trick or treat...

...smell my feet.

Seriously. Smell them. They smell like lilacs. It's like springtime!

Actually, you could just skip that smelling part and proceed right to rubbing them, because that would rock. You have to tell me a joke while doing so, though. That's just part of Halloween. No joke, no 100 Grand bar.

Eh, who am I kidding? I would totally share the goodness that is a 100 Grand bar. Caramel, chocolate, little crispies? Oh, God, yes! Yes, please! But the wine in the evil cup? Yeah, probably not going to share that. There are some days you need something a little stronger than a hot bubble bath to wash away the evil.

whattaya know. it really does taste like chicken!

My blog is often a landing pad for people Google searching for romantic tips and compelling ideas that will reward them with sex. Not sex with me, of course. What do you take me for?

(You. In the back. Yeah. Shut up. Why are you still here, anyway?)

But, because I'm sexy (yep), it's pretty understandable why they end up here. This weekend, someone searching for "fowl words for my sexy lady when having sex" happened upon my happy home. To help this individual out, I asked my inner 13-year-old boy, Seth, to join me and together we came up with some ideas. For our poultry loving suitor in Australia, and for you, charming reader, we dish up the following and, of course, wish you happy pecking:

"I'm USDA approved, little Chicky."

"You like dark meat, birdy?"

"Oh, I bet you're a 3-piece hen, aren't you?"

"We're doin' it extra crispy tonight, baby. Oh yeaaah."

"You strip for me, I'll show you my nuggets."

"Bahk bahk. Thank you, Easter Bunny!"

"I"m gonna pluck you. Oh, yeah. I'm gonna pluck you nice and slow."

"Wanna cluck?"

"Duck!"

"Now you're doin' the funky chicken. No. I mean you're really doin' the funky chicken!"

"You don't want no turkey. Turkey's only good once a year. Chicken can do it all year long."

"Are your breasts injected with water and hormones, or are they all natural? Can I see?"

"What's the matter? You chicken or somethin'? Oh. Heh. Right...."

"Shake and Bake!"

"What say you come over here and yank on my wishbone, baby."

"I feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight. I feel like chicken tonight..."

"I'm gonna make you chicken dance like you've never chicken danced before."

"Wanna see my cock. It's beautiful, isn't it? The other hens tell me so."

"Wha? All those other hens? Oh, no, baby. You're the only chicken for me in this grossly overrun, corporate-owned slaughter house they call a poultry farm."

"Hey Chicken Little, I think the sky's falling. Let's do it for our barnyard..."

"Hey hen, watch it with the beak why don'tcha."

"There's a pecking order around here, Loosey Goosey. Unless you're into threesomes..."

"Your coop or mine?"

"Do you take it sunnyside up? 'Cause if you did, that would sure boil my eggs. I guarantee I'd make a big scramble."

"Chicken in the bread pan pickin' out ohhhh!"

"Four legs good. Two legs bad. Wait a minute...."

"We have an animal magnetism."

"You ever been with a duck? You should try it. Food for thought."

Eh, screw PETA! Just screw me!"

Despite what it would seem, I'm not a fan of the chicken. I think roosters harbour the evil. I blame it on being pecked down by a bad ass rooster as a child while visiting my aunt and uncle's farm. However, I'm a fan of the foul talk/sex combo meal, therefore, I'm not one to stand in the way of love, no matter how you get it. If it makes you crow in the end, it's all good. Cock-a-doodle-do, baby.

The one where Jeff Foxworthy would call me stupid...

I've made no secret of the fact that I grew up on the mean streets of the Midwestern suburbs. I got my first piercing (my ears, yo!) at 13. Got to go to the mall by myself at 14, G. Got hella crunk for the first time at legal. Hardcore, bitches! I learned to get through life by livin' it, you know? It comes down to this: I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. That's just a really lame way of saying I can balance my checkbook, because balancing it (straight up perfect the last six months, homes!) involves only simple math. Or, as I like to call it, life math. It's all I've needed for the better part of half my life.

Until this week.

My oldest son, a fifth grader, came home last night with math homework. Because my baby daddy done been gone a few nights now, the job of helping my boy fell upon me. The lone question left on the page: What is the prime factorization of 54?

WFT? What the hell is a prime factorization? Straight to the Internet I went! Yeah. Big help. WTF is this? Integers? Internet, you have brought me fear, joy, more fear and, finally, the answer to this math question. Sort of. You didn't show me how to figure it out and then explain it to a fifth grader. Because I think you know I'm math stupid, Internet, and for that, I hate you. Well, I don't mean I hate you because I'm math stupid. I mean you just don't give me the easy answers, and you'd think if any place would have them, you would. Sigh.

(I totally thank you for the opportunity to browse all the free porn I'd ever care to, though, Internet. If I cared to. Whatevah. I secretly love you, Internet.)

I couldn't help him. "Let's save this one until your dad gets home," I cried. Like "I need to yell about nothing for awhile,' cried. Then I may have actually cried. Like "tears falling from my eyes," cried. "What the hell is a prime number? I've never spoken of these things in my life! Thus, this isn't life math!" I muttered out of earshot. "This is 'I will mock you and call you fat because I'm a dick,' math."

I could damn near hear that annoying Jeff Foxworthy making fun of me because, apparently, I'm not smarter than a fifth grader. So what, Jeff Foxworthy? So what? What do you have that I ain't got, other than a bajillion dollars and Larry the Cable Guy's telephone number? I closed the math workbook and looked at the title on the cover. Nope. It sure wasn't 'learn it on the streets life math.' It was 'everyday math.' My bad. And my ass! Prime numbers don't balance my checkbook (um, and if they do, don't make fun of me when you school me, k?). I think prime numbers just get you cut on the mean streets here if you go around bein' all flashy and knowin' 'em.

when I think about me, I stalk myself

For various reasons, I've been periodically checking my stats the last few weeks, keeping abreast of who swings by here. In some cases, I can figure who's who. Most of the time, my visitors are unheard voices from around the world, and most, it would seem, share a kindred lust for all things Dirty Dancing and/or Grease.

And different kind of boobs. Wow! The internet, no matter where in the world, does love it some different kind of boobs. To which I say God bless you, brothers and sisters, and express my shared fondness. Well done, strangers of the world. Well done, indeed!

So anyway, my point in checking out my stats isn't to weed out any stalkers. I'm pretty sure I don't have any, nor do I stalk any of you, and to suggest otherwise is laughable. Because as much as I adore you all and would totally hang out with you if you wanted me to and perhaps you would try to make that happen by luring me into your car with candy and promises of gifting me with a puppy, I do have other interests that take up the bulk of my time that blogging doesn't suck away.

Like digging pits in my basement, burning away the flesh on my fingertips to eliminate trace prints, and dressing up like a woman in skins sewn from my victims. This last hobby doesn't take as much time as the others because, welp, I'm a woman, as indicated by the fact that I have boobs. Different kind of boobs, apparently. At least based on many Google searches that lead people here.

Because I know some of your locales, my tracking doesn't take much effort. And because next to none of you comes directly from my humble state, I was pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Until last week, when I began noticing an inordinate number of readers based right here from the state I call home paying me pretty regular visits. Visits that would, on occasion, stretch into really uncomfortable lengths of time.

"No need to panic," I thought. "The state's big enough for more than just my minor ego. Surely it's fine." As I've stated here before, no one I know has even the slightest clue I have a blog, for I never use words that start with the letter 'B' in their presence, so even though these new local visits kind of bothered me, I relaxed.

Until a few days later, when I logged on to my stat counter and noticed several visits stretched over the week coming from a town less than 2 miles from my house. Less than two miles! And I'm friends with people in this less than two miles from my house town! So not cool! I began thinking I could no longer pretend it's was just a fluke these new hits were popping up.

So I kept checking. Kept seeing this town showing up in my stats. Kept not liking it all. Seriously, I love my friends. What I don't love is them knowing some of the stuff about me that I've written about here, and by now, I was wholly convinced by dear friends now knew I liked to stripper walk in my front room when not enjoying sea animals and the routine Mike Rowe fantasy. I decided to get to the bottom of things. Did some poking around, and slowly started to wonder why, when I visited my own site, I no longer showed up as a resident of Minnesota.

Then it hit me. My cable company recently altered the locations from where my service bounces out of, and thus I'd noticed some of my readers now track from different locales. I'm a reader (I seriously dig this FADKOG chick. If you haven't, you should really check her out!). Could it be my locale had also changed?!

Hey, Colonel Mustard? Whaddya think? Why yes, yes it would seem I've been stalking myself the past couple weeks. Heh. Yeah, I'm cool. If I were me, and I hadn't already been obviously doing so, I'd totally stalk me.

And you know why?

Because I have a killer personality. And different kind of boobs. In fact, they're so different, so very different, they just might be able to quote from Dirty Dancing and/or Grease.

btw: A hearty "welcome!" to all those new readers lured here by the bait of a Google search for "different quotable boobs"! Enjoy! Maybe leave a comment so I don't think you're stalking me, k?

and this bird you can change

On the way home from work last week, I was flipped off by a bicyclist who was not only unaware of traffic rules as they pertain to the mall parking lot, but was also quite erroneous in thinking I intended to race through the stop sign and strike him with my mini, thus capping off my perfect day. To let me know what he thought of me, he unleashed his raw emotions and flipped me off. Then he proceeded to yell at me, which was quite effective because I had the windows rolled up and the new Radiohead playing loudly, thus drowning out his pointless anger. Seriously. Is the yelling really necessary? When I asked him that in a silent inquiry mouthed back at him, he flipped me off again, this time with both hands. The Deuce. Classy. Super skills!

I can count on one hand the number of times I've given someone the finger. At least where they were able to see me doing it. When I'm wronged on the road, I spend so much time debating the merits of flipping off or honking my horn at the other motorist that by the time my middle finger grows a back bone and stands up for itself, they've sped off. I would've let this experience with the bicyclist pass with little additional thought, but the following day I was flipped off again, this time by a woman who assumed my mini was invisible, allowing her to switch into my lane and right into my passenger side panel. This time, I did honk, thinking my friendly warning would be appreciated. Nope. Instead, I was thanked by her hand raising up and her pretty little pink fingers spreading to allow her middle finger center stage. It was reflected nicely in her rear view mirror, so again it was like getting the double flip.

These encounters have me wondering. Does flipping someone off honestly make you feel better? If you let your middle finger fly in a situation, even one as innocuous as a minor traffic matter, do you think, "Well, I certainly showed them!"? Because I'm admitting I don't feel that way about this gesture. Maybe I think flipping someone off is simplistic. Sure, we know the middle finger carries a universal spanking, and because it's been around for the ages, people do have a fondness for it that seems to speak of it's apparent voiceless power. But to me, it just seems so boring.

That's it. I'm bored by the finger. Flipping me off simply fails to impress me.

To rectify this, I propose making the flip off ornamental. More entertaining. Awash with pizazz. I won't necessarily mandate these things, because I realize I carry very little power in the real world, but in the fake world, well, I like to think of myself as having control. Therefore, I'll take the lead. Should I ever have need to flip someone off (and I have one or two really strong candidates for the initial run), I'll raise my hand regally, extend my middle finger with pride, and rotate my hand in a royal wave so all who see benefit from the message. There will be little question the intent AND the beauty behind the gesture.

Another option might include dressing up your digit in a jaunty finger puppet ensemble. If you have the opportunity to quickly slip an evening dress or a tuxedo complete with a top hat to give that bare fingertip of yours a sophisticated edge before tossing off that "f you!" to an offending party, then no one can say you're not classy. Or, if you dream of being the bad ass you're not able to pull off being in real life, slip some dark and brooding look onto your digit and ask those that offend if they wish to dance with your anger. Everyone fears a dark and mysterious stranger, even if that stranger is a scraggly old finger.

My other suggestion is simply holding up a sign. Do not underestimate the power of a simple picture at conveying your "f off!" to another party. I suggest a lion feasting on a gazelle, a crying person being screamed at by another, shattered glass or, you know, whatever. A simple picture lets you avoid having to politely explain why you're yelling at the other party, even though that person can't hear you because that new Radiohead disc is pretty damn good.

Which provides me with a final suggestion. Set your flip off to music. Something loud, industrial and intense, let's say, because if you really don't want them to hear you as you scream at them, such a soundtrack works magnificently. Or, if you really want to throw the other party for a loop, try a classical selection. They might be offended by the finger, but they'll be soothed by the picturesque orchestration of Tschaikovsky.

Those are just a few of my thoughts. I'd be open to your suggestions on how to flash up the flip off. However, I'll still probably be the person who avoids giving the bird to someone, because regardless of how pretty it could be, I still don't understand the need for it. Plus, seriously, it's called 'flipping the bird,' for heaven sake. How unoffensive does that sound?

Though I'm kind of partial to that idea of dressing up my finger.

'she likes to wake up and just fake it'

I'm a firm believer that if you're going to invest your time and talents in something, you shouldn't fake it. I don't fake the sincerity, the appreciation or the sex (The real sex. If you have a 'to do' list and are tied up on the phone or whatever and the sex comes up, proceed with cleaning off your desk or breezing through your TiVO. The other party is oblivious, and you've knocked a few things off).

It's just that simple. However, I do, indeed, fake the frappaccino and the food. Unless it's macaroni and cheese, and no matter how I try to spin it, I just can't fake that Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Kids know. They just do. They have a crap food bullshit detector and they will bust it on me every time I try to pull off that store brand M & C with them.

But the cereal? Not so much. Trust me. When I brought home the real Lucky Charms, you'd have thought I brought them each 12 puppies and a stable of horses. I was like a god in their eyes. I don't doubt for a moment that my oldest son offered to go out to the mini to help carry in the rest of the groceries because he actually wanted to check to see if perhaps his real mom was tied up in the backseat and this was a fake mom plying them with real goodness.

You know what I love about this Lucky Charms knock off? It doesn't pull any punches. It knows that all we really care about are those dehydrated pieces of marshmallow. It's all about the marshmallow, matey! Hey! What a great name for a fake cereal! And let's give them twice as much to go through twice as fast! Woo Hoo! I'm off to have some now. I can't fake it. I love these damn things.

I know, of course, that this is the type of 'edge of your seat' update you want from me. Other updates - may have good things brewing in that awful life thing my friends interceded on last week, and there was sort of some sex this morning. Sort of. I'm not jumping up and saying "woo hoo!" about it like I am my fake breakfast cereal, but eh, it beats faking it.

Dear Sex,

Hi! It's been awhile. Remember me?

No, not you, Sex as a noun. I'm talking to your more interesting partner over there, Sex as a verb. Yeah! Hi! So, do you remember me? God, we used to have some f-u-n together, didn't we?

So, I was wondering...since we had a lot of fun...um....where you been lately? Just wondering. No pressure. It's just that, well, there was just an anniversary here not that long ago, and well, you know. It just seems kinda, oh, logical that you'd maybe pop in for a bit on something like an anniversary. Maybe, yeah? There's gotta be like a five-day window, don't you think? And I know I just said there was no pressure, but my birthday's coming up in a a few weeks, and, yeah, I don't want to make a big deal about it or anything, but it's kind of a landmark one, if you get my point, so it might be fun if you could stop by that day. Maybe a few times.

Anyway, I'll keep this short, Sex, though I don't want you thinking that if you happen to come around that you have to keep it short! Ha! Oh, you know me, Sex. I'm a kidder! Ha!

I'll look forward to hearing from you, and I promise that I'll make it worth your while if you get the chance to visit. I will definitely make brownies!

Hope to have you soon!!

Love,

me

dreaming, dreaming is free...

Over bowls of breakfast cereal - Lucky Charms for him, low fat granola with raisins for me - my youngest son and I recently mapped out our long range plans for happiness. As the more mature of the duo (As evidenced by my high fiber morning pick-me-up. God, I miss you, Lucky Charms. Do you miss me?), my plans weren't that exciting to my charming five year old. Plucking around his bowl for sugary red balloons and green clovers (you know, the good stuff), he interrupted me to say he wishes to visit our state capitol building.

"I've never been there before," he told me when I asked why he was suddenly so interested in such a visit. Seeing this desire as a means of introducing him to government, democracy and the importance of being an informed citizen when casting a vote (I know! What kindergartner DOESN'T want to know all there is to know about these things, right? He'll be totally cool on the playground!), I assured him we could definitely look into a trip to the capitol one day soon. The building is stunning. But best of all, you're not charged for your visit. In these lean economic times we live in (thanks, government!), we're doing as many free things as possible.

"You're very smart to be thinking of such practical things for us to do together," I praised, chewing and chewing at my granola (generic - not quite free, but sorta free). Sensing an inroad paved by my speedy agreement that we'd hit the hill one day soon, my son scooped another spoonful of magically delicious deliciousness into his mouth and began to ponder. After he swallowed, he looked at me, grinned and fired.

"Ok, after we go to the state capitol, I want to go to Disney World!" he informed me, huge grin and all. That look on my face, the one met with his impassioned, "Wha? I've never been there before!!" clearly indicated that, after a lesson in state government, clearly the next lesson my son and I will be having is in economics. That whole "free" part went totally over his gorgeous head.

"Sweetness, your best chances of getting to Disney World right now lie in that bowl of Lucky Charms," I told him. "Keep digging around in there for that marshmallowey pot of gold until you find a real one."

The way I figure it, that freakin' Lucky the Leprechaun owes us since I bought name brand cereal ("Oh! Thank you, mommy!"). Besides, it's been a long time since I've been to Disney World. Oh, sure, our state capitol is a cool building and all, but it's no Cinderella's Castle, and honestly, I wasn't kidding a few posts back when I said I could rock a castle.

...and at the end of the day

Three months after we laid eyes on each other for the first time, my husband and I got engaged.

Three months. Gah! I honestly can't think of any decision I've made in my life as quickly as the one I made when I agreed to marry this man. Seriously. It takes me longer to choose between boxes of cereal at the grocery store (especially if I have a coupon and there's additional math involved). This clearly says a couple things about us. First, my husband is way freakin' hotter than a box of Kellogg's Frosted Miniwheats (even those brown sugar ones, which are kind of sexy). Second, sometimes when you know you're making the right decision, you don't have to stand there blindly, glancing from box to box or person to person, while the world pushes their half-filled shopping carts around you and others try to tempt you with their "buy one, get one free" promotions.

You just know.

We knew it even before we hit that twelve-week mark. Shortly after meeting in a Barnes and Noble (I know! It's sickeningly sweet, isn't it!?), we began talking about marriage and ducking into jewelery stores to glance at rings. Many of our conversations were peppered with the prelude "Well, when we're married..."

We just knew.

Well, I knew once I convinced him to get rid of that sad attempt at a mustache he was rocking when we met. I'm pretty sure I was stellar in his mind from the start (And not just because he's a breast man. Well, and an ass man. It depends on the day, really).

Today we're 13 years into knowing. On the afternoon we were married, I honestly never gave a thought to the days that were ahead of us, let alone how those days would morph into years. Thirteen years! When I pass by our wedding picture every day and give it a glance, I'm stunned at how young we look. Baby faces, really. We were two people who hadn't even known each other a year. We didn't have a clue what we were doing, but we figured it was going to be OK, because we were so caught up in each other. We're vastly different people now, yet still pretty much caught up in the other, and that's a very good thing.

The first few years we were married, we revolved around each other. We did things on a whim, took pleasant vacations, and had meals in restaurants where our food didn't come in a bag that included a lame incentive to eat it. We called in sick to stay in bed. Had sex in the middle of the living room floor at 2 in the afternoon. On a Wednesday! We watched movies with real people rather than cartoon characters telling fart jokes. We'd go to bed early, where we would fall asleep holding hands, and wake up late the next morning.

Thirteen years in, we still do some of those things, but it requires a bit more planning. And we're certainly not the baby faced innocents clad in white, black and autumnal colors who look out from our wedding photo and see what we've become, though I hope those two people would be proud of us. Even though we're by no means financially solvent, we've amassed quite a personal fortune. We've gone through one apartment, two houses, two towns, three cars, one minivan, three pregnancies, two amazing children, one neurotic dog, eight jobs, one go at counseling, countless opportunities to bolster the other, and zero arguments. Zero. In 13 years. Yes, there have been discussions (like "Can we wait until Thursday to have sex in the middle of the living room rug at 2 in the afternoon?" and things more serious), but that we've come this far and filled up that blank canvas we were on October 15, 1994, so utterly unscathed and still together confirms that feeling I had just after I met him (that feeling that was cemented when the mustache became history, though we've also gone through approximately four goatees - him, not me).

You just know. Even when you tell people you met at a Barnes and Noble. Even when you can see yourself sitting on the couch with this person 30 years down the road. Even when you wish sometimes you did argue because it would be faster. Even when the little things you adored about them can sometimes make your skin crawl. Even though you sometimes wonder how this person can still love you after some of what you've been through.

You just know. And how lucky is that?

It's lucky 13, that's how lucky it is.

...and ignite your bones

On Thursday night, I'm meeting two friends for coffee. In a normal frame of mind, this planned evening out would be a nice diversion. I'd be looking forward to a few hours spent catching up and laughing.

Instead, I'm dreading it. And I'm not meeting them. They are coming to my home, pulling me from it, and taking me somewhere where I can then sit before them and they can wait for me. To talk. To tell them what's been keeping me from them and anyone else who so graciously gives me the gift of their friendship for the last few months. "Something is wrong with you," one of them said to me when, unable to avoid her telephone calls any longer, I was made to return her most recent. "Something is wrong. You don't have to get into it now, on the telephone, but we see that something is bothering you and we want to help you if we can."

That part where she said they could see it made me laugh. A very quiet, dejected chuckle hidden under the even quieter tears she didn't know were already falling as we spoke. As I inserted the appropriately placed "OKs" and "uh huhs" into our brief conversation, I wondered how they could see that something must be wrong with me when I thought I'd been making a pretty good effort of not showing them. Isn't that what a couple of months of avoiding people is good for? I thought I'd become a master of such a trick lately.

But this dear friend is right. There's something wrong with me at the moment. It's not physical nor fatal nor hateful. But it's something that crushes my spirit and makes me panicky. Were I truly wanting to speak about it and have you bear witness to the emotional wreck it makes me, I'd just spill it to you all. But as honest as I've always been here (always), I trust you'll just take what I'm not saying and be fine with it. What I love about this type of venue is how wonderfully nonjudgmental and supportive a circle of anonymous people can be. Amazing and just as humbling as my real life friends would treat me. It's just harder for me to accept their kindness because now they're not going to allow me to not say why I've been the way I've been now for awhile. I can see them and touch them and sometimes their love for me shocks me because I don't feel I deserve it as often as they so wish to give it to me.

(Oh, I read and reread that above paragraph and God, I'm not fishing for help or compliments or kindness or whatever. I'm just saying that during this past year, I've been amazed at how so many of you have stepped into my life and become friends willing to commit that gift to me and how saying thank you for such a thing seems not enough.)

Were I willing to talk about it (and I have, before, with people in my life, but it just drains me and some days I want to be full), I would. I'd probably scream about it and be angry. Now I just try not to. I suppose it's because I want to enjoy that brief reprieve and that sense of calm I notice I've experienced when I realize I've not thought about these matters for a time. This is part of why I dread Thursday night. I won't be allowed to not think about it, to not talk about it. I love my friends immensely. Many of my friendships forged in adulthood happened so spontaneously and at a time when it almost seemed like God or someone just knew I was going to need these people in my life that I'm quite grateful for them. But I'm not used to being the one upon whom this type of intervention, for lack of a more appropriate word, is staged. I'm the girl who'll hold your eye long enough to tell you I'm fine, yeah, and then glance around the place for a way to change the topic so it rests on you. Or search for some sarcastic twist of a phrase that I can apply to myself when I don't feel comfortable with the questions I'm being asked. I do not wish to cry like I'm afraid I will in front of these women. I want to appear as if I've got this thing I've been dealing with for a long time now under control already. Wish I didn't feel like that. Wish I could thank them for caring and then open up without the shame or sadness or whatever that weighs on me.

I just dread the idea of Thursday night. And even though I know I'm saying nothing here, I just needed to say that so that maybe I could look at this later and convince myself there's nothing to dread when remembering that people who love me wouldn't make me do this if they didn't truly wish to help. And that it's OK to take it.

superman can't save me now

If I've learned anything as a parent, it is that getting my children to obey any rule or suggestion requires repeating my request over and over again, and any car trip, no matter how brief, will have to include - per child and at minimum - six toys, four books, a snack, change of clothes and stamps for the postcards we'll send to our friends and relatives to share our adventures with them.

So taking these rules to heart, join us, won't you, as my sons and I visit the bank one recently fine afternoon. In the backseat the boys have created a pocket of air amidst the toys and are waging a battle of epic proportion with their assorted action figures. A glance in the rear view mirror indicates the black Power Ranger is really in over his head as he comes gut to helmet with the Incredible Hulk. For back up, Captain America lurks deceptively over the arm of my youngest's booster seat. Sure, the jaunty captain typically serves for good, but today, I firmly believe his motives are questionable.

Soon, the battle seems to be at a peak and Captain America, sensing a need to help the tiny Power Ranger before he opts to make a dive from the open window on the passenger side of the mini, has screamed through the air to take over. With each blow to the solar plexes that Captain America takes from the larger, mightier and way pissed off Hulk, my youngest (reprising his role as the Hulk for today's episode) exclaims "OH! Now THAT's gonna hurt!"

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Honestly, I am a girl. Huge surprise, I know. Because I'm a girl, I know little about super heroes and whether or not Captain American and the Incredible Hulk operate on the same side of justice. If their names were Britney and Noel and their hair was stylable and they came with a cool Hummer you could drive them on dates to, I would be so into them. But they are not. And I am not able to hear this anymore:

"OH! Now THAT'S gonna hurt!!"

At my limit, I glance back and suggest my son think of another way to convey the pain. For example, "Goodness, that's an unfortunate turn of events you've just experienced." Or "Perhaps you should have just stayed in bed today, Captain America." Good sport that he is, my son said he'd think of something else to say, and good sport that I am, I thanked him.

Three seconds passed and I heard the blow of fully articulated plastic feet making contact with Captain America again. And I wait to hear what springs forth.

"OH! Now THAT'S gonna..." my son yells out passionately, then pauses for just a second as our eyes meet in the rear view mirror, then says quietly, "...hurt when I can tell you about it."

rhinestone fools & silver dollars

It is my belief that every person who spews forth a blog must, by some mandate, write a post that talks about how they know they owe their friends a real post, life gets in the way, things are rough right now, and my modeling career has just skyrocketed lately and I've been so busy trying to achieve perfection that I have no ideas due to lack of nutrients to my brain.

Something like that. I've done a few such posts. And have you checked out my print work in the latest Target ad? Anyway, based on recent writings, you probably think I've just kept doing them.

Can I just say wow. I thought we loved each other. Huh.

Well, regardless of how you feel about me, I think we should still try to make things work between us. So I'll ask you to look beyond yet another post where I say I have so many ideas brewing in my head it's like howler monkeys are jumping around in there. For example, I have raging thoughts on lying and overall juvenile behavior, how my shoes make me look like a 79 year old school lunch lady, harmless fun at work, and new changes at home all festering in my pretty "it might be red, it might not be" lush dome right now.

Yeah. You SHOULD be excited for what's ahead here in my world. Plus, you could really begin to question my fascination with monkeys.

To just let you know how things are at the moment, I must say I've been enjoying my pretend honeymoon with my pretend husbands, Dave and Taylor. Um. The part in that post where I talked about not "enjoying" all of us at the same time? Interesting thing about that. They started playing and singing and next thing you know, pretend sex. Everyone should know how to play an instrument. That's all I'm saying, and I'm saying that as the girl who gave up on the clarinet in sixth grade. Though I think "The Band" would still let me play triangle or something, eh? Yeah?

Another thing. I coast by your places and I have more insightful things to say to you in your comments than what happens here. I owe some of you an email or five (waving to that guy in "The Band" who I don't stalk, because that is just silliness and clearly I'm too busy with other pressing matters to even entertain the idea of stalking), but my computer is, I fear, near wrecked. Something evil, like a python or perhaps an anaconda, has crawled inside it and wrapped itself around the inner workings. I imagine the reptile, whatever it is, is quite sluggish because it's been dining on howler monkeys. It's insanely slow. It shuts down on me. It sticks its little tongue out at me and I may flip it off when it does. Whatever. It's not cool. When I get the chance to sit here with greater patience, I'm going to be all over you all.

Like I have to go be with Dave and Taylor now. They're insatiable.

The song? Yeah. Siouxsie & The Banshees "Peek-A-Boo". It's a little bit of fantastic in just over 3 minutes. Says a lot, too. Kind of like this post that gets all scary wordy just to say I have things to say, but not right at this moment.

Of course, I want you to feel free to say anything to me, so now's your chance. So many of you saunter through here daily. Prove to me you still care. That we can, indeed, give this another go. I refuse to believe you're willing to just let our love die.

Or simply suggest another odd animal I can reference a lot.

Siouxsie and the Banshees - Peek A Boo

luck o' the iris

"Would you like some iris bulbs?" my mother in law called to ask me this weekend. As I'm in the habit of doing when asked almost any kind of question (seriously), I gushed a hearty "Yes!" while my mind was tapping its cerebral cortex and asking "Um, what do you really think you're going to do with those?"

So anyway, the iris bulbs. I love irises. I truly do. Their shape and colors. I find them magnificent. But I'm not a green thumb. I plant something and then forget all about it. It's a miracle my children are alive, to be frank.

(not really! geez! what do you take me for!?)

So home comes this bag chock full of iris bulbs. It's been sitting on my kitchen counter (where all things aside from my children go to die), for a couple of days. I've been meaning to research when to plant them, what conditions they need, how to nurture them. You know. Just trying to make a good show of it. But last night, as I'm moving the bag to make way for more stuff to take root on my counters, I notice the label my mother in law taped to the bag so I wouldn't forget this earthly smelling bag of dirt and twisted roots and dried leaves contained iris bulbs and saw this: Irish bulbs.

Now, I have to admit, I'm kind of hoping that next spring, after these bulbs have survived a rugged winter akin to the potato famine years, they will sprout up as red headed, Guinness drinking, whiskey chasin', quick tempered, Sunday, Bloody Sunday singing beauties with thick accents and a desire to grow up to be either president of the United States or a New York City cop.

Plus, could you imagine the brawls they'd get into with my Scottish pines?

you know it's hard out here for a vamp

I don't think I can imagine a more thankless job than that of a vampire. OK, sure, perhaps eighteenth century grave digger. I mean, how much more thankless can you get then digging graves? Ain't nobody around to give you your do when you've done a good job, my friend. But if being a vampire isn't the most thankless job, I figure it falls within the top five jobs that (pardon me as I take the obvious pun) sucks.

Sure, for the sake of not upsetting the folks with fangs, let's get the pros of the job out of the way first:

You're an instant celebrity. Lots of movies have been made about you. When you go out at night looking to score the blood, you know the ladies are gonna dig you because you're like a real life movie star. Skip the dudes. They'll just try to kill you. Strike the ladies first and it's like an eternal buffet. More so if you look like Kiefer Sutherland in The Lost Boys (if you do, I routinely wear V-neck shirts, just so you know).

You can play up the "royalty" aspect of your personality. You're the mf'n Prince of Darkness son! That line is sure to sway some unsuspecting soul! You won't even be surprised when it does because you know it's just that damn good!

Chicks dig you. It's a simple fact. Brad Pitt in Interview With A Vampire? Hot! Gary Oldman in Dracula? Sexy! At least before the transformation, anyway. Use this mystique to your advantage as you troll the night away in search of new prey. The chicks are out there. You know it. They're gonna be spilling more than their blood for you in record time if you slide up, all dark and mysterious, and show a bit of interest by complimenting their features and asking all about them. And when you're done sucking the very life out of them, you can literally drop them like the empty vessels they've become. So cool!

Mind control. Sometimes it's not going to be your looks that scores the vics, if you catch my drift. Your ability to take whatever nugget of information your prey gives you and then twist it into a powerful seduction tool is a highly underrated pro in the "Why I would want to be a vampire" column. Use it. You'd be surprised how well it works (I mean, I assume. I already have a thankless job, thank you very much, so I'm not applying for this one. However, I believe I've seen this skill put to work a time or 12).

Sure. It all looks good on paper, doesn't it? But let's now consider the drawbacks:

You can't go to any parties and just enjoy yourself. Get invited to an event and just want to mingle with the ladies and maybe make a connection? No can do, my friend. Why? Most good parties are held at night. As a vampire, you've gotta be out there from dusk 'til dawn, grubbing on that sweet nectar that sustains you. Clearly, the hours for this kind of gig bite.

You can't just go out and soak up the sun. Your days are free. Big whoop. You can't get cocky and say "Oh, I think I'll go for a swim today." Uh-uh. Spontaneous combustion is not a pretty way to go.

You have to actually be a recluse. Oh, sure. You may have a few fellow vampires who hang around with you. If you're lucky, you all get along. If not, you're screwed. You can't just tell them to shove off. We've all seen monster movies. The undead are some of the more irritable people in the world. They're not going to go without some bitter discussion about why you're trying to push them out. If you can't deal with human psychology, do not apply for the gig.

Your living accommodations aren't that great. You sleep in a coffin. Sure, you can trick that coffin out. Sparkle it up with some glitter, a fancy faux paint technique, perhaps tack up a few rock band or movie star posters, or string a few Christmas lights around it, but it doesn't dismiss the fact you're still chilling in a coffin.

You may not be blessed with the striking hot vampire looks. Take a gander at that dude to the left. Methinks most vampires err on the side of this guy and not so much that of Brad Pitt or Kiefer Sutherland. I could be wrong. I do live in the safe suburbs, after all. However, that vampire up there can't decide if he's menacing or not. "Should I smirk? Would maybe crossing my eyes a little bit make me look more scary? Good thing that kid gave me a scar across my forehead. Scars look tough! But dang, my ears are hella big! Wish I had some hair to cover them up. Why do all the good vampires like Kiefer and Brad get the long, flowing hair? Geez!!" And, OK, I didn't want to say anything, but check out the dude's nose. Clearly, this is a vampire with phallic issues. I'm going to stretch my imagination even further than I have in this post already and say if your vampire nose isn't standing at attention, if you have a raging case of the vampire ED, then all your talk about sucking blood and taking victims is just that. A bunch of talk. Hope you've got other plans for the chicks who hang around you simply because they're blood sucker groupies.

Clearly the negatives outweigh the positives, in blood and in the vampire payroll. There's no promotions ladder. No pay scale to climb. Unless you dig being oh so pale and look good sporting the all black (well, hmmm...I do, I guess, and I'm already up half the night sometimes already...), stick to what you're doing now. Because seriously, you could get stuck like that guy up there. Take a look at that nose one more time and just rethink where you're going.

Yeah. What you're doing now doesn't suck so much, does it? Besides. No one really looks that great in a cape, either.