hard time on the cul-de-sac

So, God forgive me, I Tivo'd Paris Hilton's interview on Larry King (hereafter to be known as the worst interviewer since my best friend in freshman journalism) last night. I don't typically feed into the frenzy that are these "celebrities by virtue of being born" things, but I was curious to hear her speak passionately about how jail time had transformed her into a caring, mature humanitarian. Ten minutes into the interview, I realized my face was twisted into a look that prompted my son to ask "Wha? Do you smell something bad?" when he passed through the room.

Another ten minutes and I began to see some pretty striking similarities between Paris' life in the clink and my own:

Paris' jail life:

• Hours of stagnating isolation, the likes of which gave her panic attacks
• Boring lunches of cold sandwiches and juice day after grueling day
• Barely warm dinners consisting of what was described as "prison slop"
• Visits limited to once weekly 30 minutes sessions
• Interaction with those incarcerated with her carried out in passing
• One hour of free time daily to shower, make telephone calls and shop the prison commissary

My suburban life:

• A willingness to fake a panic attack if it might provide me a bit of isolation. Paris endured 21 days (but refers to it as "three and a half weeks" because that sounds much more intense and worthy of a prison tattoo) with no one around. Give me 16 days (or two and a third weeks, homes) and I could finish a book, enjoy a pleasant nap, avoid getting shanked while in the shower, and conquer the world
• Lunch time, Marla! What'll it be today? Peanut butter? Peanut butter? Say, do you have any peanut butter?
• Dinner? Sounds about the same. And those juvies in lock-up on the second level sure do bitch about it, so I think we're on the same track as Paris.
• I tend to avoid "outsiders," to be honest. Some I encounter really would benefit from having a glass barrier between us.
• Here in Cell Block 6, we also have this "communication in passing" thing down pretty well. But bonus! There's prison sex every once in awhile.
• An hour a day to yourself?! Cripes, I'm lucky to get 25 minutes! I've actually made telephone calls WHILE IN the shower. Book me a 12 X 8 cell, pronto!

The interview came to a crashing conclusion after a Taoist reading of Paris' jailhouse diaries (no doubt we'll be selling these masterpieces in about six months), and after The Worst Interviewer Since My Best Friend in Freshman Journalism actually asked "Is it as gross as we think it is?" when hoping to find out if Paris had been strip searched upon booking.

"Yeah, it's pretty gross having to stand in a room and take your clothes off in front of someone you don't know," Paris replied, apparently oblivious to thought that the woman conducting the strip search is probably as acutely aware of what Paris looks like naked as most of the free world also is.

That part of the interview was probably my favorite because it didn't make me throw up a little bit in my mouth the way the parts where she talked about how she "grew from this experience" and wants to be a good role model for all the girls she heard from during this troubling time did. My second favorite was when she seemed to panic (and it's hard to catch, because truly, her zombie expression rarely changes) when asked her favorite passage from the Bible she said she read daily while behind bars.

Tonight she's probably at bars.

Lesson learned.

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

As an end note, should I ever have an opportunity to serve in a women's prison, I am gonna kick ass, Wendy O. Williams "Reform School Girls" style. And I want Nanette to serve in the cell next to me because I've got a raging crush on her and we can be each other's bitches. What'cha say, my friend? Life on the lam? Or should we get caught and then make up our list for approved conjugal visits?

sometimes i have to put my pride aside

So here's a secret about me. I dig talking during sex. I'm a fan of the well-intentioned, perfectly appropriate to the occasion chit chat. Whereas I don't tend to read directions when I'm learning something new, trust that I'm oh so happy getting a step-by-step, "put Tab A into Slot B" discourse on what you're planning to do and how you're going to do it when sex is in play.

With that secret out, let me now tell you a little secret about my husband. He doesn't quite have the gift for gab that I do. Oh, he's getting better, but it's still a work in progress. So he should be quite thankful my patented "sex move" had worked and I was already naked and in position Saturday afternoon when he leaned in, gave me a smile and saw my anticipation for his words swell nicely.

Because instead of some insanely sexy prose, I got this.

That's right.

I got the "Cornholio" routine. Complete with the Beavis voice.

After he repeated it (because in my disbelief I whipped my head around and asked him what in the hell he'd just said), he laughed. At himself. Like Butthead.

So another secret about me. I'm apparently easy. I never actually thought I was, but when he finished laughing and I'd gotten quite dizzy from shaking my head in disbelief, I shrugged my naked shoulders, gave him this, and told him to give me his tool.

Huh huh. I said tool.

We're so stupid. At least we have each other to score with.

next up - I uncover the ark!

The answer to the age old question:

"Why can't you two just sit down, be still and be quiet for five minutes?!"

Shocking, isn't it! Who'd have thought that copious amounts of sugar, food coloring and chemicals would provoke sudden and uncontrollable outbursts in young children cooped up together for the past few days? Oh, don't let that high and mighty "100% Vitamin C" shout-out on that juice bottle fool you, my friends. Cripes, don't let me calling it "juice" fool you!

I quite anticipate being up for many prestigious awards in the wake of this finding. Look for me on all the news programs in the coming days. It will be on those platforms, of course, that I'll say this type of stuff isn't ingested a lot around my house (and by "a lot" I pretty much mean "I let three or four hours pass between servings"). Today, in hopes of getting these two spider monkeys to chill out a bit, we've been swimming for nearly three hours and the begging in the backseat on the way home couldn't be quashed by the deliciously perfect arrival of this track on the iPod. So, the way I see it, my little Skeletors earned a treat. Tonight, to celebrate my super smart scientific brain, we'll probably have chicken nuggets (cough) and fake ice cream to celebrate!

But for me? Fix me a Molotov. All this scientific research at the Kum & Go has me spent. Plus I need to gear up for my next research project, tentatively titled "Why do you two think you have to be up and out of bed at the crack of dawn?"

'i wish the real world would just stop hassling me'

"Mom, do you have to go to work in this?" my oldest quizzed, one eye trained on the window to watch the truly torrential downpour we were receiving Friday afternoon, the other on me in what I'm taking as a genuine display of concern for my well being.

At least at that point in the conversation.

"Yep," I replied, my own eyes trained on the storm outside and a skyward plea for the electricity to remain on to enable the sump pump to keep churning away to keep our basement from flooding.

"Well, will you get to come home early? Do you think they'll close the store down? What if there is a tornado?" he continued, by now touching my heart with his thoughtfulness.

"Probably not, kiddo. If there does happen to be a tornado, they have a plan for us. I'll be OK, and I'll see you in the morning. Just like every other night when I work," I assured him.

"See, this is exactly why I think I NEVER want a real job!" he said, with exactly that much emphasis and with a hint of creepy disdain in his voice as he choked out that "real job" part.

Honestly, for about 60 seconds, my future flashed before me and all I could see was this boy - this boy whose only "real job" to date has been to put his dirty clothes in his clothes hamper and pick up his toys (a job, I might add, he'd have been fired from LONG ago based on his poor performance reviews but whom we apparently keep around because we have a quota to maintain) becoming a teenager and then a man. Still living in my house. Still shooting baskets in my driveway. Still turning up his nose at whatever I tell him we're having for dinner. Bringing home some girl he says is his wife now and a plan to share that bunk bed in his bedroom. Still thinking money is this little plastic card his Dad and I whip out like gunslingers at the grocery store and then fret about every 30 days when the bill is due to arrive.

I actually saw him as not fulfilling the true reason we had children in the first place, which is to take care of us in our old age. I think I actually hunched over and shuddered a bit at that mental image. It's bad enough I'll no doubt need to work until I'm 85 as it is, and now, because of some insane thunderstorm, my work-a-day out was being eliminated by this slacker boy I'd given life to.

"Well, OK, I mean, I'd probably get a job just so I could buy toys and candy," he concluded, maybe after sensing the little tear that escaped me as I snapped out of my though, but more likely after having done a mental checklist of all the Star Wars action figures he has yet to possess.

"Sounds like a plan, bud," I replied. Later, when the rain had slowed and I went to tell him goodbye, I told him I had to jump on my purple unicorn to gallop through the cotton candy clouds, all the while eating Snicker bars and peanut M&M's while not gaining an ounce and making out with Bono and Mike Rowe between delicious bites.

"Because those clothes you never put in your clothes hamper?" I said to him. "Yeah, they don't just appear when the elves don't feel like getting real jobs."

Note: I'm quite sure this was a stellar lesson in economics. In addition, I didn't actually mention that part about making out with Bono and Mike Rowe to my 9 1/2 year old son, but you can damn well bet I thought about it a lot while I was standing around bored at a cash register that night while covering a break for some teenage kid who probably thought they never needed a real job before, either.

all boy

I'm quite mad for these boys.

Technically, I'm quite mad for all the boys in my house. There isn't one of them who has the sole lock on me, and it's not just me who is the charming one around here.

(But I do my best to make them think that! As the only girl, I gotta do my thing!)

But this kid can make my heart burst. He's a performer. He'd sweep through a curtain with true flair and perform for you should there be one. There should be, really. It really can be quite a show.

The bandage is one of six at various points on his body meant to soothe the battle wounds of a kindergarten physical. Now three days out and worn, he refuses to remove them. Once again, he wins.

The doctor visit did actually make a bit of my heart burst. I watched these boys of mine step on scales and answer questions and make faces in the exam room mirror (please, even I do that when visiting the doctor!) and it felt like I had handed away their time as infants and now I have these two children. Children who are not babies. Who talk back and are messy and can smell strange and like things I can't possibly understand and who sometimes really do burst my heart. I'm giving this one up to the world in a few months, and honestly, that thought sometimes stops me in my tracks.

On the way home from the doctor visit, after my oldest son bravely hopped back on the exam table for an inoculation he didn't know he would have to get in order to show his younger brother the four (FOUR!!) he was going to receive was not so bad, I drove without the radio going, no interruptions, just so I could listen to them in the backseat. They hashed out their battle scars. Whose shots were the worst to endure. How much braver one of them was in the face of those giant needle wielding nurses who bore down on them just moments ago. Who got the better bandage. It became a contest I was called in to mediate. When I informed them of the many shots I had taken to the face in the past and how I'd bravely endured them, they conferred quickly from their posts and declared it impossible that I could be so strong in the face of such adversity.

"Don't you realize, silly woman, that what we just experienced was the epitome of needle warfare the likes of which no man has ever experienced before nor likely ever will?!" they exclaimed clearly through the simple use of the phrase "uh uh!"

I let them think what they want, of course. There's no arguing with those two. And I'd really rather not. Because even though I am charming, they always win.

Usually.

And that's not so bad.

which came first? chicken limbo or my insanity...

File this under "Don't make promises you don't intend to keep..."

I've sworn to my youngest that we could play "Chicken Limbo" today. Today. After putting it off for the past several days. And nights. So today we have. Many times. Honestly, now, I feel as though I've come down with some bird disease.

At least that's what I'm telling him in order to stop the madness that is filling my brain from listening to this thing with it's loud chorus of "bawk, bawk, ba, ba, ba, bawk, bawk!"

Trust me, if you had this game (and if you want it, I'll ship it off to you on the cheap - or the cheep, if you will, to really choke this chicken metaphor - please...I'm not above begging you...), you'd be hearing that barnyard opera in your head. You'd be singing it yourself while doing something mundane like picking up the kitchen or folding laundry. Because I have.

Oh, and then this plastic rooster, this inanimate object who thinks it's the cock of the walk down in your basement, yeah, it's going to mock you when you demonstrate how inflexible you are past the age of five. It laughs at you tauntingly, like you're the girl in the locker room still wearing the training bra in 10th grade while all the other girls are shopping at the Victoria's Secret at the mall. And it makes a noise akin to a fart. I'm sure the manufacturers want you to believe it's just the chicken blowing you a mocking raspberry from it's jaunty beak. But it sounds like a fart, and therefore, the boys aren't even TRYING to play limbo correctly. They just want to make it mock and fart, fart and mock.

"The rules!" I cry. "We must follow the rules!"

"Haa Haa! Got you! Blaphapa (or however a toy raspberry/fart sounds)," this Foghorn Leghorn wannabe says. And you shut up, because seriously! Look at the way it has it's delectable chicken wings jauntily on it's hips and that look of madness in it's eyes. That fowl looks like it's gonna cut you if you turn your back on it. Or peck your eyes out just as you think you're going to make it unscathed under the lowest limbo setting.

And wouldn't that add some kick ass drama to the game...

My next promise is to sell this game at a garage sale. I will definitely keep that one.

'you've got the brawn, i've got the brains...'

My day, in a nutshell - a nutshell that has been de-nutted and found it's treasure plucked out and encased in the chocolaty goodness and candy coated shell (either red or green, I'm not picky) that is and always will be the greatest piece of candy in the world - a peanut M&M:

In the bank drive-up lane, I've just sent my deposit consisting of several bills and checks to the nice teller in the window.

"Hi, _ _ _ _ _ _, how are you today?" he asks.

"Great! You?," I reply, and small talk ensues as he removes my deposit from the tube from which it scurried in to him. Banter about the weather, new loan programs, and my devastating smile culminates with his own very handsome and 'customer service happy' smile from behind the window that separates us.

"Ok, so tell me. What can I do for you today?" he asks.

I pause, my devastating smile frozen as I do a mental checklist and glance around the mini. Yep. Yep. It would indeed appear that I've already given him my deposit, so that's good. That's key to my purpose here at the bank drive up window today.

I turn back to the window and our smiles mirror the other's.

"Well, I suppose since I've given you all my money in small, unmarked bills, you could think of my deposit slip as a demand note and we could pretend this is a reverse hold up," I say brightly. "If you lean really close to the microphone and whisper 'I'll write your balance at the bottom of the deposit slip and no one gets hurt,' I'd seriously dig that."

A pause behind the teller window, and for a moment, I believe he's considering it. Then I notice his smile tightening just a bit in a fashion that clearly says, "You're not only obviously quite poor, but a smart ass."

"Will you be needing any suckers today, _ _ _ _ _ _?" he asks.

"Oh, aren't we all just great big suckers?" I whisper, with a trace bit of pleasure at being fiscally secure in the smart ass world fueling me.

"Great," I say. "That would be so great."

because he can't help it

When I was a teenager, I'd mow the yard during summer vacation. I didn't do it because I liked it or I'd been asked to do so. I just did it to be helpful. To contribute to household operations. Sometimes when I'd make the final pass along the back of the garage, I'd emerge and spot my dad standing at the gate, waiting for me. When I'd turn the mower off and push it back to it's resting place, dad would meet me halfway and he'd thank me. Then, more often than not, he'd slip $10 or $20 discreetly in my palm.

"Your sister doesn't need to know," he's say, and we'd smirk at each other and I'd nod discreetly to seal our pact.

Dad and I had that kind of relationship. We helped each other out and we didn't make a big deal about it. I was his first born child, and though he's also made me keep this a secret, that fact still carries a great deal of significance with him. I was the child who didn't challenge his every decision. Who did as I was told and simply chose not to get in trouble. I wanted nothing more in my childhood than to please my dad.

I have few tangible memories of my childhood and time spent with my dad. I more remember things like his cars and how I'd hold my breath while seated in the backseat of them so as not to inhale the smoke from his Winstons as we traveled to and from my grandparent's house each weekend. As I got a bit older, I remember dressing up in old wigs and jeweled cat eye glasses my mom had saved, calling myself "Helena," and entertaining him with my fake English accent, flair for the dramatic and lame jokes. Having him finish his dinner and look across the table to request the grand return of "Helena" would cause me to dash quickly from my seat at the table and to my bedroom to throw my act together.

My dad taught me to drive and attempted to make math a subject that would fall naturally in place for me. Neither of these lessons came without their fair share of tears - from both of us. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, shoot a basket and catch a pop fly. When I went to college a whole two hours away from home (it may as well have been to another planet as far as I was concerned then) and seemed to flounder, he encouraged me to seek out a faith and find like minded people. He didn't seem to worry, however, when the people I sought out actually found their faith at nickle beer night at the downtown bar. When the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with changed his plans, it was my dad I called in the middle of the night to cry to.

I could talk to my dad about most anything. Except when my parents fought, and all I wanted to do was beg them to divorce already. Be done with this nonsense. I had no voice then. Even if I did, I don't think it could have been heard in the chaos life turned into at that time in our house. When he'd leave, when my parents would go through yet another in a long and pointless adventure in separating, I'd lose my confidant. I didn't' have the same close relationship with my mom growing up as I did with my dad. It was entirely different. I wanted to please her on a completely different scale. And I certainly didn't wish for her to see how weak I truly could be. The anger in my house growing up, towards the end of things for us all, strained relationships.

It was during the next to last separation that, for some reason, my dad and I had an utter disconnect from the other. More than 13 years later, I can't remember why and can only assume it was truly for the most petty of reasons. I came home for a weekend to stay at my parent's house - now, for all intents and purposes, it was just "mom's house" - and was too busy (maybe too spiteful), too something to see my dad that weekend, even though he'd come to visit me and found me gone. Formally, I told myself I'd call him the next day.

The call to me, however, came first.

The next morning, early, the telephone rang. My uncle, as calmly as he could, informed my mom and me that my dad was in the hospital. My uncle, with whom my dad was living with during this separation, had come home early in the morning to find my dad lying on the living room floor. He'd experienced a massive stroke hours - so many damn hours - before. The hours left unattended and without help impacted his condition even more than the clot that initially had broken free in his body and raced to his brain.

At the time, my dad was 49 years old.

Driving to the hospital, grateful he was still alive, I convinced myself he'd also be fine and we'd talk about this and laugh one day. All the things you think and all the promises you make to God or whoever you choose to believe in at that precise moment were the ones I made as I sat in the backseat of my mom's car as our neighbor and friend drove mom and I downtown.

No such luck, these promises.

In addition to other impacts of the stroke that have left us watching my dad slip further into a state of frailty over the last 13 years, this moment we experienced left him unable to communicate fully. Suddenly and regretfully, my dad, the person I talked to more than anyone else, more than my best friends, anyone, could no longer have a conversation with me. Honestly, so painfully honestly, there are still moments today when we'll catch ourselves looking at the other and regretting this aspect so very, very much. I absolutely miss the man my dad was prior to the stroke, but I miss that conversational component of him more than anything else.

Oh, he's very much "there." He has his faculties, his awareness. Absolutely. He and I know that aspect adds to the sorrow that still creeps in. We talk. It's just different now. His frustration at his inability to share with me forces him to quit trying to talk when all I wish to do is demand he continue.

I'm sad to say that this fact, this bit of a loss, has impacted our relationship. Greatly. It's just so different now. I'm even more sad to admit that, all these years later, my anger over that is so fresh and palpable. It embarrasses me, and makes me quick to simply shut down when we're together. It's unfair to him. But it also feels unfair to me that I lost something I can't fully get back, too.

We can't help each other the way we used to. And now? Now it does seem like a big deal.

'...memories are films about ghosts'

A dear friend and I were on the phone one afternoon last week. He called with no particular agenda but to catch up. Very quickly, we were laughing the way we always do when we connect. Gasping for air. Unable to speak. Challenging the other with the next comment that will send the other over the edge of hysterics. For two hours, I fluttered my hand in front of my face the way I do when I laugh like that, begged him to stop, and then taunted him with my clever bonsmots in hopes I'd bait him.

I quite love this friendship. I knew as soon as I met him more than 20 years ago that if I never had any other friends for the rest of my life, I'd be ok as long as I didn't lose his friendship. As though he knew at that moment what I was thinking during the pause I took to lift myself upright from a laughing jag and settle myself back onto my couch, he asked if I could remember the first time we met.

"Like it happened an hour ago," I replied. "You were walking down the dorm hall, gangly. All legs and arms. And that hair. God. That odd slant it had to it. And a color I have never seen anywhere before or since. I knew that if we became friends, I had to convince you to do something about that hair, and to quit wearing your sweatshirts inside out."

We then dissected a number of our mutual memories. His disastrous roommate adventures. How we both returned to campus after a weekend at home sporting the same awful heads of curly, bleached blond hair. How we'd burst into another roommate's room while she was in class and disgust ourselves by reading her journal. The way we were effortlessly able to pass him off as a girl. The brief stint when we lived together after college and we fell into this silly, platonic husband and wife routine.

"I remember so little of my childhood, but I remember this kind of stuff," he said. When he did, I realized that I have very few memories that I can pull up from my childhood. I've been working so hard at creating memories for my sons that I hope they remember (and I assume it's working, to some degree, because my oldest is forever saying to me "Mom, you remember that one time when we did that thing with those people and then we went over there and we got to do that other thing? When can we do that again?"), but I honestly can't recall much of my own childhood before the age of 11 or 12.

I have no reason to doubt my parents when they choose to tell the delightful story of how I stood at the back steps of our family home and screamed, cried and vomited (that's when they get the most delighted in the story telling) the night they left for the hospital to bring me home a baby sister. I was 2 1/2 years old. I didn't, apparently, need the competition.

Just as I don't remember the time I had my parents to myself, I don't remember them bringing my sister home, nor do I remember much of what it was like having her in the house as a baby. I do remember when she got a little older and I must have been four or five, and we'd race through our house to get to my bedroom - of which the only thing I can remember is the pink shag carpeting and the very same twin bed frame that my youngest son sleeps in today.

In the same house, at probably five or six years of age, I remember sitting at the window of my parent's bedroom and watching the cars come and go from the house across the street. I do remember my mom shooing me away when she'd find me watching the place, and how I ignored her one night when I found myself fascinated watching a pair of feet bobbing around as they dangled out the driver's side window of a car parked on the street in front of the place. Clearly, in retrospect, there were things going on in that car I knew nothing about then. Years later, when I brought it up to my mom when talk turned to my family's first home, she very clearly informed me that "drug dealers" lived across the street from us then and the neighbors were constantly calling the police.

I have vague recollections of that time period of playing outside, the car my father drove. But very little else before that or really up until the point I hit the age of 11 or 12. That seems insane to me that I can't remember what it was like to be younger than a preteen. Even when I look at pictures from that time, very few memories are spurred by the images (aside from the fact that we were apparently poor or my mom simply didn't like to shop because she made almost all our clothes - including, sigh, our underwear - until I couldn't bear dressing identically to my sister any longer). Part of me worries, because of this, that my own kids won't remember much of their childhood and the things I've done to help them along in it. Or worse, they'll just remember the times when I kind of checked out and couldn't do much for them and they'll manifest that into something worse than it was at the time.

So my question is what is the earliest memory you have? What today prompts that memory for you? Do you think it's a real event from your life or one you've created because it seems good and you don't seem that worried that it bears a striking similarity to something that happened on "The Brady Bunch" or some other sitcom? Because honestly, I was born in Hawaii and I seem to recall this legend of a cursed tiki statue...

here baby, there mama, everywhere daddy, daddy

Sunday. Late afternoon.

Aside from the inane bantering of Will Smith on FX's 2,038 airing of "I, Robot," the house is quiet. Oddly quiet. The two young masters of the mansion, sensing a barricade to the computer and the opportunity to fight over control of Noggin.com, have called their grandma and planned their escape. Grandma's a pushover. They'll be on her computer before she can get the keys out of the car ignition.

On the couch is one husband (because honestly, one's about all I can handle at this point), remote in hand and the day's wear and tear settling into his tired body.

Armed with the possibility of two child free hours and the perplexing decision of either watching skinny robots trying to outsmart the Fresh Prince (stupid, stupid robots) or having sex with my husband, I quickly make my decision and then crawl up the length of my husband's body, dismissing winces of pain and some kind of outburst about his sore back (suck up, soldier), and eventually arrive face level. It is there that I give him my patented "sex move."

The "eyebrow arch."

Two times. In rapid succession. Followed by a smirk. Try it. Trust me. It will be a skins game before you realize it.

"What?" he says.

Ok. Trust me. It will work after a couple attempts, a few nipple pokes and the performance of a sing-songy refrain of "We could be having sex right now! Don'tcha wanna see my boobies?"

On with the show. Sex is agreed upon and decisions are made. Kissing ensues.

Then it happens.

When I pull away from his lips to grin down at him, my eye is nearly plucked from its socket by the longest nostril hair I've ever seen. Truly, I am both awed and appalled by it's dominance and the way the sun coming in from the window above us seems to give it an auburn highlight I'd very nearly kill to replicate upon my own head.

"Dude....wow....seriously," I say, struggling for words, watching to ensure that this follicle doesn't suddenly become a tentacle and snatch away my very soul. "Truly, that is the most disgusting thing I've seen."

A slightly closer look (because honestly, I'm a fan of bodily oddities. I've yet to meet a skin tag I wouldn't like to flick) allows me to notice now that this mighty nostril hair's powers have given it the power to spawn a colony of similar follicles to support it. I'd have thought it would have sucked the life out of the others, but apparently it was using them as minions to slowly feed off of.

"I almost think that thing could make a 90 degree turn upward and spiral its way into your brain, rendering you paralyzed or dead," I continue.

Before you ask, the answer is yes, this banter quite honestly adds to the foreplay. We're kinky like that.

"Well," my husband replies slowly and wisely, "that kind of thing should be covered under my life insurance so you'd be well taken care of."

Game on, mister! Thanks for thinking of me! Let the sex commence! Ah, but with one caveat.

"Um. After sex - because believe me, there's going to be some sex - we really have to address this hair issue," I say. "That thing looks like it could kill me. In fact, there's a part of me that questions whether it plans to strangle me at some point in the act, and therefore, I don't intend to turn my back on it at any time. No matter how much you beg and I like it."

"The hair and I'll make sure it looks like an accident so we're covered by your life insurance," my husband says.

Heh. Clever. Sneaky. I like that in a man. Which is good, because overall, it was much better than Will Smith and "I, Robot." The three of us quite enjoyed the afternoon dabble.

And rest assured. Since I'm posting this and my husband is asleep upstairs, you can reasonably assume that only one of us in our threesome died at the end of the festivities.

Or did it...

size matters

To be honest, I've not a clue what a six inch voice is, but when I saw this command taped to the wall of a middle school recently, I had to double back to make sure I'd read it correctly.

And now I have to wonder, if you're a man with a six inch voice, does it mean you fall within other, less verbal averages? If you're Asian, would you have a three inch voice?

Do they sell devices on the internet to make your voice bigger? When your six inch voice cracks, do you get all frustrated and mumble something about how that's never happened to you before?

How about if you like the sound of your own voice? Do you fear you'll one day go blind from all that talking just because your voice is there and you can?

And yes, I know. Your voice can be big and loud when you want it to be. You might say yours is akin to an explosion. Or so loud only dogs can hear it. I've enjoyed the company of a big, loud voice before. It could best be described as booming, if one was wanting to sing its praises. Suffice to say I was left speechless the first time I heard it. Maybe even a little bit in shock. I didn't know voices could be that big. I do recall singing at some point, though.

In the end, I suppose it's not the size of your voice, but what you have to say with it. Here's where I used mine to write my shortest, lamest post evah!

because I probably have enough 'imaginary' friends...

“Oh! You have a MySpace page, don’t you?” my friend enthusiastically inquired during a recent telephone conversation. “You must get one! Since I set one up, I’ve totally quit studying and watching television! All I do when I’m on the computer now is kill hours on MySpace.”

“Surely you can’t think that’s a stellar endorsement for MySpace, right?" I asked. "‘Join our community and become a slacker!'’”

This was to no avail, though. She's has been sucked in and I'm resigning myself to the fact that yet another of my friends is now pimping for this community website. At least two others are at me constantly to follow them into a realm I’ve shied away from like the dorky girl at the middle school mixers no one wants to dance with.

(Editorial comment No. 1 - The above metaphor may or may not be painfully accurate to my life. If you love me, you’ll not make a big deal about it. If you actually love me, I’m a little bit humbled and am perhaps blushing right now)

“Oh, you would love it!” she replied, not really answering me. “Seriously, it’s just lots of fun to hook up with people from your past. Besides, you’re so computer savvy, I’m shocked you don’t already have a page!”

(Editorial comment No. 2 – As with all of my “real life” acquaintances, my friend has no knowledge of my blog, therefore, she’s completely unaware of my raging inability to place a simple blog roll here. Therefore, to call me “computer savvy” is the best use of irony I can imagine)

“Sweetie, the impenetrable prison that is my resolve against peer pressure means you’re probably not going to break me on this issue. I got through my impressionable teen years without so much as taking a bong hit. You’d have to be pretty damn convincing to compel me to log any more time than I already do on a computer. Especially if you’re essentially saying MySpace sucks the soul out of you as easily as a lonely housewife getting her first hit of meth while the kids are in school. I’d have to think that wouldn’t be great for my borderline obsessive personality nor my stunning ability to just say no.”

(Editorial aside No. 3 – the above ‘housewife’ metaphor is definitely not about me. "Whew!" right?; however, I do have an obsessive personality, which is why my Rubbermaid containers are stacked symmetrically in the cupboard and the yogurt is organized by flavor, brand and expiration date in the fridge. Who are you to judge me, huh? Oh, OK, fine. Because all my toothpaste is stacked in the hall closet based on brand and size than fine, judging me is applicable)

“Well, if you had your own MySpace page, you could be my friend and we could talk,” was her reasoning.

Upon hearing that, I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at it briefly to assure myself I was using a device invented for sharing communication (also known as talking) with people. People, let's say for the sake of argument, who may be friends. When I returned it to my ear, I interrupted her.

“Um, sweetie? Aren’t we already friends? Don’t we talk a lot now? Face to face? When I want to see you – actually see you – isn’t it enjoyable for us to meet somewhere for coffee rather than logging onto a website to pass random thoughts back and forth as I view your family pictures cascading like rain down the screen, all set to the music of whatever Celine Dion song strikes your fancy that week?”

Clearly, my elaborately phrased question indicated to my friend that I had ventured into MySpace territory in the past. When she called me on it, I admitted I’d indeed been a voyeur a time or two. When another friend started raving about the website with such fervor I thought she’d pass out every time we spoke of it, I did search out her site. Alas, that other friend has used her MySpace page as a means of gathering up assorted men for "recreational activities," so why she continues trying to suck me in seems oddly uncomfortable. After viewing my other friend’s site (and feeling like I needed a shower afterward), it became clear to me rather quickly why I don’t have the desire to join in this particular sociological experiment. In addition to the "hooking up" aspect, my clarity includes the following -

- If I had a true desire to reconnect with the bitchy girls from my freshman year in high school, I’d go to my class reunions and sit smugly at the bar and make “fake nice” with them in the buffet line rather than send out computer requested “friend adds” in hopes they’d include me in their cliques.

- For the most part, I can spell correctly. For the handful of MySpace pages I’ve browsed, proper spelling and grammar is apparently of little use, and that sends my inner editor into a tangent that, honestly, is rather annoying for outsiders to witness.

- I honestly have no artistic appreciation for glittery graphics of fairies and unicorns, sleepy kittens urging me to “just hang in there,” or animated graphics of sloppy men vomiting or other such bodily things.

- The number of friends I have in real life can be easily counted on my fingers and toes. I feel that’s a pretty manageable number. Suddenly having to make nice with more than 200 people (assuming I wanted to be popular) seems like madness. This despite my obsessive personality and burning need to make sure everyone loves me!

I’m not about to judge the people who are enthralled with MySpace or the time they’ve devoted to their seizure-inducing layouts and clever musical choices, because honestly, I admit there have been moments when Blogger has come close to sucking the soul out of me. And don’t even get me started on the mind control properties I believe flickr possesses. I need no more computer-related vices in my life.

Besides, I rather enjoy watching television from time to time, and it's only slightly less mind numbing than I fear MySpace would be to me. However, I'm curious if any of you out there have a MySpace page and what it does for you, or why you've opted not to have one. Tell me all about it while I organize my silverware drawer and make sure all the towels are folded and put away crease side in, ok?