you've had your fun and now it's time to go

dear flu,

goodness! what a busy little bugger you've been. i imagine finding the time to come down and read this blog entry when you're capriciously prancing through my house, waving your infested little wand around, might be difficult, so let me cut to the chase.

consider this note your immediate dismissal.

seriously.

no more waking me up in the middle of the night to strip children and bedding.

no more greeting me in the morning with the surprises left by my children who were so exhausted they didn't even realize the gift they were leaving for me.

no more wretched stomach pains that make it seem like giving birth to two children without the aid of medicine was the easiest thing i've ever done.

no more competing with my husband to stake a claim on which of us actually sicker than the other (though i still say the above mentioned stomach pains - and the stuff that comes along with them that i'm trying not to actually name - trumps anything short of loss of a limb and when he manages to lose an appendage via his hacking cough, only then will i consider relenting my germy crown).

no more standing among the infectious cloud of hacking people at walgreens as we mingle like zombies in the pharmacy aisle and ponder what over the counter remedy to ingest next.

it's been more than a week, flu. i've scrubbed down the house. i've laundered all i can. short of dipping my children in industrial plastics, i don't know what more i can do. have you considered the possibility of visiting my next door neighbors? a plague on their house, i say, so they must stay home and listen to their constantly barking dog all day, too.

ok. i know i'm being a bit shortsighted with all this, flu. you've not been all bad. you have, at least for the moment, restored my ability to sleep, and for that, i'll consider making a favorable recommendation on your behalf.

but truly, i do think it's time we both made other options.so consider this your pink slip.

a pretty pepto bismol shade of pink.

just don't touch anything on your way out. please. i can't take the smell of lysol much longer.

'run like hell and get the agony over with'

the older my oldest son gets, the more "mom deaf" he becomes. he rarely hears my requests the first time out. questions about his day often bear repeating. when i ask him to run upstairs and fetch me my slippers and a blanket like the trained monkey we bore him to be, it's like i've not spoken a word.

honestly, there are days i think his senses and his fine motor functions have seeped out in a pool of boy juice while he's lounging in front of the tv, glued to espn. he'll only run if it's down court or from a potential attacker (we've not tested that second theory, of course. it's just my hope). but today, my darling boy showed he still has the stamina to take a full on mad dash, prefontaine-style, when given the proper inspiration.

what's the inspiration? could it be the promise of only ice cream for every meal the rest of his life while under my roof? unlimited access to every star wars action figure ever released? a promise to only talk about basketball at every opportunity?

nope.

it's vomit.

sorry. should have warned you.

today, as the boys parked themselves at the kitchen counter for lunch, my youngest used that opportunity to express his distaste for his meal by throwing up. over everything.

ok, it wasn't really a testimonial to the quality of his lunch so much as it was his turn in the house to cop onto the flu bug we've all been fighting this weekend (btw flu? i get it. you're hardcore. you've kicked my ass. seriously. let's just agree to disagree and you can be on your way, k?). at the first retching sign (the telltale "open mouth, silent gag" should be the universal signal to immediately bail on the situation) my oldest leaped away from the counter as if he'd been hit in the ass by a bolt of lightening and dashed upstairs to find me, in the shower, and alert me, e.r. style, of the latest medical malady to hit our home.

(sidenote: i swear i didn't smile too much when i learned of this development and quickly deduced that by being in the shower, i was immune to having to help attend to the aftermath. but there were probably teeth showing. and for the first time ever, i followed those "wash, rinse, repeat" instructions on the shampoo bottle).

his dash was so rapid, according to my husband, that we should consider talking him out of his attempts to care for us in our old age as a basketball great and push him toward a future in track and field.

great idea, i thought, until it struck me how slowly said child actually moved when it was he who brought this malady into our home last week, who's actions prompted the detonation of a lysol cloud so widespread it's a miracle there are any survivors. oh no. he dallied. spreading the wealth of flu germs throughout the house while en route to the nearest bathroom.

the youngest boy's action today was perhaps his attempt to rebuke his older brother.

definitely 'repuke,' at any rate.

yeah, groan away. bad humor's all i've got at this point in my weakened condition.

besides, i'm watching for your universal "open mouth, silent gag" so i can run like hell upstairs and jump in the shower.

"turn the thrusters on, we're standing by"

because of all the handheld games my boys have, we keep a wide variety of batteries in the house. demand a 'd'? done. craving a 'c'? check. apparently need a 'triple a'? absolutely. we're covered when the duracells drop dead and the learning stops because the leapster has petered out.

however, lately the leapster has been dormant and i've been lying (but let's call it something less sinful, like "diverting attention." i.e. "look boys! is that a leprechaun outside the window?!") to them when they ask for replacement batteries.

why the cause for deception (no! we agreed on diverting!!) you ask?

um...because mommy has her own thing going on. something that doesn't help me learn multiplication facts or parts of speech (though i'm rocking a few soft vowel sounds). sure, it may be "wrong" to keep my kids from playing and learning, but when the trusty and true dolphin and bullets of legend past started taking a more leisurely swim through the "waters," reinforcements needed to be called in.

thank god for double 'a' batteries. my trusty friends were jumping to get back to their habitat after some fresh juice. i swear to you, energizer lives up to it's name. it's energy to the 'nth' degree, and those damn bullets have enough power in them that i swear if i set them on high and put them on the ground and pointed them to the west at 9 a.m., they'd scale the rockies and be collecting seashells on the beaches of san diego by noon.

they rock. it's nearly kicking my ass (yeah, but not literally).

and yes, batteries are on my shopping list. i can only lie so long.

diverting! diverting! my kids are going to learn that word when their leapster is working again.

it starts with 'd'...like 'dolphin'...

then suddenly, he was five years old...

my youngest son turns five today. this morning, with the enthusiasm of an unemployed man who’d just discovered he held the multimillion-dollar lottery ticket, he announced he wanted the entire day to be his most perfect day. i assured him this day was his, completely. we’ll have mcdonald’s for dinner, per his request, and as i write this, a chocolate cake he helped me bake is in the oven and filling the house with a rich scent.

but at 10:55 p.m., at the “official” moment of his birth five years ago, i’ll slip into his room, all “i’ll love you forever”-like, and admire this ball of energy now at rest. relaxed. soft. stunning in his ability to break my heart in good times and in the occasional bad.

my son, b, made his intentions known before birth. he would not come quietly and without fanfare, ever. two hours after my obstetrician assured me there was little chance of having a baby that day i dove into labor. the labor and delivery nurse, who assured me that doctor’s didn’t always know everything, also nearly had me convinced, as we timed each wretched contraction, that the baby i would most definitely be delivering that day would be a girl. never mind i’d felt ‘boy’ since first spying his heartbeat seven months prior. never mind i had no girl things waiting at home for this child, no girl names picked out. never mind i had no idea what to do with a girl! if the nurse said so, who was i to argue. she was, of course, correct about that whole doctor thing.

“huh! guess we were wrong!” she laughed two hours later when, before even looking at my son’s charming face, i looked between his legs and knew that i was right. i’d be the sole cheerleader for this team of boys i live with.

he's been a performer since his birth, when his arrival amongst possible complications meant i had a huge audience of physicians and emergency nurses in attendance to watch me coax b’s entry into the world. since that time, he’s been “on.” perpetually in motion. always quick with a made-up joke, a silly face or a dance. he wants the people around him to notice him and laugh along with him. he’s not above acting like a chimp and sucking his big toe to make that happen (ok, the move works on me, at least). He doesn’t say it, but i often think “ta da!!” when he enters a room accompanied by his own fanfare. he’s like me in that sense. quiet at first, scoping out his audience, then eager to please and wanting to entertain when he realizes he commands the floor.

even though my husband and i look scarily alike, i think b looks most like me (aside from the unexplainable dark blonde hair, so like his brother’s that when they showed him to me quickly before coaxing him to breath, i instantly demanded a new baby. i’d already been parenting one who looked exactly like him). he has big, expressive brown eyes, tiny dimples when he grins, and a gigantic personality. he'll break your heart and then do everything possible to mend it.

it's his world. we simply live in it.

and i’m lucky to know him.

...and you say "why?"

so he keeps asking me "why?"

"why? why do you think this is a good idea?"

"why is it important to you now?"

"why do you think i should just say 'ok!' when you only give me 'because' in response?"

"why is it so hard for you to come up with an answer to 'why?'"

good question. every single question this friend - this male friend with whom i share a history that involved entwined conversations, shared commitments and the naming of desired and forever unborn children - is as good as the one that preceded it when the topic of us meeting in the present comes up.

and i can't come up with a reason that clearly answers "why." i used to be a reporter. i know that question falls within the top five you always strive to answer in order to carve out your story. when my children ask me why the sky is blue, or why they have bellybuttons, why the titanic sank, why it's dark on one side of the world while we're bathed in light, or even why people have to die, i can answer them.

but i can't answer him.

i can't explain why meeting this person who once meant a great deal to me is something i think would be ok ("it's not," that ethereal creature on one side of me whispers. over and over again). i can't answer why i even tossed it out as an idea. ok, i can answer that. i threw it up in the air because i never expected it would be caught. never assumed he'd give the idea so much as a passing remark in response ("riiiigght," grins the nastier creature perched on the other side). in the grand scheme of my life, i've gotten on very well without having seen him for more than a decade. when we chat, our conversations are now neutral and seem to defy the rule that ex's can't be friends.

ok, really? we're probably not stellar examples of that whole "ex's rule" purely because we've not seen the other or talked in person in so very long. the rule hasn't been tested in harsh reality, under the lights of some restaurant or wherever some meeting would take place. so in this case, it merely remains a theory. a cute theme upon which movies are made.

we didn't end badly, necessarily. we just ended. now he's happy. i'm happy. meeting now wouldn't change that. yes. i've used that argument. my case for "why."

but it's silly, that reason. it could (potentially) only serve to complicate things. that's what he says.

and he's probably right. it's easier for us to come up with a laundry list of complications swirling around the idea of meeting than it is for us to decide it's something to do.

and that? that really is the answer to "why." why there won't be a meeting. why we've gone this long without one. why i don't relish complications.

because "why" doesn't always have an easy answer, but it's there even if you have to make one up.

'i asked my mother "what will i be..."'

next week, my son's preschool class will be learning about community helpers and, according to the note sent home to parents "other jobs that the students might like to have when they are older."

the note is actually an opportunity for parents to provide information about their jobs so our children can then present it to their classmates. i'm a bit torn by doing this. not because i oject to it. not at all.

it's mostly because my husband and i have rather boring jobs.

ok. i'm not knocking the stay-at-home mom thing. i love and appreciate the fact that we've had the opportunity to do this for the last few years. my bank account doesn't necessarily like hanging out by itself, and there are days that are mind-numbingly frustrating and i find myself gently stroking the framed copy of my college diploma (pulled from the box containing all my other career-focused trinkets now buried under stacks of rubbermaid containers filled with all sizes of kids clothes) and the promises it held, but i wouldn't change it for any amount of money to fill those empty coffers.

but how do you sell 'stay at home mom' as thrilling, something a bunch of preschoolers will want to consider as a career option when they get older and are disheartened by life? i once visited a preschool while working as a reporter and listened as one little boy shared his dreams of being a turtle when he grew up, so i know these career things are a hard sell when you have the mystique of the animal kingdom to live up to.

we have to include a description of what we do every day. i'm working on putting my best p.r. spin on it so my son stands up proudly and says, "my mommy takes me to the library every week, where we check out the same books each time, and has been coaching me on the fine art of properly wiping my bottom after going to the bathroom. she also makes excellent peanut butter sandwiches, and can quote oprah, who she claims is god and yet disparages her in the next breath. she doesn't mind playing star wars with me from time to time, as long as she gets to be yoda, but if you need her in the afternoon, don't bug her during her 'quiet time,' because she may be doing something i'm not supposed to know about yet."

notice i'm leaving out the part that includes a detailed breakdown of how much time i could spend on the computer if i truly allowed myself to be so carefree. blogging and keeping up is hard work, people! you can no doubt tell that based purely on this scintillating read alone. but i don't need the other preschool moms knowing about it. hell, they probably all have their own blogs, some much more interesting than mine, if you know what i mean.

so i'm off to the library and an afternoon of peanut butter sandwiches, "curious george" on pbs, a few short jaunts into the web that will be followed by a ton of hugs.

that probably trumps being a turtle.

but i may look up the job description of "spy" just to make things more interesting for the 4-year-olds.

i'm wide awake...i'm wide awake...i'm not sleeping...

for the past two weeks, i've perhaps slept a total of 50 hours. maybe three or four more. i slept more when i had newborns in the house. tiny creatures who demanded attention deep into the night in the form of food, love, binks or simple reassurance i was still there and i still adored their very souls.

sure. sometimes i pretended to be asleep when they needed these things. when their very whimpers tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me i was responsible. but in my acting, i'd be awake, in the dark. listening to my husband care for them or waiting for his hushed voice as he brought them to me.

now. now it's just me and 2 a.m., and 2 a.m. isn't the best company for me. i've not a clue why i'm doing this to myself. coming home from work late doesn't allow me to immediately dash to bed. i simply can't. impossible to shut my mind off.

now it's happening even on nights i don't work. weekends. i can't seem to recall a complete night of solid, satisfying r.e.m.s (here's where i start dancing to "shiny, happy people" but you can't see me...).

so i pace a bit. pick up here and there. scan the tivo list. catch up on emails. clean out emails (seriously? 164 emails sent in the last couple of months? no one needs to hear from me that much, though i dig hearing back from them. yes. 'them.' i have friends and such, so trust that all those emails aren't going to one person). i watch television shows online. read websites for magazines i subscribe to already. read what's going on in your lives. chat here and there with some friend who suffers from the lingering effects of a former third shift job he no longer holds. get some very nice visits. very nice, indeed.

it's silliness. i've reached a point where it's truly becoming mind over matter. when i do slink off to bed, i make a promise to myself that i have to be somewhat rested by the time i'm yanked out of sleep about four hours later. somehow i manage to not be a raging beast come noon. i don't yell. i don't argue.

i don't do much.

it's showing. sometimes, when the ups or fedex man makes his daily appointment at my doorstep, i expect it to be a camera crew from some tabloid program at the door with a producer hovering under a boom mic, asking me when i gave up. "when did you let your house become a halfway house. a place for transients? what has made you like this?"

(sidebar. do you think if i let things go utterly out of control, packrat like, mike rowe will show up? someone keep tabs on me and i'll let you know when to visit the "dirty jobs" website and suggest me for a program. i mean suggest my environment. heh...)

i'm exhausted. every morning, as i glance at the mirror, take a deep breath and count to 10, i tell myself "not again. please? for me?" for now, i'm left staring back at the beauty of a tired face and disheveled pigtails. and my reflection is taunting me. "sure...we'll go to bed at 11 tonight. and btw...you look stunning in pigtails."

yep. so if you need me, look for me around 1:30 a.m. or so. cripes. i'm up longer than the neighbors living behind me i'd dubbed "the vampires" simply because they only come out at night ("watch out boy, she'll chew you up..."). even they're heading to bed before the sun considers an encore.

i babble a lot more when i'm tired, too. sorry!

maybe i really just wanted an excuse to add this video. this song tears me apart. god. it's perfection in verse, chorus, verse. the homage to the stones near the end ("pleased to meet you...hope you guess my name...") is bliss. commit to it. then try to convince me this isn't some generational theme gifted to us. it's rattle and hum, baby.

somehow, in some aspect of my life, i want to have this song played for me.

a lullaby, perhaps.

U2 Bad (Rattle and Hum)

wheel in the sky keeps on turnin'...

"do you care if i have her call some people, get something going on this since you haven't?" he asked.

"heh...i truly don't care," i replied, letting my friend know instantly what i should have weeks (cripes. more like months) ago when he asked me to arrange for additional help by calling people to have them fill in spots. i didn't think i could do this.

that's all i had to do. call people. i talk constantly. to myself. outloud to others. to the television. people who don't even talk to me. strangers passing me in their own cloned minivans. alerting people to my existence. trumpeting their victories. informing them of their wrongs (sometimes, depending on how you know me, that happens too much. sorry).

but i couldn't do this. i let it sit. i worried. i worked out scenarios to get out of this simple task. ultimately, i never picked up a telephone. even to call him and tell him i didn't want it.

"really? you don't care?" he countered.

"no. honestly. i have no feelings about it at all," i lied.

'really? you have no feelings? none at all?" he exclaimed. because he does that when he talks. exclaims. is boisterous. engulfs you in passion.

"no. i'm purely and completely void of feeling about anything," i said, convicted to such a degree he actually believed me to be.

"wow." he said.

"it's wonderful. you should try it sometime," i replied, selling it like some hokey informercial pitchman. "you float through life. an empty shell. totally 'i'm rubber and you're glue...' kind of thing."

and as he continued, i thought it might be nice to not feel sometimes. not care. not take responsibility. not step up. whatever the case may be. i've known people like that. i don't know that i've admired the quality so much, but they seem utterly calm and in control, at least on the surface, because, as my therapist was fond of telling me from time to time, "you don't have any idea what's going on inside their house."

and that part i can dig. the calm and in conrol chunk.

it's impossible for me to think i could be that way, though. i'm what personality tests label a "circle." very creative and free thinking, but worried that if you don't talk to me, i must have done something to you that has made you angry. i want everyone to be happy. there's no conflict in "perfect world," (which i'm probably carrying on my shoulders, btw) because i feel responsible for you and you and you.

oh, and you, too.

(trust me, i've not been above dissecting the demise of a decades-old friendship simply to find the wound i must have inflicted to cause it's death)

it's nice of you to offer to alleviate some of the weight of the world from me, truly it is, but i'm ok. you believe that, don't you? i so want you to. besides, if i asked you to help ease the load a bit, i'd be insane with worry for days (um...weeks. probably years. i'm silly like that) if you said you couldn't do it right now. if you flat-out said no, my job would then be to figure out what i could do to make you happy. not stop until i accomplished it. what weight do you need carried?

i want bluebirds to flutter around us in peace and love at all times.

as a circle, i'm supposed to be a good communicator. love to be involved in meetings ripe with creativity (that seems to be the only part of these assessments that gets me wrong. the only meetings i liked were the ones where we did these little personality tests. my creative streak would always attempt to see if i could change my outcome based upon my "this is so not me" answers. never worked. i kept on rolling). in case you missed it earlier, i couldn't even bring myself to want to call people and ask them a few simple questions. want to know why?

yep. that "no" part again. there may have been a "no" following my request. devastating for a circle.

some communicator.

it's silly, but it is, of course, who i am. i can be dynamic and assured. strong and open. all the traits characterized by those who are squares, triangles and squiggles (oh, to be a squiggle...). but mostly, i'm a rotating sphere of happy thoughts mingling with a few straggling bits of angst who don't wish to leave the party.

i am, however, making sure they like the music and have plenty to drink. because that's what i do. were i there, i'd probably be cleaning off your computer screen so you could absorb this new tidbit about me even clearer.

"you're kidding about having no feelings,' he joked. "right? seriously?"

"listen. remember the last time you called me and i started crying pretty much at 'hello'?" i said. "plus, it's gonna take me a few days to get beyond that whole 'since you didn't' comment that started this train of thought. i'm consumed by feelings, baby!"

i've got feelings rolling around inside me. they can't escape.

hope you're happy about that. i want you to be. no. i need you to be.

heh...this is where you talk to me now. click the 'comment' button. don't make me feel all weird now...

(yep. i know the title of this post kinda sucks. but it's that whole "wheel," "circle" and "turnin'" thing, you know. it's the glue that holds this masterpiece of great writing together. and two things...you probably at least hummed this journey classic to yourself a bit when you read it, and when i was younger, i was totally taken with steve perry. forever his, faithfully. i got past it. you will, too).

give her my autograph & tell her it's been nice knowing you

i was recently challenged to name the five celebrities i'd "hit." first, let me say that this was a tough assignment for me. because i like to be grounded in bitter reality (ha!), the chances of encountering any of these individuals (especially since one is deceased, making it twice as tricky), is slim, and honestly, there's not a big market for hollywood activity in the midst of the midwestern suburbs. so i don't dwell a lot on these things (stop laughing and pointing to the "mike rowe reaction").

also, since i'm creating this fantasy, i'm going to say that in all likelihood, unless these men are overcome by my powers of charm and seduction and immediately wish to "hit" me first (feasible, yes. remember my penchant for reality. i'm not gonna sell myself short on my own blog, my friends), i'm gonna ask for a dinner, perhaps some scintillating conversation and an opportunity to gush appropriately about why i love them before proceeding to the hitting.

so, in no particular order, i give you my five "hittable" celebrities. i'll open the floor for debates and discussion following:

bono - because really, all you need is three chords and the truth. because when he sings 'desire' i can feasibly pretend it's to me ("in hollywood tonight..."). because he's intense and passionate and smart and snarky and has stubby fingers, and isn't afraid to make fun of himself. because 'all i want is you' breaks my heart every damn time i hear it, for many reasons. and because when i saw them perform in concert, parts of my body that i didn't even know could get hard stiffened up like diamonds in the arctic when the spotlight hit him.

mike rowe - my case has been made, really. women of the world (or, apparently, at least those who stop by here) tend to agree. the man is hot. dead sexy. smart. snarky. obviously not afraid to get messy or try things some of us wouldn't dream of. will put his arm into places arms shouldn't go. yep. mike rowe gives me that good thing. we all know what i'm talking about. don't make me say it again (though i'm thinking it and i really want to...).

michael hutchence - dead is a detail. if sex was an actual "being," something that could get up and walk and breath and talk, it would be michael hutchence, and i'd want to be trailing behind him. "because we all have wings, but some of us don't know why...." because i never fail to be crushed by the thought of making wine from my tears. short hair. long hair (preferrably long, though...sorry...). you know that with him, it would be nasty and intense and exhausting and you'd want to do it all again as soon as it was over (well, i'm gonna assume to know).

kiefer sutherland - since 'the lost boys.' jason patric in 'the lost boys'? oh, hell yes! but when i was done with jason, give me the bad boy with the bleached blond hair. because i would totally get off hearing him say "the following takes place between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m." in that whispery, sexy voice directly into my ear. because he's freakin' jack bauer, people! he obviously has the stamina to go 24 hours without food or breaks of any sort.

anthony bourdain - now i'm not so sure i want to technically 'hit,' anthony bourdain, but i'd dig hanging out with him. because he's snarky to the point that you don't know if he's hitting on you or making fun of you. passionate and willing to try new things. no discernible vices. hell of a writer. poetic. obviously, the man can cook, so that's a huge selling point. i'm just not sure i'm up to eating pig parts and intestines, but if he convinced me, then maybe (but probably not...). so because of those things, i'd probably flirt it up with him and after a few pints, sure. anything's possible.

obviously snarky and passionate go a long way in my list of qualities necessary to pretend to hit it with. perhaps because i like to think myself as such, who knows? what i do know is, i'm in the suburbs and unless some secret ops team threatens to unleash a vial of nerve gas into our community, kiefer won't be stopping by to pull me away from a foreign tongued underground radical, bono won't be rising up to support our cause after the fact, and i'll be too overcome by the time mike shows up to help with the clean-up, leaving tony (because i like to pretend that he likes me to call him tony) diverting his flight to my home state because, honestly, he won't want to come feature the "white bread, trans fat laden" cuisine of the midwest on his show, anyway, nevermind the residual nerve gas and bono's potential for preaching.

and michael? well, michael sings with the angels.

but sure, it's fun to think about. "so crawl over here, and give me a moment..."

happily ever after. or not. whatever.

sometimes, when my husband has just dozed off for the night, i'll poke him and put my ethereal face of love right in his and ask, "you love me, right? you're so glad you married me, right? you'd marry me again in a heartbeat, right?"

i know what you're thinking. you're thinking "geez, this chick's super insecure. someone should tell her to get a freakin' grip!"

ok, maybe you were actually thinking "yippee! i see this heading in the direction of more girly boner talk!" to which i think if you say "yippee" about anything, i totally want to hang out with you. moreso if you clap your hands like a gleeful child at the same time. we'd totally be bff.

but back to the point. i ask my husband these things not out of insecurity or silliness. well, ok, it's silliness. the man has just drifted off to sleep and i get a kick out of disturbing him. bless him that in all the time we've been together, he's always smiled and responded in the affirmitive (and sometimes gotten some girly boner action as a result).

but he's never asked me if i'd do it all over again - something i chalk up to the fact that he's not much of a talker. a journalistic nightmare, if you will. that or he's simply secure in the idea that without having to ask, he knows i would (minus the insanely awful rendition of "have i told you lately" that my friend sang at our ceremony). however, according to a new poll just released by woman's day magazine and aol, it appears i'm in the minority.

a survey of more than 3,000 married american women showed more than half wouldn't marry their current husbands again if given the opportunity. thirty six percent said "oh, hell no!" (sort of. i like to editorialize) and another twenty percent were apparently distracted and said they didn't know what they'd do. i don't know what i'm going to do for supper tonight or if i have enough money to pay the cable bill. the question of choosing the person i have wouldn't cause me to pause and ask for other options.

in addition to marriage issues, the survey, also questioned women about their stance on cheating and jealousy, flirting, marriage habits, and the all important matters of pop culture (which celeb do you think jennifer aniston should date next? you know. worldy matters. us girls gotta use these brains for something).

the survey goes on to show that 84 percent of married women would want someone to tell them if their husbands were cheating on them, and almost half of them suspect their husband of cheating or have caught them at it. however, more than 70 percent of these same women are keeping some kind of secret from their spouses. it's possible that these same women comprise the nearly 80 percent who fantasize about a man other than their husband (sure, i'll raise my hand here. hello? mike rowe? bono? anyone?). i've not necessarily kept my fondness for these purely unattainable men a secret from my husband, but there are things i'm sure i have. he's probably done the same to me. unfortunately, i have no testosterone-filled survey to let me know how men approach these issues.

i wish i did, though, because i'm curious to know their flirting habits. according to the woman's day/aol survey, 39 percent of women say they are "flirting constantly" with other men.

flirting constantly? ok. i'm a bit of a flirt. sometimes i'm a raging flirt. i flirt with the guys i work with, including the gay ones (obviously that's harmless). the kid working at starbucks in hopes he'll maybe drizzle a little bit of chocolate syrup on my whipped cream when i order a mocha frappachino (heh...that's not a double entendre, though it could be taken as such, and if you did take it like that, then i'm totally flirting with you now as i type this). i flirt with my male friends and perfect strangers. hell, i flirt with women. in my opinion, there's nothing wrong with harmless flirting. it happens in so many avenues of life, and i imagine it's safe to say purely innocent crushes abound. but the idea of "flirting constantly" wears me out just to think about it.

most importantly, i flirt with my husband. like silly high school kids. i'm constantly poking at him, sending him silly notes ("do you like me? check 'yes' or 'no'") and making up some silly name for him so he knows i dig him. he seems to like it (though maybe not that latest nickname...).

he also seems to like the fact that i'm among the 33 percent of women who more often than not opt to go to bed wearing nothing (for pure educational purposes, let me just say that i sleep so freakin' much better sans clothing. sex? sure. easy access. but not to be twisted up in the tshirt and shorts at 3 a.m. when i'm rolling over to spoon up on him is critical - because i'm not in the 30+ percentile who sleeps on the opposite end of the bed from their husband.

so now that i've educated you on women (oh yes, we think jennifer aniston should hook up with matthew "shirts are for sissies" mcconaughey next), i'm off to doff my clothes and spoon with that guy who lives here because i'm flirting with him so damn much.

what? you're upset because i didn't talk more about that whole 'girly boner' thing? heh. read between the lines. it's there.

(yeah, i just flirted with you again...)

it's friday and i'm allowed to ramble...

so i have a bit of a love affair with quotations. if you're keyed into this yourself, you may have noticed my posts often are titled with something pulled from a lyric or some line that sticks in my head (i had to sit on my hands a second to avoid using the obvious lyric by the cure i could have used to title today's post). in giving you this marginal unveiling for a friday when i have nothing better to say, i'm in a bit of a toss up with what quote i love more so i'm leaving it in your capable hands to decide:

"once in his life, every man is entitled to fall in love with a gorgeous redhead!" - lucille ball

or

"i'm sure people see me as a screaming redhead with a big pair of boobs, but i like to think i've got things to say." - the true talent behind the former spice girls, geri (ginger spice) halliwell

you can see my quandary, no? heh...truth is, i'm more a brunette with a pair of big boobs and something to say (though i'm telling you now if you've already forgotten from the opening paragraph because you've been cartoon eyeing the cleavage that this one won't be filled with raging commentary. sorry. i know that's likely what draws you here). sorry, also, that i'm not looking at you. the sun was beating in the window when i captured this awhile back and i'm a fan of the mystery redhead with alabaster skin and whatnot that came out of that quick toss-off shot. besides, it beats the hell out of that picture of me from junior high where i'm rocking the corduroys and badass attitude.

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so step one in my effort to enhance myself in 2007 is now complete. i've registered for tap dance lessons and will start them on january 18. i see this being really ugly. walking is a skill i feel i've not handily mastered and now i'm going to be taught to shuffle, ball, change. i'm queasy at the thought, but plan to perservere (ok, really? all i want to do is make the fun tapping noises with my shoes...).

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i've got a bit of a weakness growing for the discovery channel of late. really, 'i shouldn't be alive,' but 'surgery saved my life.' thank god for 'miracle cures'. now i'll be ready for 'shark week.' want to know the real reason i'm hooked on discovery now, though? 'dirty jobs with mike rowe.' hand to god, i have a raging girly boner for this guy. sexy, snarky, a lot of times half-naked. definitely not afraid to get dirty. yes, please. i swear to you, sometimes i sit in the dark and watch episodes over and over again. sadly, i've also youtubed the man. harmless, dirty fun. we all have our little quirks, right? (btw? "girly boners" will be featured on an upcoming episode of 'myth busters." keep your eyes open for dates and times!).

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enough babbling for now. hopefully, though lucille b. is right, all you wonderful beauties who've made it this far have done so unscathed and haven't fallen into an all-encompassing, raging love for me after getting a glimpse of the vessel from which the kick ass magic happens. heh...unless you have some myths you'd like to bust yourselves, then you can just leave me a very nice comment (ok, yes, it's late...not 'nanette late,' but late nonetheless. give a girl a break...).

"i can live for two months on a good compliment"

it's never been easy for me to accept a compliment. it's probably not easy for many of us to bask in compliments, especially if they're not doled out on a routine basis or are actually just back-handed attempts at praise (i.e. "welp, that dinner wasn't so bad afterall").

when i receive a compliment, i try my best not to pass it back to the person giving it like they were forcing me to touch something nasty or insisting they must be (take your pick) blind, crazy, in possession of poor taste or a hermit simply in thinking enough of me to say something nice. compliments, i've read, are little gifts and you should accept them with grace as you would any gift given to you because it makes the giver feel good.

so, honestly, i got this really spectacular gift from a woman whose purchases i was ringing up at the bookstore during the waning hours of christmas shopping. i was tired, i could barely mutter "would you like a gift receipt tonight?" to people after talking for so long, and i was about ready to end it all when i completed a transaction and wished this unassuming, motherly woman at the other side of the counter a merry christmas and handed her purchases over. she turned to leave, then quickly stepped back into the line of customers forging ahead and leaned over the counter with a smile and said something to me. because she whispered, i had to lean in closer and asked her to repeat herself.

"you have the loveliest complexion, and your eyes, dear, are very pretty," she repeated, this time a bit louder.

i was stunned by the graciousness of her compliment, and i have to admit, i stood up a bit straighter and felt rejuvenated as i thanked her (over and over again). her kindness carried me through the remaining hours of my shift. as mark twain said, i, too, can live for two months on a good compliment. i was still holding onto that lightness when i returned home and my husband asked how the night had been.

" heh...maybe she was hittin' on you!" he smirked when i relayed my story to him.

wha? impossible! you're taking my gift and making it something dirty!

then i shared the story with a male confidante.

"duuuude!" he cheered. "she was so lookin' to get her books for free, ya know what i'm sayin?!'"

after reminding him that, based on our history, i was certainly no 'dude,' i had to conclude that guys must like to go for that "cinemax moment" any chance they can. at least the sampling of the male population i put this hypothesis out to.

i'll just take it as the compliment it was meant to be, because now, even days later, i recall it and it makes me smile.

and besides, if she was actually trying to get her books for free (ya know what i'm saying?!), she surely would have gone straight for complimenting the kick ass rack located mere inches from the lovely complexion and pretty eyes.

and that, my friends, is my "cinemax moment."