it's a thousand pages give or take a few

as i've probably said before, i believe that the world's great masters will see to it that one day i will be recalled in song, poems and statues.

not just one or the other. all three.

i've not said that to any of you? seriously? huh. well, make a note now. and for those of you with the skills, start composing those odes and chipping away at the marble. great masterpieces take effort and you really should pace yourselves.

however, because i like to think i have held onto a smidgen of my writing ability and have an "in" at a bookstore, my hope was to have a hand in the creation of my autobiography. purely because i'd like to ensure the facts are accurate (no, i never married impulsively and then divorced quickly, paying off my one true love never to speak of our indiscretion. i've never had a stint or five in rehab. there are no questionable photographs of me floating around out there...).

i wanted to tell my rags to rags story and handpick the photos used for the book jacket to ensure the publishers capture my best features (and we all know what those include, and we are stunned, actually, at how i've not mentioned that feature - or would they be 'features'? - in quite awhile now). i was positive that one day, the world would truly want to know all about me and oprah would go off the deep end by pimping my tome on her show.

anyway, i got to work last night and stopped in my tracks when i discovered that someone else had decided my story should be told now. apparently, the public has been clamoring for it, the insight into what makes me tick. i've just been too busy blogging to pay attention.

and i suppose i could be irritated that i wasn't consulted. that i didn't have a say in things. but honestly, i think the author truly captured the essence of what i'm about.

see for yourself.



honestly? i have to say, i'm pretty pleased with what they've done for me. much more poetically then i ever could have. the title alone sums me up reasonably well. it would seem to sell it. but truly, after reading the title, you almost don't even have to read the book, and where would that get me in my potential legal fight for royalities?

the cover artwork - a lovely silhouette montage - does capture my many wonderful moods. flirty. capricious. captivating. and always on the lookout for something or someone upon which to administer my titled abilities. at least based on that look captured on the far right.

i'm just a bit disappointed they opted to showcase the legs rather than my other kick ass attribute (attributes?), but what can you do when you lose your say?

(there's me bringing back that which i've not mentioned in awhile, btw. hello, beautifuls).

perhaps i'll regain my say with the already planned follow-up...



should you be interested in these reads, i should reiterate that i do work for a respectable, publicly traded corporation. it's not the type of book and novelty store where we request to look at your driver's license for any other reason than if you opt to pay by check.

but, because i'm a nymphomaniacal bloodsucker, i have to say i dig those kinds of stores, too, and i'm so going to request that they carry my life story the next time i visit one.

he shouldn't see london, he shouldn't see france...

in the event a repairman is scheduled to come to your home (sometime between 1 and 4 p.m. never before. more often than not later), let me dispense a bit of advice to you to make the man's task at your home more productive.

always pick up your panties from your bedroom floor.

be aware that a repairman may or may not wish to go into your bedroom to check the screens in your window. you won't be expecting it, of course. the windows in question are in the living room. his request to go into your bedroom will be met silently at first, for about a second, as you wonder why.

and while you're thinking what the right answer is, you'll be conducting a mental inventory of your bedroom.

and it will hit you. the panties. tossed on the floor like a pink and purple polka dot amoeba.

maybe they're not alone. maybe there are other pairs with them. the pink ones. the pale orange ones. the kicky buttery yellow pair. a couple of black pairs from when you felt "angsty."

you're not lazy. you're just trying to prove a point. yours aren't the only arms that can carry clothes down to the laundry room. but, as the pile has grown, apparently so has your failed experiment.

so let me remind you. your bedroom floor is not a laundry hamper. it is not a place where five pairs of panties should just get carelessly tossed aside until someone (but likely you) feels like picking them up and hauling them to the washing machine.

if possible, always try to get upstairs before the repairman. trip him on the stairs, yank at his back pocket. compliment his "texas...where everything is bigger" sweatshirt and how it carries the musky scent of sweaty man and marlboro lights like a delightful testosterone bouquet.

whatever you must do, do it.

you lead the calvary. there is no exceptions to this.

do not chuckle if he makes a little joke about the state of your bedroom and said laundry. it likely won't be a funny joke, and honestly there's little need to encourage him away from the task at hand.

"will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;"'tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy. the way into my parlor is up a winding stair, and i have many curious things to show when you are there." is not a clever retort to his funny remarks. it will only make him glance your way with a look that silently affirms your despair at his unexpected boudoir visit.

glance at the bureau mirror and smirk at yourself for thinking to use "boudoir," maybe give yourself a little thumbs up move, but do not congratulate yourself on using a poem as your comeback.

let me repeat that. do not quote old poetry.

be grateful the dolphin had swam away earlier that day. when he's not looking, pat yourself on the back for at least having the smarts to put away the grown up toys. then work diligently at trying to get the panties kicked under a pile of less obvious work clothes and sensible black slacks (slacks? do people even use that word anymore?!).

curse the fact that you're wearing eastland slip-ons and the clunky soles make this task a virtual impossibility. while he leans out the window to yell at his buddy waiting outside, do not stop to think "is he winking at him? is that the universal sign for 'panties on the floor! yahoo!'"

no. while he's distracted, reach down, silently and swiftly, and lift less obvious pieces of clothing up, grab what you can that you wish to hide and jam, jam, jam them out of sight.

smile nonchalantly, while halfway in an upright position and with a pair of flowery panties in your right hand, when the repairman turns around to tell you the bedroom windows are just fine. you knew they were, of course, but by now, you're close to forgetting why you have this man in your home in the first place.

until he asks to return to your living room. where he (and no panties - at least for a very long time. sigh. make a mental note to check on weekend childcare possibilities) were meant to be.

i share this advice with you as a girl in the know. heed my warnings now lest you fall victim to the cable repair man later...

did i ask too much, more than a lot...

i realize the difference between a “need” and a “want”. webster hasn’t failed me in clearly defining the former is a lack of something requisite and the latter more in the realm of desire. but truly, the line between the two verbs is so incredibly finite. it struck me as i drove home from an errand last night, in a moment of silence so perfect i wish it was something that could be purchased and taken out for use at any time, that the things i need and the things i want seem to be quite clouded lately. i can’t determine, honestly, those that i crave most of all, because I crave them all.

some of it’s silly, granted. i'm, at the core, a rather silly girl. others are much deeper and more important.

so humor me, if you will, for a moment, while i share with you some of the needs/wants that flood my heart.

* a really great laugh.
* the whining to stop.
* a day where I don’t have to hear about the latest chapters in a world of anna nicoles or britneys.
* someone to say i'm wonderful.
* a week of pure “nothingness” in order to read my books.
* to do that thing he and i talked about.
* my word to be law in a kingdom slowly being overthrown by children.
* someone to braid my ponytails.
* less stuff.
* my friend to ask about me after a two hour, take no breaths discourse on all her woes.
* that same friend actually listening when i start to respond and then not turning the discussion back on her.
* never to have watch the first response home pregnancy test commercial with the simulated peeing on a stick again. ever. seriously.
* to not always be the giver.
* a decision.
* a plan.
* the ability to know which one from the above two really needs to be made first.
* a thank you from the girl at panera from whom i graciously purchased my coffee.
* a gift so unexpected and yet so perfect you keep pulling it out to admire it.
* to not get used to being ignored.
* the “manammal,” his perky wife, their two cubs and the four-legged crap factory who live next door to me to move away. silently. in the night.
* the neighbors who live on the other side of me to realize we’re not living on “fraternity row” anymore and to move away, too. seriously. the couch and old foosball table on your front porch? classy. take them and all the cars coming and going back to keg night.
* the ability to just let things go. heh…yeah…
* to not be the first one who always says it.
* the “mystery check” to show up in our mailbox. today would be good.
* a picture i love.
* to be thought of, if even for just a moment, as stunning.
* no more easy discussions.
* a real kiss.
* a bra and pair of shoes you don’t even know you have on.
* to know that heaven is not actually the idea of bliss just mentioned above.
* that matter to go away.
* an answer to the question i keep asking.
* a moment of blissful clarity.
* an hour (or more) of honest to god mattress gripping.
* an extended stay somewhere warm and beautiful and enriched with amazing company.
* a husband who flirts first.
* a husband who, at the very least, flirts back.
* a night out without my children.
* a happy ending.

the girl's a super freak

so it's monday and i'm coming down from a lazy attitude this past weekend (the good? caught up with jack bauer and affirmed my support for what he's doing to protect the world from terrorists. the bad? the grocery store and laundry). because i'm allowing the lazy to ooze out a bit longer, i'm going to attempt to tackle this tag from youdamom!, who asked me to list ten weird facts about myself. these will either charm you so much you'll instantly fall in love with me, or prompt you to think "that poor, poor girl..."

-- when i talk to myself i tend to do so in my head. in a dramatic scottish accent. often to another "character" designed to bounce my thoughts off of or to talk me down. with outwardly displayed hand gestures that perhaps scare off the people around me who wonder why i'm moving my limbs. the scottish accent thing? i think i just do that because i'd like to get up on the guy who plays desmond on "lost".

-- i have well over a 1,500 songs on my ipod. a handful of them are for my kids. however, when i'm in the mini by myself and one of their songs comes up on the shuffle, i don't fast forward it. because you can kick ass to the naked mole rap from "kim possible" on a drive home from work some late friday night. i'm just saying. and i'm not above cranking the volume on the hamster dance.

-- like prince, i've never seen a pretty girl look so tough. when i hear this song, i only sing along to the prince part. this may or may not be because i have a snarky little thing about sheena easton. so color me peach and black.

-- i cannot roll my tongue, whistle for crap and look like i got poked in the eye with a large stick when trying to wink. attempting all three at the same time looks like a medical condition one would be unable to recover from. it could also be a good means of fending off attackers.

-- i have a friend who, when he calls, induces a pavlovian response in me. as soon as his telephone number flashes on the caller idea, i run to the bathroom because i know the moment he says hello to me, i'll be laughing hysterically and the potential to wet myself would be far too embarrassing. sometimes our calls are 20 minutes of breathless laughter and then we say our goodbyes.

-- when stopped at a stoplight, i like to think myself a bad ass ready to challenge the poor soul waiting in their vehicle next to mine. i'll crack the passenger side window a bit and give a little glance over my huge sunglasses at the unsuspecting victim. maybe give them a little nod that says "just you wait, baby..." because nothing screams bad ass like a frazzled looking suburban mom, thrashing to "the naked mole rap," guzzling her third diet mountain dew out of a 44 ounce kum & go cup, chauffeuring the kids in a used dodge minivan that must get passed out to everyone who has ever considered having a child.

-- when i read magazines, i scour them cover to cover and pick out the one article i most want to read, then read around it, saving the favored article (usually about a person or persons i'm fond of - i.e. u2) for last. that's not so much weird as just really kind of stupid.

-- when i cook, i find myself pretending i'm the host of a food television program. i'll address some imaginery television camera or studio audience who are hanging on my every word as i'm preparing some delicacy. which usually comes out of a box and only requires water and an egg.

-- speaking of food, i've shared my quirky eating habits before. but i failed to mention then how i tackle a piece of cake. i place the slice of a layer cake on a plate and then eat all the cake portion out from the frosting portion, saving that delicious tidbit for last. cake simply gets in the way of the frosting. as i get older, i may skip the whole birthday cake thing and just stick candles into a tub of frosting.

-- i know the lyrics to every song ever released (and some not released) by the monkees. let's just say that one summer in my ill-advised youth, i had no truly productive hobbies.

there it is. obviously, from reading this, the only thing that can be deduced is i have a thing for music and people who don't actually exist anywhere but in my mind. and a potential bladder control problem no doubt impacted by the 132 ounces of diet mountain dew i sometimes take in in a given day.

ah, but you fell madly in love with me, right?! or is that, too, just all in my mind...

chapter one - story time for simians

every wednesday morning, my youngest son and i have a date at the library for preschool story time. the "oh so energetic she must not have any kids of her own yet" girl who leads the program lugs a huge stack of themed books in (seriously. how many kids books are there with elephants as the protagonist, and why in the hell am i not a children's book author? well, aside from the random swearing, but that's what an editor is for) and intersperses each story with an active little ditty that has us all waving our fingers and shaking our asses. which is fun when i'm in my kitchen or living room and the ipod has given me, oh, let's say "buffalo stance," but not so much when it's about monkeys jumping on a bed. i'd have me some monkey ass if, in reality, i came home and found that crap happening in my house. damn monkeys jumping around, falling off and getting hurt. no matter how many damn times i told them not to be jumping on the bed.

but i digress. and note that, in human form, this kind of behavior is already happening at my house. usually when i can't hear or see the simians because i'm in the kitchen in my buffalo stance (wearing padded bras, sipping beer through straws).

so we're several weeks into this story time date. i have to usually psyche myself up for it because, for one, it involves a weekly craft project. truth be told, despite rumors of candy grams and such, i'm not a crafty person. i do not own a glue stick. googly eyes scare me. you'd be lucky to find construction paper here.

but mostly, i have to pep talk it in the mirror because of one little boy who attends.

let me preface this little rant by saying no, my progeny are not perfect. there's no such thing. if there were, i'd have graduated from writing children's books to family and childcare guides and have my own talk show by now. however, when my children act up in public in a manner so utterly unacceptable, i'm aware of my role as a mother to sneak in and reinforce better options. short of that, we'll leave.

but this boy who causes me to dread date morning with my own son may not be getting similar guidance. well. ok. he's not. that fact is quite obvious as his mother sits oblivious to the fact that her son is tearing through the room and truly jumping over the other kids seated quietly on their carpet squares while OSESMNHAKOHOY girl reads them books. Sometime within his triathlon, he'll begin screaming out responses to the books. or derogatory comments to the librarian (a trait i find rich at the age of 5). all usually right about the time his hurdle jumping connects with some poor girl's head and that girl's mother shoots the death ray look at this little spider monkey's mom.

at which maybe she'll respond. if "now, honey..." whispered very quietly and without a lot of motivation is a response. more often than not, she's reading the newspaper.

last week, this boy set his sights on my son. fabulous. because my son is pulled into the orbit of happy people pretty easily, i kept him contained as soon as the potential for disaster looked like it could come up. and he listened to me. because honestly, for the most part, he knows that's what he's supposed to do and he knows how he's to behave when we're at the library.

he also knows he's not supposed to get within millimeters of another kid's face and start blowing raspberries and spitting directly toward their mouth or nose. which is what this other kid proceeded to do. to my son. when my son was simply sitting there, wanting to listen to the sixth story about elephants.

"now honey..." came the quiet whisper from his mother when (finally!), after the second serious spit bath prompted me to scoot my soon a bit further and say something all sing-songy like "we shouldn't share our germs with our friends!" to the other little boy.

of course, it didn't work. after the library visit, i couldn't wait to get my son home and disinfect his face and change his clothes. and of course, this weekend, he developed a nice, raspy cold. perfect.

so i took him to the library this past wednesday with my own goal in mind. a goal other than learning what trucks would say if they could talk (eight talking truck books?!). no. i was going to allow my son to unleash his glory on this other little boy because paybacks should be paved in kleenex and children's tylenol. but of course, the other little boy wasn't there.

it was the first time i've ever missed him. but i'll get over it soon because next wednesday will be here before you know it and the evil will return. i've no doubt.

now honey, it's time to go help my son hack up a lung.

river deep, mountain high

for never busting out with what happened on "heroes" before i can watch it, even though i pull the "was it?? no! don't tell me! ok, damn! was it?! no...don't tell me!" routine on you.

for letting me sleep in on the weekends and waking me up in some unique fashion when it gets to be after 10 a.m., and you fear i'll sleep the day away (though i suspect you know i'm faking being asleep by then and am merely waiting for your return to bed).

for pretty much taking the reigns on giving the boys their baths since they were babies so i can simply sit down a moment.

for being the person our sons adore. seriously. many days i am of the opinion you are the sun they orbit around.

for working so i am able to stay home and help raise our family, for never saying "when are you going to get a real job?" because you know i actually have one now, and for never outwardly stressing about situations this one-income lifestyle can raise even when you see me freaking out about it.

for still grabbing my ass when i'm standing at the bathroom counter getting ready for the day or leaning over the kitchen counter eating peanut butter toast and reading the newspaper.

for never busting me when you get in the mini after i've been in there and nearly get blown out from the sonic boom of the radio i've left cranked to 40.

for shoveling the snow, getting me ice cream when i simply raise my eyebrow and suggest it, and for the imperfect (and ok, really annoying) way you fold underwear.

but mostly for putting up with me. you may or may not read this. i have no idea. but if you do, here you go. we're not the best at saying it much, but we hopefully both know it.

for these and many more significant things.

and seriously, especially for the "heroes" thing...

you spin me right round baby, right round like a record

three months after my husband and i met, we celebrated our first valentine's day together. the entire week, i scavenged my brain for clever ideas, exhausted a number of glue sticks and concocted more clever crafts than a room full of preschoolers to prove my love. fyi...a love note with candy bars glued to it, their brand names substituting for hot and sexy verbs? check. try it. it works. thank goodness for reece's pieces. that's all i'm saying.

the culmination of my week's work was a mix tape filled with songs, both cheesy and classic, that all had the word "love" in the title. "my love." "crazy little thing called love." "don't hold back your love." every possible song, good and bad. i even prolonged the agony with phil collins' "groovy kind of love," and then wrote out the titles on red construction paper, substituting hearts for every "o" and placed it in the cassette case.

this gift proved to be the hardest to complete. filling a 180 minute cassette with love songs when i was listening to angst-ridden, emo performers was tough. anything off alanis morissette's "jagged little pill" wasn't really going to cut it.

i was reminded of this cassette tape this past week as i finished reading a beautiful biography called "love is a mix tape" by rob sheffield. one song at a time, as the subtitle states, he takes us on a journey of love and loss, recounting how he and his girlfriend met over the common thread of a song, built a marriage with a diverse soundtrack of music from the changing period of the 90s, and how he had to relearn to love the music they shared after her sudden death. each chapter begins with a track listing culled from the insert of a cassette case. diverse titles and artists that had me recalling which tracks i own, on my own cassettes (i still have many, though no way to play them now), or making a list from them of the songs i want to explore.

at the nucleus of the book is the loss of his wife, but her death is just a small part of the story. while it celebrates her, it also celebrates the importance of music, and that's what i loved about this book. music is something universal to all of us. i wonder if we learn to love music from an early age, when our parents talked to us in the sing-song voice all parents serenade their babies with. it connects us to people. we celebrate and mourn with it. it helps us pass the time. moves us. makes us think. it helps us to make friends. it becomes the soundtrack to significant events in our lives.

some of my friends became my friends purely because we were able to cut the ice after hearing a song by a band or artist we both liked. if one didn't know about the songs the other was gushing about, the offer to make a tape - to further test the budding friendship, really - was always extended. i still have cassettes made for me by friends from college. it's from these people i learned about the smiths, the alarm, concrete blonde, 10,000 maniacs and the cowboy junkies. i may no longer have contact with the people, but i always have an appreciation for them because of the world they opened for me.

music reminds me of the people i've loved. i know it's cheesy, but hearing the first notes of aerosmith's "sweet emotion" flings me back into my first post-college apartment. i'd be up in the middle of the night, talking on the phone to my then-boyfriend, and we'd both have our televisions tuned to mtv. every night, usually around 2 a.m., "sweet emotion" would play and would soon be followed by van halen's "right now." in between long distance (and expensive!) declarations of our love for each other, we'd dissect the bands playing on mtv. it made us feel like we were together on that couch. to bridge our gap, i'd make tapes of these songs for my boyfriend and include them in our weekly letters.

this particular boyfriend introduced me, reluctantly, to country music. not the new age of country that had boomed, but the classics. while i still can't say i love much of that genre, because it meant so much to him, i made every attempt to embrace it. in response, he conceded my passion for u2 was great and attended a concert with me. we drove the hour to the venue and played my cassette of "achtung baby" over and over. that night, under the open skies and the giant flashing billboards on stage, fueled by the cassette we'd listened to prior, he became a u2 fan. from then on, every letter from him included a lyric from "the masters, paul and dave..." that he'd relate to our relationship.

when we broke up a few months after that concert, i had to break up with "achtung baby" for awhile, too. eventually, i slowly introduced it back. i couldn't give it up entirely. it's a fantastic album. but even today, because of what that music meant to me at that time in my life, i still have to listen to it alone.

today, my ipod serves as my mix tape. sure, there are some among the more than 1,700-plus currently stored within it that don't strike a chord beyond the fact that i simply just like the song. but then there are many that, as soon as the first notes start, remind me of someone or make me think "wow. i'm so glad they recommended this to me!" (a thank you to j for recommending some really great additions to the shuffle lately, btw. there's not a lot of my chemical romance played on the radio smack dab in the midwest, but because we talked about it, and seem to have similar tastes in music, i have to say i'm quite fond of "i'm not okay").

the mix tape i made for my husband is now tucked away in a storage box of things i hold onto. one day our kids may cringe when they see it (here's hoping we'll advance so much as a society by then they'll have no way of hearing some of the selections). my gift from him on our first valentine's day? an engagement ring. shortly after he gave it to me, we started talking about the songs we wanted performed at our wedding. and yes, one of those cheesy songs from the mix tape i gave him was the first song we picked.

'the book of love is long and boring...'

i have no real strong opinions about valentine's day, but i do have a front row seat to the argument that it is a consumer-driven holiday. from what i've seen from the people shopping at the bookstore lately, the apparent hope is that february 14th will be a passionate little adventure, a day bathed in sex. lots of position of the day manuals, guides to getting it on, and sex coupons are being purchased this week.

i want to tell all the men and women (and it's an even mix so far) who come up to a register and plop down laura corn's "101 nights of grrreat sex" (those extra r's are there because you're apparently supposed to growl at your partner. it's so sexy.) to put their money away. it's not welcome at the store.

except management would frown upon that and honestly, i don't need the hassle of the "let's be good employees, ok?" talk.

i wish i could warn these shoppers that the $30 plus tax (less if you have a membership with us! management does like me to plug that every chance i get...) they're plunking down on that book has the potential to rapidly turn around and mock them. instead, i look for signs they have a conscientious nature. a willingness to go the distance.

"101 nights of grrreat sex" is a marathon, not a race.

my husband and i hit a wall about one and a half miles in after i purchased that book long ago and far away. today, that happy little tome is stuffed in an attache case buried in our bedroom closet. i want to warn the customers who select it and happily bring it to the register, all eager and giggly, to wait. just wait, because you'll see. "101 nights of grrreat sex" will end up shoved in a drawer or stashed in the back of a closet, never to see the light of day again until you're both dead and your loved ones are cleaning out your belongings and stumble upon it. it will be at that time they'll either recoil in horror at the idea of the now deceased once having sex, or sadly shake their heads at the fact that there are 100 of the 101 sexy, seductive secrets still encased in their sealed pages.

like what might happen at my house. i'm just saying.

we barely ripped any of those pages out. that inspiration business can get pricey. and honestly, i'm going to get the same sex with or without it. plus, i have two young children. some days i'll take whatever i can get as long as the discussion leading up to it doesn't revolve around what the kids did that day and my husband doesn't whine when i tell him he can't have a juice box.

honestly, i'd recommend ms. corn write a book for parents wanting to reconnect. it's not as sexy to take a bubble bath with your mate when one of you has to scrub the tub first and find a place to put the suave bubblegum scented, no tears shampoo and squeaky ducks.

or maybe it's just me who thinks so.

irregardless, if these people are intent on buying this book, i could hook them up on the cheap if they don't mind stopping by my house and store management doesn't get a whiff of my backroom dealings.

and maybe, just maybe i could get them to clean out my tub and hide the toy ducks so i could practice what the one slightly used book preaches!

and that would be grrreat...

there is no 'i' in 'team'

if you've been reading me for a few months or even few hours, you may know by now that i associate with some diverse characters. i hate to use this made-up term for my girlfriends, but i think "semi-prudish" may be accurate. one of my best friends can't say the word "penis" and another freaks when she discovers i got naked for my first massage experience. so i thought it was entirely accurate.

but after a weekend with my girlfriends, i've concluded that i may have to rethink that whole "semi-prudish" description.

let me set the scene for you - saturday night in a nondescript, none too classy suburban metro hotel. three girls and several empty wine cooler bottles (don't ask. it wasn't my choice!) are all now prone around the room. talk, as it's wont to do, turns to sex (i told you. we can't get together without someone bringing it up). we've dissected the topic of simultaneous orgasms and faked orgasms (guess which one happens more than the other...). the tally of who initiates sex more often is winding down when suddenly, "ms. ach! you got naked!" bursts forth with the following:

"you know, don't you, that when we were in college, she and i had a threesome with him, right?"

were we conducting a train, you would have heard it coming to a screeching halt on the tracks to avoid hitting the giant thought bubble screaming "tell us more!" that was stalled there.

(to fill in the mad libs here, "she" is one of our other best girlfriends not in attendance last weekend and "he" is the then-boyfriend and soon to be ex-husband of the girl who dropped this potential penthouse nugget on us).

"well, i probably should say we had a threesome, but we weren't all doing stuff with each other at the same time," my forthcoming friend added quickly.

"um...wait a minute right there," i countered. "i'm not skilled in the friendly art of threesomes, but at what point does it cease becoming a threesome if you're not all dipping into the punch bowl at the same time?"

seriously. think about it. a team relies on each player to be successful on the court or the field. a quartet isn't a quartet if the bass player decides he's going to hang around and look at the cute chicks crowding the stage while the other three band members pick up the slack. can this experience my friend had while in college truly be classified a threesome?

because i love to dissect an experience with my friends with those of our group who can't be in attendance, i immediately called our token guy friend sunday afternoon when the girls disbanded to relay this information to him. after we did our customary "can you imagine?" and "who do you think brought it up in the first place?" dissection, this dear man concluded the following:

"honey, i wouldn't even have called this a threesome. this sounds like a classic case of voyeurism!"

"well, then," i teased. "wait until i tell you what she and 'not as prudish as she painted herself to be, voyeurism is fun' friend did together when it was just the two of them..."

so here's the rub...

"so..." my friend drawled out as we got in the car. "didja get naked?"

"damn right i got naked," i cheered. "girl, i was doffing clothes before the door latched."

"no!" she screamed, looking at me with a mix of glee and disbelief. "you did not get naked!"

"honey, listen," i replied. "i shaved my legs for this. i shaved lots of things for this. if you think i wasn't going to take it to its origins, you're sadly mistaken, my friend. if i'm going to let someone i just met seduce me with their gentle voice and promises of hot bags, then i'm in. it's all access."

"besides," i continued as we left the massage therapy school. "i believe the proper term for it is 'getting comfortable.'

i got so comfortable, in fact, that i believe losing my massage virginity this past saturday has put me on the path to being an utter massage whore. good heavens, whoever invented the practice of allowing another person to put you face down on a table so they could run their slippery hands all over your "as comfortable as you wish" body should be awarded a humanitarian prize. a gold-plated lotion holster, perhaps.

i'd even forgive them the apparent massage therapist code that states crazy ass 'atmospheric' music (or worse...enya!) must be played while the rubbing commences.

you may recall that i got together this weekend with some girlfriends. our plan was to "debrief and detox" our way through the two days we were together, and on the agenda was massages. not being one to stand in the way of order, i totally debriefed when my massage therapist stepped around the counter and called my name.

ok, not immediately. i waited until she took me in the back, plied me with chocolates, asked me what my expectations of a massage were, and told me she'd only touch my butt if i asked her to before i dropped my panties.

yes, i gave up my massage innocence to a woman, and nothing could have made me happier.

wait! something did make me happier, actually. when she referred to my ass as my "back porch," that made me happy. happy like a giggly school girl. i've never in my life heard an ass referred to as such, and now i'm totally planning on seducing my husband on valentine's day with that label alone. i've already been jotting down porch references to be prepared. it'll work. it really doesn't take much.

but back to the woman. vicky. sweet as can be, like a grandma. that should probably be creepy, because she could have easily been my grandma, but i tried not to think too much about that as she was getting ready to work on my back porch.

the woman was magic! of course, i have no basis of comparison, but if all massages are as good as the one i got on saturday, then i'm sad i've gone this far in life and not ever had one. cripes, my husband won't even rub my feet! not even when i put them on his back porch and playfully ask. vicky politely and gently talked me through the process and coached me on how to breath as she reached some insanely tense spots in my back and shoulders. if kissing her wouldn't have been frowned upon and resulted in the immediate cessation of the massage, i'd have sat right up and planted one on her for taking away the stress of my life in the 90 glorious minutes we shared together.

after 45 minutes totally devoted to the back side of my body, vicky got me in place to attend to the front and within minutes, i was asleep. seriously. not that deep rapid eye movement kind of sleep, but that gentle, light sleep where your brain tells you you're this close to going totally under, but it's impossible to pull yourself fully back out. i caught myself damn near purring like a kitten a couple of times. after another 45 minutes of bliss (i assume. seriously, i was on a different zone), grandma vicky actually had to give me a little shake to let me know our time together was up.

so like the first time i had sex, now that i've gotten a little taste of what this good life is all about, i'm totally wanting to be all over it. if i could find a way to swing the $45 for each 90 minute session, i'd be exclusive with vicky every couple of weeks.

kind of like the first time i had sex, actually.

but without the part where money was exchanged. and the part where it was with a woman.

"i still can't believe you took off all your clothes," my friend continued as we drove off, enroute to go get facials (where i kept my clothes on. except for my shirt and bra. for some reason, they got talked off me for that). "didn'tcha feel all weird and stuff?"

"not at all," i countered. "and honey, remember. i know you. you got naked for a lot less than a back rub back in the day. i believe you also called it 'getting comfortable.'"

"make it last forever, friendship never ends..."

saturday morning, i'm checking into a hotel for the weekend. two blissful days.

without my husband.

definitely without my children.

but here's the catch. i won't be alone.

if you're sitting in front of your computer right now and are reading this, you obviously know that you're not going to be there with me (though for some of you, i imagine a journey to my area is really nothing more taxing than a short flight or a leisurely drive, so if you want to hunt me down, start your engines).

so who will be with me?

three of my best girlfriends. confidantes since our college days.

so naturally, every idea you have about four women untethered from their wifely duties and motherly responsibilities, entrenched in a hotel room together, is bound to come true.

pillow fights.
giggling.
playfully wrestling each other across the beds.
sucking rich chocolates and dripping fruit juices off each other's fingers.
oiling each other up with exotic potions and creams.
sipping goblets brimming with champagne in the jacuzzi.
snapping compromising photos.
forming a line in the shower as we wash each other's hair and soap up each other's backs.
swapping bras and panties because someone else's is just too damn cute.
or wearing nothing at all.

this will all, of course, be done in slow motion as the heady perfume of our musky dew ripens in the air. there's a distinct possibility that we could be a living, breathing whitesnake video before our 30 hours together us up.

or at least the spice girls. fyi...i sell it like ginger spice with the kick ass rack, but i rock the pigtails of one demure baby spice. blend those two together and go about your sordid little fantasy.

ok. whatever. the weekend probably won't be entirely like that. personally, i don't plan to offer my panties up for trade (they're already committed to some tossing, anyway), but i'm not going to look down upon my friends if they so choose to do so. it's probably a good bet we're not going to prance naked around each other, either. so much for those photos, eh?

there will probably be sex talk. we're girls (we're always referred to as "girls" when we're sans the husbands and kids we normally bring to the party), so we have to give it up a little bit. it won't be about the sex we have with our husbands, though, because, well, honestly, i know their spouses as said "husbands and dads" and that's just nasty. so it will be more along the vein of "remember that one guy..."

and there will definitely be giggling. again, purely because we're girls.

ok. one last thing. if you're still hung up on that whole kickass rack/killer pigtail fantasy, i'll toss you a bone. if it helps your little fantasy at all, you can imagine me whispering "i really, really really wanna zigazig ah."

i'll be here when and if you snap out of it.

and i hope you do. because i want to know what you think "zigazig ah" is...