the phone with my mom during a sex act. but mattress-gripping, people. i needed to grip a mattress.

so, i'm partial to filing this under "eh...at least we finally had sex again," with a post-it noting the whole "control freak" reference on the file. i'll worry about the psychological impact of it all later.

like when my sister calls.

'you take the good, you take the bad'

as evidenced by this lovely playtime display i woke up to find friday morning, it's apparently time for a more direct form of 'the talk' to take place in my house. while i tend to hint around at it ("oh, when you get married and have a wife who is as kick ass as your mom," blah, blah, blah...), i'm not necessarily prepared for the official 'talking to.'

two reasons for this, really.

one, my parents never gave me 'the talk.' this could be the reason i held onto my virginity with such a fervent grip it's a wonder you're not referring to me today as sister mary grace of the holy order of frigidity (but when i hit 21? like a porn star, baby!).

second, they're boys, and while i'm fond of what a grown boy can do when he's keenly aware of things, i'm not big on the mechanics of a well trained, appropriately talked to penis. i quite suspect i would be reduced to holding my right hand with finger and thumb touching to form a circle and my left index finger poking hastily through it, babbling "now boys, this is not the way you want to approach things."

so i've informed the husband it's time to pay a bit more attention to things, offer up a male perspective. we'll see how it goes.

what do i think i'll contribute to 'the talk,' though? it's pretty obvious, really (and one i probably should brush the husband up on, as well):

"boys, when you see your partner's eyes start to look like those of the bottom dog's, it's a pretty good sign it's time to wrap things up. trust me. mommy knows..."

...so they get their pleasures from my photo*

popping my head out from the crush of crumpled up wrapping paper and bows to gush my thanks to all who sauntered through and left such delightful birthday wishes for me. i'd plant lingering kisses on you all, but whatever leftover pink frosting that may be clinging to the corner of my lips is for me to have one final moment with.

to those of you who left packages for me, both real and imagined, well, my thanks is off the charts! who knew blowing out birthday candles could have such delicious rewards? you know how to spoil a girl. wasn't lying when i said it:

best. presents. ever.

trust i'll be asking (or begging. whatever...) to be spoiled again for whatever reason. 'cause the suns out. i'm having a good hair day. the kickass rack is especially perky. no sense holding out for just birthdays, eh?

besides, i like frosting, so any excuse for cake meets my approval!

ok. there's paraphernalia left over from the stripper to dispose of. gifts to admire (and gush over) again (and again...maybe one more time...). birthday money to use for some online shopping (for new pets to keep my dolphin company. yep. i learned my lesson!).

i'm off!

just let me get that little speck of frosting off you first...

*ah, the junior high era photo i 'teased' you with before, yet didn't show you. it's so horrific. it's a 'glamour' don't and a police mug shot rolled into one soul burning example of pathetic hormones and even worse low-rent school photography. there would be no pleasure to be derived from it. trust me. nor would there be from the other photo i found from the same period that showcases me in corduroys and a flannel shirt. i shudder to consider what it was i must've been rebelling against. apparently it was breasts, bonne bell make-up and whatever 'seventeen' magazine was telling me was in that year. you're all better off not having to see that, and that's all i can say about that aspect of any photo collections...

the origin of kickass

so i considered titling this post 'the evolution of kickass' and giving you a variety of photos in which you could bask in the lightness that is me as i embark upon my own little birthday celebration today. then i remembered a little junior high-era photo highlighting my stellar choices of feathered hair, a 'flashdance' shirt (that's right, baby, a little bare shoulder for the school photographer!) and a foul look that clearly says "fuck you, mom, if you think this one's going in a frame in the living room." instead, i decided perhaps it's just best to stick with what's always cute from my earlier works.

what i dig about this photo is that at eight months of age, i'm already perfecting the kickass attitude (in a pink bikini, no less). the little shoulder lean. the smile that rides the fence between a smirk and demure. coy like no other and in a way i've perfected over the ensuing years.

without any thought, i know i pull these same moves today, many (many!) months and fewer bikinis later. you could be chatting with me about anything (anything!) and at some point i'm going to give the 'lean in' coupled with the 'look.' depending on the topic, it will fluctuate between the smirk and demure. i'd like to opt for the smirk as often as possible, thank you.

cripes. i'm so full of myself. but it's my birthday. totally entitled to don my pointy hat and grab the biggest piece of cake with extra thick pink frosting. much like i'm supposed to the remaining 364 days of the year.

i'll be spending this year getting ready to knock on the door of a new decade. according to the men i hear speak of it, this new era in life is supposedly (say it with me!) kickass for women. of course, men can slide into any new decade and only seem to improve with what seems to be much less work than we with the x chromosome put into it. obviously my mission will involve fewer slices of that cake with pink frosting (but savage in some pink frosting? hmmm....).

so here's my little whispered "happy birthday to me." ("i'm feeling thankful for the small things today" - ah! a little lyrical diversion. first person to name the group without googling it gets to help me blow out candles. yeah! you know you're all hot at that idea now!).

thanks for joining the party (oh, yeah, ftn, if you happen to stop by, the answer is by all means male strippers. and the pay is merely my smirk of delight. surely that's enough, no? or do i have to lean in to make sure you see it clearly?)

not a trace of doubt in my mind...

"the only thing in this world i don't believe in is leprechauns" the oldest, so wise and still so beautifully naive, confessed to me yesterday. out of the blue, he laid down his life's gauntlet.

"why just leprechauns?" i replied, not really wanting to take on this challenge because, well, there's so much more not to believe in when you've passed the age of nine.

"because," he replied simply "who really believes little men run around rainbows with buckets of gold?"

exactly.

which is why i kept my mouth shut about bigfoot, santa claus, the tooth fairy, space aliens, unicorns and the sense he has that i am perfect and all-knowing.

his commitment to his personal beliefs got me thinking about the things i believe in. of late i've been discouraged by the many things i've been having difficulty accepting (are you there god? it's me, d.) versus those i subscribe to. i don't know if my list is oversimplified or naive, nor do i know if it's solid for me from day to day. i do believe my jaded nature clouds some things (yeah, that would be god i'm talking about, for starters, followed by 'is tomorrow really such a better day?').

what i have tried to commit myself to includes:

• accepting and cultivating the talents that lie within. i hesitate calling myself a writer because it sounds grandiose, but if i can write, then why not try? if you're good at something, why shy away from it rather than nurture it?
• knowing that nurturing something means accepting failure as an option (be it writing, raising children or sustaining a relationship), and that standing up and trying again in the face of criticism has to be done.
• holding onto a bit of the mystery. i think we lose ourselves when we're forced to accept all the harshness reality can have in store for us. i don't want to know the answers to all life's unknown, real or not. it's too daunting and not as fun.
• that it's ok to get angry, and even more ok not to apologize for things that aren't your fault.
• being kind to the wait staff and tipping well.

it's not a hard list, necessarily. i do believe the things i don't believe in are far greater, though. for example, i can't freaking believe that "how the grinch stole christmas" was on tv this weekend. it's barely november, for god's (if i could really believe in him) sake!

i think what i like most about the list is holding onto the bit of unknown. maybe it's ok to think that our abilities or talents can be credited to something greater than us (even though i question the reality of god, i've been known to thank him a time or two), or there really is a santa claus. he just has you doing his dirty work at toys 'r us some hectic saturday afternoon in mid-december.

i believe i'll keep telling myself that, anyway, if for no other reason than the fact that my son still believes in santa claus. and believe me, that, among other things, makes me as happy as a lephrechaun.

because it was inevitable*

snow made a triumphant return to my area of the heartland today. the one most excited about that fact? my youngest son, who already has grand plans of putting on boots and snowpants for the inevitable eight and a half minutes actually spent playing in it outside upon his return from preschool.

me? eh. i suppose you can't fight it when you live right in the middle of it. it's now time to face reality. those upper 70s the last two days were just nature's way of teasing me, much as i do you all with my rack and sly use of words. i do my best with it. yeah, my acceptance of the inevitable change in season and my rack. good times.

this lovely little storm blew in with a tunderclap around 10 a.m. and lasted a couple of hours. now it's time to relearn winter driving skills, hunch up our shoulders to the beast, start every conversation with some means of talking about how cold it is outside ("colder than a witch's tit" being one i've yet to really understand, but i'm not in my 80s, so that could be why) and cope for the next five to six months as we shovel out and get blasted again.

these aren't my best, but i thought i'd share a hint of our first snowfall of the season should there be any of you out there who taunt me with your balmy temps and pristine blue skies. who cares if you get to wear shorts and tshirts all year. i look kickass in a big old winter coat!

* more of what you really love and crave about me awaits below. i'm sure that's why you're really here, anyway...

trying hard not to use the obvious beatles lyric here...

i'm convinced preschool is really just a cover for the birthday party racket. every third day i open my son's super hero folder (upon which i've drawn a representation of myself) and find yet another damn party invitation inside. this is actually pretty amazing when you do the math knowing that there are 14 kids in the boy's class and they attend four afternoons a week for approximately nine months. i'd do it, but that gives me a headache. this girl doesn't dig story problems. bad memories of a 'type a' engineering degreed father trying to teach me, lots of crying. i count on my fingers yet today, people.

anyway, these birthday parties are at elaborate locales and require the purchase of some treasure from target. does no one celebrate within the boring confines of their backyard any longer? according to all the parenting magazines, it's quite possible. but no. we've been to indoor 'bounce palaces' filled with inflatable climbing equipment and mazes, huge recreational facilities, roller skating rinks, and the hell on earth of chuck e. cheese (last year, i did that delightful place three times in less than 10 days. yes, i'm the mother all mothers must aspire to be. and btw, if you're keeping track at home, that's like cliche number four i've used in posts this week. you can't go wrong with a little chuck bashing).

so here's my beef. my birthday is next week. wednesday to be exact. i've never in my life (and let the guessing of my age commence!) had a birthday party. i've seen the photos. there are no goofy hats, no pinatas, no pin the tail on anything, no magic shows documented anywhere.

by now you're all shocked, right? how is it anyone, especially someone as kickass as i no doubt was as a child, denied a birthday party? really, in this day and age, how is it i even survived childhood without being all entertained up in that birthday bitch? i find it shocking. so i'll give you all a moment to discuss amongst yourselves ways to fulfill this fantasy of mine (ok, as fantasies go, this one isn't the highest on my "god, that would send me into pleasant little shakes" mode, but let's work our way up, shall we? let's see how we all get along at a small gathering before i let you make me shake).

um.

hello?

snap out of your own fantasy!

some hints about me. i'm easy to please, but i do like some well thought out presents. i'm not ostentatious (though doesn't the use of the word make you want to say "really? you're not? maybe a little bit?"). i'm sincere in my appreciation. surely that gives you someplace to start.

"shall we have pink cake? i hear she loves extra frosting! i'm going to buy her the bestest present ever!"

how i adore you all! these are all wonderful ideas! might i throw in a plug for large bouquets of flowers and cheesy strippers? not necessarily in that order. see what you can do to work that in.

ok, i'm going to leave you all to make your plans (this four posts in a week thing nearly has me spent). i trust whatever you come up with will be as great as any preschooler's birthday bash (and if you want to have a celebration at some inflatable bounce house, you'll get an eyeful. yeah, you really thought i was going to let a post go and not allude to my boobs? please!). right now i must prepare for a trip to target to pick out yet another gift for a weekend party. my son has a fuller social calendar than i do and i'm going broke to support it.

oh. and that part about me loving extra frosting? spot on.

lady in red

because i'm sure most of you have been aching to know what i look like, i give you this stunningly accurate representation as seen by my four-year-old son. granted, the hair is much longer, and i don't have that wacky 'david bowie' think going on with two different colored eyes. he's totally missing the kickass rack, but he's four, he's not supposed to love them like i do.

here's what i dig about this. my arms apparently have morphed into an all-purpose shovel, which is going to come in handy here soon with the weather, or serves as some type of weapon should i really be a super hero. shh. don't give me away. should you need me, look to the sky, where you'll see a beacon hoe shining in the mist, and relax, knowing all will be fine and tidy soon.

or, you could squint and cock your head to the right a bit, and my arms could be a penis (you want me to say "cock" again, don't you? come closer and i'll whisper it in your ear). this allows me to finally pull out the cliche i've always wanted to. that's right, baby...if my arms were a super sized penis, i'd never leave my house...yeah!

sigh. i feel better now.

even more so 'cause now you all think i'm hot!

those three words...

last night i sold a couple all up on each other a copy of "1,001 ways to say i love you" and the classic (and very truthful) "she comes first." now, i know i'm a bit jaded (ok, i'm a tremendously huge amount jaded. whatever), but i couldn't help but think if they can take care of the latter, the former probably isn't much of a problem. based on how she was basically mounting him at my counter, she loved him quite satisfactorily. without the pressure of 996 other ways, i figure it was safe to assume he was showing his love for her on a regular basis in about five good ways. does he really need to sprinkle rose petals and leave pretend love tickets ("you make my heart speed!") on her windshield?

in short? yes.

that's really where i could end this post, but after the couple left, i started thinking about the ways we express love for someone, and i didn't have to ponder long to conclude my husband and i are quite guilty of not doing or saying much that conveys "i love you."

before you discredit me, as i have to assume some of you may wish to, trust that i get the fact that by providing for our family by working and financially supporting us, assuring our physical needs are met through food, clothing and shelter, my husband is showing his love for me. but realize that i'm taking that food and cooking it for him, washing his clothes and keeping the house in order in every aspect. so if that is love, then i'm showing it as well.

but what i'm talking about is hearing those three words. i love you.

three syllables. not that hard, really. you barely have to take a breath in order to say them. but we don't.

well, let me clarify. i say them to my sons. "I love you, you know." like i'm ever intending to let them forget. they're already exhibiting that hint of the y chromosome that can make saying it back difficult. but i keep at it. i love everything about them, from their souls to how they smell after playing hard outside all day.

and i say it to my husband. here and there. on the phone when he calls during the day. before he departs. before, during and after sex. wherever.

ok. i kind of feel like i should say here that i'm not one of those people who has to constantly say or hear 'i love you.' however, i don't buy into the argument that you can hear it too much, that it loses its meaning when it's said all the time. that's such bullshit.

you don't have to overkill it with me, but toss me a bone every once in awhile.

sometimes, my husband will say it back after i've said it. but he never says it first (here's where i'm going to throw in that i don't keep a tally of things in my relationship, either, despite how that sounds. i've not got the time!). and when he does say it, it comes out like an aside to whatever else might have been going on in his mind at the time. "oh...yeah, love you, too. and remember, we need milk and basketball practice starts friday." so yes, he says it sometimes. most times not. some days i don't even realize it. or i do, but don't think anything of it.

other times, i do. a year ago, we were in counseling. the therapist asked us to list five things about the other that bothered us. shining brightly at #1 on mine was "he never, ever says he loves me." (yes, there was more, and trust he had plenty on his list about me, though nothing about whether or not i actually expressed or showed my love for him). the therapist assigned my husband to say "i love you" to me at various points and for various reasons over the course of a week. he fulfilled the assignment.

yes. assignment. that's what it became. like clockwork, i knew when he'd say it. robotic. by the third day, i wasn't really hearing it because there was no weight behind it and it came at the exact same time each day.

i suppose you can safely ask, "good god, girl, just what is it you even want?!" it's ok, i won't be offended or angry if you do. hell, i ask myself all the time. and so i'll tell you i don't know what i want or what solution about myself i may hope to find by writing this and hitting 'publish.' what i do know is i don't need 1,001 displays of love (i've read the other book, so i'm taken care of there, btw, but thank you very much if you were curious). it could come to pass i'm the only person who has this issue - who even thinks it's an issue - or even cares about those three words.

but those three words carry a lot of very important weight. and they're not hard. so what does it hurt to just say them every now and again?

so this is christmas...

with an assignment those in the retail world like to call 'fuck you, thanksgiving,' i spent a portion of my friday night at the bookstore unpacking and arranging hundreds of christmas cards. at least, i assume they were christmas cards. there wasn't one among them that contained some ethereal angel, a baby in swaddling clothes or even a hint at the image of jesus. i gotta say, nothing warms my heart like celebrating the birth of the christ child with images of cute furry kittens in stocking caps (it took a lot for me to type the word 'kittens' for some reason), wacky penguins decked out in colorful scarfs and ice skates, obscene cartoon reindeer caricatures and barely clad women in elfin wear.

so of course, i picked up some with the snarky reindeer and mrs. claus questioning santa about the scratch marks down his back. my friends expect nothing but the finest in stupid seasonal humor from me.

had to fight the crowds to get into the store friday night. we've been prepped for christmas since mid-september, but shoppers are now descending on us like a fresh kill in in the jungle. the news tells us (so it must be true) that shoppers hate to be rushed into the christmas buying season, but they're out there, spending money i wish i had. local reporters ask how to show your displeasure at the way christmas has creeped in on us sooner every year. unfortunately, they're asking shoppers at the town center where i work who bitch out of one side of their mouth about how awful it us, but just as giddily tell you out the other side that their shopping is done, packages are wrapped and therefore they're superior and you are a pathetic loser.

bookstore shoppers are normally calm, but there was an edge in the air friday. fierce cutting in line at the checkouts, some testiness when asking me to find a particular book ("i don't know who wrote it, what it's called or anything about it. i just saw it on tv." to which i say, "stick to watching tv."). a word of advice to you bookstore renegades. take a deep breath, enjoy the christmas music we're already piping through the store, bitch about the appearance of yet another rachael ray cookbook and before you know it, i'll be ready to serve your customer service needs. and if you know the book title, that's gonna make me a happier person. i can't do much with "i think the cover has some red in it."

i realize, of course, that i'm tackling two cliches in this post - the sudden holiday season and the stranglehold rachael ray has on our world (people love to bitch about her but they keep eating her up. therefore, she wins) and for that, i apologize. it can't all be great writing and they can't all allude to my kickass rack.

to wrap up ("praises to the unseen christ child!" you're perhaps crying. thanks for sticking with me. sorry this is all i've got), the holiday season is here. if you're having a hard time accepting it, maybe you can turn to the man who fully encompasses what the season is all about. if you think that's god and all, good luck. you won't find him anywhere, it seems (sorry. that's three cliches now, which is really not like me at all!).

no, i'm talking about billy idol.

yes. the man who gave us 'white wedding' is releasing his own version of 'white christmas' and other seasonal classics on his very own christmas album this month. this, my friends, is the kind of thing i live for. sad, i know. but not as sad as what has become of billy idol. i'll just close my eyes and pretend this is really 'rock the cradle of love,' wonder if this is what he had in mind for his life back in the generation x days and countdown the hours until he shows up on a season of 'the surreal life'.

enjoy. and don't say i never give you anything good (and be glad i spared you the 'jingle bell rock' clip).

Billy Idol's

reason 1,569 1/2 why i have children...

"hey, mommy!" the youngest said, grinning up at me from the kitchen floor. "it just loves to go in and out!"

"in and out, in and out!"

before you question what it is i do as a stay-at-home mom intent on molding impressionable minds all day, let me say we were playing with his toy grocery store, opening and closing (and opening and closing, opening and closing) the cash register drawer holding the pretend money i was throwing at him for the bounty of plastic fruits and vegetables i'd just purchased.

with his angelic grin aimed up at me, his sing-song voice still ringing in my ears, i could only smile back and say, "that's right, baby. you just remember that, use it as your life mantra and you're going to make some girl very happy one day."

yes, as a parent, it's important you use every opportunity as a passage way toward learning...

with this job, i thee wed...sort of...

it was when we were huddled next to each other behind the customer service counter on a friday night, laughing quietly about a joke only the two of us got that i realized i'd become my manager's 'office wife.'

you've all heard the term 'office wife' (or 'office spouse'), no? it's come into play in the last few years as a way to define the close relationships we may form with coworkers of the opposite sex, be they superiors or just someone we share "god, can you believe he's wearing that?" looks with each other from across the room. kinda like pam and jim, but without the benefit of some cleverly written dialogue and a little less pronounced sexual tension.

so, without a bridal shower where i was bestowed with wonderful gifts, a ceremony with vows i'm compelled to uphold and no honeymoon adventures, my manager and i silently and easily slipped into our roles as platonic husband and wife.

it's easy, this relationship we've formed. a diversion. when we simply must share with someone some silly tale, a customer's comment so beyond the norm, or simply a point in our day no one else would understand, we hunt the other down. we're the first point of contact for the other on the evenings we're scheduled to work together.

maybe it was destined to take place from the beginning (cue the sweeping music and picture two people running through the shelves until we 'meet cute' in the nonfiction section). we're roughly the same age, married with young children outside of work, and share a variety of common interests. unlike the younger staff (who, in essence, could be our children), he understands when i pull out some obscure reference and apply it to my tale, and together, we'll roll our eyes at those who don't.

and while it's all blatantly platonic, it's safe to say he'd probably be someone i'd flirt with outside of the confines mentioned above. cripes, who am i kidding? we're flirty now. there's sometimes a pause from whatever it is we're doing when the other passes by to smile, toss out the casual but interested "how are you? wanna grab some coffee during break?" kind of thing. and when we talk, yes, sometimes the conversation is peppered with as many double entendre as a cheesy aerosmith song (i mean, you, dear reader, have come to love me cause my deuces are wild, right?).

flirting, i think, can't be avoided in an 'office marriage' simply because, if you have the unspoken ground rules in place (it doesn't go beyond the work environment, the occasional mention of 'real life' spouse is made in conversation, no creepy touching, etc.), you can toe that line a bit. when we talk about work issues, it goes without saying the other understands. that isn't necessarily the case with our actual spouses, who may simply not be interested or may require a tremendous amount of backstory to hopefully appreciate our on-the-job issues.

eventually we may 'divorce,' one of us will move onto another job. a void will have to be filled. the way i look at it, i'm a pretty good 'office wife.' because this is a part time gig for me, he's free to see other women when i'm not scheduled to work. i don't hold grudges. i'm filled with witty banter. i possess other wonderful (though as of yet unseen by you) attributes. i'm a pretty damn good wife, real and pretend.

but next time i do this pretend thing, i want a bridal shower. i desperately need new towels.