i'm TOTALLY having sex tonight!

Oh, yes. Sex + Me = Yeah, baby! Right there. Uh huh. That's right! My gorgeous and virile Tool Man is super excited that it's on the agenda, and has been taunting me with it for days! It's so on, baby!

It's not like I NEED taunting. No! I am super ready for this. I've thought about what I'm going to do, and the words I'll say to bring it to the satisfaction I've craved for so long.

I figure "One for the 7:10 showing, please," should be the line that brings it. Especially since I plan to say it in a voice that is equal parts whispering and giggly.

Proudly among the cult, I've waited for the release of Sex and The City forever. Good lord, my girlfriend and I were on the phone this morning trying to decide if we'd dress up for this amazing event. In the end, we decided we live in the Midwestern suburbs. We wouldn't know how to dress up if we had to.

In case you're wondering, and why wouldn't you be, for those of you in the know about this show, I am, according to multiple online SATC character quizzes, very much like Charlotte York. The results of one of the quizzes (I took many to see if I'd ever come up like Samantha. Alas, and yet surprising, no...), says I'm "a lady in every sense of the word. You are pretty, kind and hopeful. Everything you do and say is without a hidden agenda and you believe that everyone has a soul mate. You are an eternal optimist and everyone you know can't help but smile when you're around."

I know, right! I mean, it was so nice of them to call me pretty, kind and hopeful that I kind of teared up and then was all, "Call me pretty again while Momma finds something slow for us to dance to, Victim I Am Stalking."

When I told Tool Man there was going to be sex tonight, he was understandably excited, because see above. You can't help but smile when I'm around! However, he got especially giddy when I told them that I'd be bringing other women into it. And perhaps a few men. Cute, caring, loving men who are either (A) thrilled by women, (B) catering to women, or (C) confused and unsure if they like women that way.

In the end I think the bulk of his excitement rests in the fact that, while I'm out tonight living the magic (and who cares if it sucks but I don't want to know for I've read no reviews yet because I want surprises and magic and bliss!), he'll get to sit here quietly and watch Battlestar Galactica in peace

So, really, I think we both end up very, very satisfies. Oh, yeah, baby! That's right!

(fyi, if you do an image search for Sex And The City, hmm, you get pictures of lots of things that rhyme with "city." Just sayin'.)

'when all words fail, she speaks. her mix tape's a masterpiece'

In an effort to be more financially savvy and less soccer mommy, I've been driving our car on my short commute to and from work for the past couple weeks. The car is straight up bare bones and no thrills. That means my drive-time concerts have been staged with my backup band, Factory Installed Radio.

"I got a little feedback in my right ear. Can we fix that? No? OK. So about that hollow sound...Nothing? OK again..."

When FIR pitches a bitchfest at me and puts outrageous demands in their concert rider, I hit the road with my other band, Tape Deck Fantastic! (that's not me inserting an exclamation point at the end of the sentence. That thing is there because the band wants you to say it with enthusiasm!)(That exclamation point I just used there at the end of the other parenthetical sentence? It was put there because I had to put it there to drive home the point.).

Cruising the highways in the Hyundai, minus the lifestyle to which I've grown accustomed to in the mini with its CD player that allows me to pump up the jams from my iPod, means I've had to find old school ways to entertain myself, and nothing makes the kids today ask "What in the hell are those and what in the hell do you do with them?" like pulling out all my old cassette tapes!

(That's right. I just used the words "pump up the jams." Why, back in my day, we pumped up the jams while walking 20 miles to school in the driving snow. Uphill. Both ways...)

In particular, I've enjoyed reliving my amazing youth by blowing the dust off my collection of mix tapes. I have tons of these, thanks to the world that was unleashed upon me as a teenager when I'd finally made enough working part time at Target to buy a stereo with dual cassette decks. One of my favorite mixes is titled "Songs From 45s I Shoplifted From Musicland." Among the selections carefully blended on either side of the 90 minute cassette are Don Felder's Heavy Metal (Takin' A Ride), Chilliwack's My Girl, and The Tubes' She's A Beauty. This stuff holds up on a tinny sounding car radio now, my friends.

I used to spend a lot of time mastering the perfect mix tape. My ability to ensure you couldn't hear the pause button being hit between songs and tips on how to choose songs wisely so as not to run out of tape before tune at the end of a cassette earned me an A+ when I was assigned a "how to" paper during my freshman year in college. I probably should have just posted that paper here. It would have been shorter and more bearable for you who've come this far in this post. I once knew how to be brief in my writing. You have to be when creating a mix tape, because you only have so much room to cram the title and artist of each track onto the tiny cardboard insert that comes with each cassette. When I was satisfied with my productions, I'd then decorate them with various drawings or slashes of bright color spilled from the markers stored in my desk.

My collection of tapes represent a lot of hours of my life, and some of my favorites never stuck around long, for I gave them to friends, who'd often exchange one of their creation with me. One such gift I uncovered this week was produced by a college friend before he left to spend two years in Hungary as a Peace Corp. volunteer. Between each song you hear him fuddling with a mic to explain why he chose them and how they relate to our friendship. The tape concludes with his karaoke performance of Elton John's Daniel, performed at his goodbye party and made more passionate thanks to the many beers he'd consumed prior to taking the stage.

The mix tape that's been getting the most play this week must have been my attempt in 1990 to claim the title WORLD'S BIGGEST KLF FAN!!! What time is love? I don't know, but get hype to the rhythm. Every damn KLF song I own is represented on that tape. Alas, it's not one of my better mixes. We're getting funky fresh with Prince's My Name Is Prince, then bringing it down with some mellow kd lang and her Constant Craving, then whoops! Get your asses back up! KLF are all bound for mu mu land and want to take you with them.

They're taking me along for the time being anyway. I've mixed up my driving, so I have to mix up my soundtrack. Plus, score! I've rediscovered songs I'd completely forgotten about, like this one from World Party:



My days, my drives, and my music are as diverse as a good mix tape. I think I just may tour exclusively with Tape Deck Fantastic!

there’s a girl starting to realize eternal fate has turned it's back on her

I'm coming off one of the most boring weekends in recent history, and when you consider most of my weekends involve cleaning toilets while dancing to Golden Earring's Twilight Zone, you'll understand why the fact that I spent the bulk of my time over the three-day emerging from a coma to watch crab fishing marathons and cannibalistic soldiers gave me plenty of time to ponder the following:

• Why I have a freakish, encyclopedic knowledge of all things Jonas Brothers.
• My cougar-like attraction to Joe Jonas, particularly his viral eyebrows, which look like they could provide warmth to a small Icelandic village or perhaps speak to his raging testosterone levels.
• Why people who never spoke to me in high school now wish to be my friend on Facebook
• Why my mom wants to be my friend on Facebook
• Why my husband doesn't want to be my Facebook friend
• (But I made him. So there, Tool Man! Take that!)
• Why Tool Man and I had an entire conversation via Facebook Saturday afternoon while seated two feet from each other.
• How I like to say "Oh, we holidayed in the Hamptons, luv," when asked what I did this weekend.
• How my boredom must make me really annoying to people.
• Wait until my new Facebook friends find that out! No wonder Tool Man didn't wanna be my friend!
• The allure of Stephenie Meyers' books. Blech, blech, blech. Did I mention I found them to be blech? Super blech.
• My lack of inspiration.
• How guilty I'll feel knowing you read this and there's really not much here.
• My insane guilt issues.
• Why must the Cha Cha Slide and Cotton Eyed Joe be played at every party I ever go to.

See? BORING! Boring but jaunty, because it should be put out there that I can now rock it to the Cha Cha Slide, thanks to my oldest son, who taught me the steps he learned in gym class, and I was all "What? Why, back in my day, we played volleyball and ran laps until we cried, and you're re-enacting every wedding reception and graduation party I've ever been to in gym class?" But I'm just saying, in the event you wish to invite me to a party, I'm willing to get things started on the dance floor. Just know that I'll be that annoying one screaming for some Jonas Brothers.

the one where I also feigned ignorance...

The other night I was engrossed in a book while my sons, semi-comatose on the couch, watched wrestling on television.

I realize that sentence probably says a lot about my parenting style, but sometimes a mom needs to just not talk anymore, and I had made them put away their guns and drug paraphernalia when they'd gone upstairs to put pajamas on, so I think credit should be given there.

The boys love wrestling. They love talking about it, watching it, playing with their wrestling action figures in ways not reminiscent of a men's prison love story, and regaling me with various statistics. This, even though I sigh, roll my eyes, and tap my book and remind them that sports, even fake sports, confuse me.

So on this particular evening, I was just getting engrossed in a chapter of my book when I realized my sons had grown surprisingly quiet, prompting my eyes to travel toward the television screen, where I saw the following:



For those of you who can't see the video because of work or moral guidelines, it features WWE Diva Kelly Kelly doing the kind of dance one would find in a gentleman's club or sometimes in my bedroom when the Tool Man has had an especially rough week (except I don't think you can have a rough week EVERY week, so I need to have a talk with him soon). My oldest son had a look on his face that combined confusion and boredom perfectly. When Kelly Kelly got to the part of her routine where she stepped back and reached for the zipper on her tiny latex vest to hint at the reveal of her assets (50 seconds into the clip if you're so inclined), I heard this:

"Hey Mom, I have no idea what she's doing."

As I ripped my eyes from the television screen over to my oldest son, I admit I spent a moment replaying his comment in my mind, trying to determine where the inflection in his comment fell. Was it on "no," meaning he seriously had no idea what this dance routine was, or was it on "idea" and tinged with a dash of sarcasm, meaning he actually DID know, and it was making him feel a little funny in his tummy? Before I could ask him to repeat himself, he'd grabbed the remote control and was fast forwarding to get back to the scenes of the grappling, sweaty men talking smack to each other.

So perhaps I shouldn't be worried about my son growing up too fast, wanting to shave and move out. Or maybe the fact that he was fast forwarding to get to the men means I'm going to have to amend the talk. Either way, I think I have a bit more time to plan.

When I shared this tidbit with the Tool Man, and showed him the clip, he said he, too, had no idea what she was doing, but maybe it was time he plop down and watch wrestling with his sons now. I told him it would be a good time to have these little father and son talks. Bonding, he called it.

Then he asked me to dance for him because he'd had a rough week, but pity for him because I had a book to read.

so when he asks 'where can i find a woman like that...'

I've made little secret of the fact that, when it comes to imaginary lovin', I've got it bad for the rockers. Be it Bono, with whom I recently celebrated my 18th imaginary wedding anniversary (and have mentioned in nearly 20 posts), to my lusty affair with Dave Grohl (who has, to date, earned only four love letters but is worthy of so many more), men who can sing me a song and maybe strum a few chords while doing so have me doodling hearts with our initials in the middle all over my Trapper Keeper.

My first and most loyal imaginary rocker boyfriend is, was, and always will be Rick Springfield, to whom I must now apologize for I've only mentioned him here twice and once was only in passing (though it was to explain how I used to rank boys I thought were cute based on their Rick Springfield'ness). I'm sure he forgives me, though, because RS + FADKOG = 2rue luv 4ever!

My husband, who has no room to talk smack to me because he came to our marriage with a dowry of Sheena Easton cassettes, knows what kind of fool am I for Rick. From time to time he makes me get excited by reciting Rick's lyrical mastery in my ear when he wants to bop' til he drops. This past weekend, he called me over to him and gave me his blessing to have an affair of the heart with my musica man when he presented me with tickets to see my boyfriend this summer when he comes to town.

I'm not going to lie. I squealed. I squealed big time. Perhaps hopped up and down.

Rocking directly stage right and close enough for him to sweat on me when he launches into Jessie's Girl, Rick will know that I've been watching him with these eyes for years, and if he wants a go, I'd be willing to be lovin' him with this body. He wants to love somebody? That's me in the 11th row, honey. Sure, I'm a tough little sister, but I'll settle for a mister tonight.

Which means I should go to bed and see about the Tool Man (who has respect for my dear RS because he did a one shot appearance on the original Battlestar Galactica as Zac, the brother of Starbuck, and thus gives me his blessing to run away with him. As if I needed the go from Mr. Sheena Easton Is Highly Under Appreciated As An Artist. Pfft!). He thinks that coming through with a great Mother's Day present this year means he's done everything for me, and thus is deserving of some human touch.

And who am I to play hard to hold to the dude who thinks SugarWalls rocks?

'on the razors edge you trail...'

This past Saturday, I was standing in the bathroom with my oldest son, who was nearly kissing his reflection in the mirror as he admired the loss of his lower left incisor. This boy, who's dancing in the shadow of his 11th birthday, is rapidly losing the last of that which keeps him a young child in my eyes. The departure of his last few baby teeth, I thought, was going to put me over the edge.

That was until I noticed he'd turned his attention away from his gaping smile and was brushing at something on his lip. I watched as he squinted his eyes and worked more intently at the nemesis under his nose. Unable to see what his goal was, I tapped the mirror until he glanced at me, and asked what the problem was.

"I have a mustache, Mom! Should we talk about when I can start shaving?" he responded, and I swear to you, it was as if his voice had dropped an octave for every one of his 10 years, and I wanted to call to my husband and have him address this matter, but I was afraid waking him would startle his elderly heart, or he'd break his hip trying to hobble up the stairs while yelling, "Moose trap? What's all this jibber jabber about a moose trap!?" while I screamed back, "No, Pa. Your son here said he has a MUSTACHE, not MOOSE TRAP! Get a damn batt'ry in that hearing aid, old man! Why, if I didn't know better, I'd swear that man don't but keep that thing turned down just to irritates me, dang nabbit..."

Instead, I looked at his boy - a boy, dammit! just a boy! - who thought the "penis and puberty" class he went through just a handful of weeks ago was mega super GGGGRRRROOOSSSS, and thought "Oh my God, like, I should be handing him a condom to tuck in his wallet 'just in case,' and telling him to be home by 1 a.m., because you know how Dad worries, and you know you can call us if you ever get in trouble. And don't do drugs, k? Because drugs are bad..."

On and on. By the time I realized he was trying to get my attention again, I had my son married to the nice, quiet girl he met after a successful post-graduate career and a dalliance into local politics, considered only after a knee injury eight years into a successful NBA career benched his efforts. When I was fully conscious again, I heard him say, "I think it was just some crumbs from my toast."

Which is good, because I think I'm really not ready for him to give up on this little boy thing yet.

Dang nabbit.

wrote a haiku about it. wanna hear it? ok.

The following is a tribute to my sons, the youngest of whom tonight hit 'replay' on the sick thing, causing the oldest to threaten a sympathy spew:

demon intestines

have got me off crunchy JIF

next time make it cake

So much for "vomit-free since Friday!"

Enough already.

Seriously.

case study no: heh...well...yeah....

I suppose there's something Freudian to be said for the fact that both the Subway five dollar footlong commercial and the Viva Viagra spot push me to the brink of insanity.

(btw, first dude who sings in the Viagra spot. Got you a wha? Enunciate! And you. The guy on standing bass. Did you call yourself a horny toad? My irritation prevents me from hearing you clearly)

Anyway, I'll give that hyposthesis a better shake tonight when I'm out eating hot dogs and sucking down longneck bottles of beer.

Have a happy weekend, people who live inside my computer!



P.S. If ever a website demanded the use of multiple exclamation points, it's the Viagra website. For example:

Before: Bet you didn't think you could have fun while learning about ED.

Yawn. Wha? Did you say something?

After: Bet you didn't think you could have fun while learning about ED!!!!! Oh yeah!!!!!! Watch me again, baby!!!!!!! I'm bustin' out a few more!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What's that? Oh, just my pet snake. I laugh in your face, erectile dysfuntion!!

See? That's better. That's what I'm talkin' about. Editing, my friends. It's a good thing.

'he had many questions, like children often do...'

I've spent the past two days home from work with my oldest son, who put a coda on Mother's Day by throwing open the gates of hell and releasing the confines of his stomach, Mr. Creosote style in Monty Python's Meaning of Life ("Ah, good afternoon sir; and how are we today?" "Better." "Better?" "Better get a bucket - I'm gonna throw up.").

A couple of things. Happily, this lovely boy of mine didn't also open up the bowels of hell, if you know what I mean. Additionally, my husband slid in just under the wire on Mother's Day and gifted me by being the one who got up when the crime scene taking place in the boys' bathroom was discovered, and remained on duty as my wafer thin boy threw up every 10 to 20 minutes throughout the night.

It's always a tough call to determine when my kids are sick, because unlike their whiny mother, they aren't big on complaining. Whereas I was praying like an old lady at a tent revival for the sweet, sweet Lord to reach down and pluck me homeward when I came down with the flu over the winter, my kids go about their merry way while rotting from the inside out. The only clue you ever get is when the projectile vomiting kicks in, and then suddenly, I start whining again.

So anyway, I've been home from work for a couple days, getting to be the kind of doting mom found in books like Love You Forever (minus the creepy stalker angle). It's not hard to feel guilty about this when you consider I pull down an enviable $41.50 per shift (don't be fooled by the rocks that I got...). Oh, and because I love my son and of course I'd be there for him when he's sick.

But after his father cleaned up after the child's puke and/or he cleaned his own bucket.

(Kidding)

(Sort of)

By PukeFest-Day 2, my son was feeling a bit better, and the pent up frustration brought on by laying on the couch for hours watching The Price is Right and Drake and Josh, and having your every whim catered to ("Duh-ream day!" she sang...), was beginning to bore him. By 9 a.m., today, he was stalking me, popping up like a jack-in-the-box at my every turn. I knew his fever must have broken because he was compelled to engage me in an actual conversation, which doesn't happen much because Yuck! I'm a girl!

Actually, it wasn't so much a conversation as a means of prepping me for a game show I'm sure is in development somewhere (like Hell) titled "Useless Crap You'll Never Need To Know!" and it's successful spin-off, "We Just Pulled This Answer Out of Our Ass so You'll Let Us Be To Watch TV In Peace. Now Go Away!" Both shows will be hosted by Regis Philben.

Here's a sampling of what he hit me with throughout the day today (it should be noted that EVERYTHING he says to me is prefaced with "Hey mom?" Everything.):

• "Hey Mom? Is George Clooney running for vice president or somethin?"
• "Hey Mom? Why do high school people text or call other people so much?"
• "Hey Mom? Who is George Clooney, anyway?"
• "Hey Mom? Have you ever heard of the blue-footed boobie?"
• "Hey Mom? Why doesn't your brain send a signal to your feet to start moving faster so you make it to the bathroom in time when you need to puke?"
• "Hey Mom? Can we talk about the Titanic incessantly?

My answers were as follows:

• "If he were running for vice president, I would vote for him. Sure, first I would get behind the issues and THEN I would vote for him."
• "B/C itz fn 2 share TMI! ROTFLMAO! YW. TTL.
• "Just the sexiest man alive. No big deal."
• "Did you say 'birdie or BOOBIE?'"
• "I don't know, but I wish it did. Wait! I bet Dad wishes it did!"
• "Please! Because we don't talk about it enough! We have 24 books and record every television program about it, and soon I'm not sure how long I can act surprised when you give away the ending!"

By the afternoon, he was beginning to feel better, bounding around the house with his little brother, and thought it might be fun to test his restored intestinal fortitude (fingers crossed on this...five hours and counting...) with a handful of spicy nacho Doritos. We ended our day with two culminating questions. The first was "Hey Mom? If I get sick tonight, are you gonna be able to handle it?"

No. A stew of spicy nacho Doritos simmered with Tool Man being out of town? No. Just...no...

His last question was "Hey Mom? Can I go back to school tomorrow?"

Absolutely. I need a real day off. And I have game show questions to bone up on.

the perfect mother's day...

...for a Mom whose kids apparently wish she had a penis (or who find the calendar confusing and believe it to actually be Father's Day):

• a breakfast of generic Pop Tarts (the cubic zirconium of toaster pastries) and milk. Wrappers, crumbs and the gallon milk jug left to warm on the counter for Mom to come downstairs 30 minutes later to discover, pick up, and put away.
• Lots of sports. The talking of, watching of, and participating in. Lots. By the way? There is lots of sports.
• Including the sport of "Smell it!" which renders Mom marginally scared and highly confused. Who taught these children how to belch like this? And seriously. What is that smell?
• An afternoon showing of Iron Man, where Mom finds herself to be the lone woman in a bastion of men. The only mom in the area, it seems, who fought back when the men of the house suggested giving their wives/mothers time to herself on Mother's Day because she once dreamt of licking Robert Downey Jr.'s sharp goatee. This achievement (being the only woman in the place, not the goatee licking) is cemented when it's determined the three year old twins seated behind her, the ones who keep asking their dad in their high pitched voices, "Is him a good guy or a bad guy? I need to potty! Is him dead now? Does him die now? Why him doing that? I need to potty! Him bad now? When him be Iron Man?" are, in fact, boys. The Mom silently thanks them for asking their questions, though, because event though it's annoying as hell, their dad's answers keep her from having to ask her husband similar questions in her own high pitched voice.
• And the theater? It smelled. Seriously. What is that smell?
• A dinner menu consisting of Mom's choice of pizza or sub sandwiches. Thirty minutes after the last of the pizza is consumed and Mom begins to wonder who's going to pack up leftovers and pick up the kitchen, she gets up and takes care of it.

It wasn't a bad day. Nope. Not even plastic yard flowers shoved in a bucket filled with cat litter and presented to me by my youngest son (again, because he first gave them to me a week ago when he sneaked up on me in my bathroom and scared me to death) could have made it a bad day.

But on Father's Day?

On Father's Day, there will be breakfast in bed and no talk of wrestling. There will be no belching for points and unidentifiable smells. And there will be an afternoon matinee of Sex and The City.

Mom's can get confused reading a calendar, too!

what i am is what i am

To prove that I'm not just a spinning orb of whining and raging sexiness, I'm dedicating this post to six things about myself that are uninteresting. Sadly, coming up with six things that meet that criteria wasn't that difficult. In fact, some of you may be inclined to refer back to the nearly 300 prior posts around here and say, "See? The times where you talked about your panties? Lame. And let's not forget your obsession with monkeys. That's just silliness!"

To which I say at least be nice when you say those things, please, and thank you for not rubbing in the fact that I'd like to rub my fact into Kevin Federline as exhibit A on your list of my uninterestingness!

One moment please....

....mmmm....Federline....

Ok, to task. I was asked to do this post by Mandy, and apparently it's one of those tags that is circling the blog world. With no further preamble, sit back, shake your head, and mutter "Hmmph. Uninteresting!" at the following:

1. When I can't sleep and we have power at the castle, I'll lay in bed, look at the popcorn ceiling, and try to make out odd faces and shapes. I truly believe the face of Jesus is looking down upon me from the corner near where I toss my sensible shoes when I get undressed. In the middle of the room is a trio of clowns. After my eyes blur and I glance back up at ceiling Jesus, praying to him not to take my vision from me, I stay awake wondering how cool it would be to have an actual popcorn ceiling.
2. When I was 11, I won a roller skating party for my class by being able to name the Little River Band's song Reminiscing in three notes. Yeah. I was just that cool.
3. I feel obligated to finish every book I read, even if I decide the book sucks. Perhaps you'd feel that way, too, if you worked in a bookstore and thought the books would come to life and exact their revenge upon you if you didn't finish what you started. Maybe not. Maybe that last sentence should be it's own entry on this list. Anyway, I bought this book nearly three years ago, started reading it about a year later (eh, not my typical genre), and I have only 2 chapters left to finish it. Alas, I've not touched it in two years. I will, eventually, because the pages of books? I think they talk to each other, and dying via paper cut isn't my cup of tea.
4. I still have the sweater I wore the night I met Tool Man. It's a hideous, long, salmon-colored monstrosity, and it's not like he touched me while I had it on or anything, but the fact that, out of everything, HE remembers what I wore that night made it special enough for me to save.
5. I twirl and twist my hair almost constantly. It's a habit I've had since childhood, and used to be something I only did when I was tired or bored, but now I do it all the time, and I figure it beats smoking, which I've never done, ever.
6. Magicians annoy me. Their stage banter is lame. Just once, magic man, how about not putting up the screen when the (finger quotes) blades (finger quotes) allegedly rip into your torso. Abracadabra. I think you suck.

Not you, of course. You all don't suck. I know that time I wrote about the pros and cons of being a vampire kind of sucked, but in all honesty, hello? It was a post about vampires! It was supposed to suck!

I'm sure I'm supposed to tag others to share their uninteresting qualities, but I typically find by the time I ever get these and get around to doing them, everyone else who publishes a blog has done it, so I'll just leave it to you to do with as you see fit in the event I'm not the last one.

Then leave me lots of nice, rambly comments, lest I whine again!

'so let's play doctor baby, cure my disease'

So remember that time I told you about what a whiny little weenie I can be sometimes?

(Only awww, yeah, baby, I'm no little weenie! Uh uh. I rock the big ween, y'all!)

Well, join me now as I share with you another aspect of my personality that will serve to both titillate and dismay, leaving you disoriented, yet oddly intrigued about how I'm wired.

Let us begin our journey approximately one week ago, when, after I disgraced my hard working ancestors and sullied the good name of my family by complaining about how hot I was just laying in bed doing absolutely nothing because I couldn't see nor bear to endure an 80 degree night without the comforts of a ceiling fan, I gave thanks to Jesus and science when the power was triumphantly restored within 30 minutes. Approximately 12 minutes later, I decided it would be fun to start complaining about how sore my left hip and upper back was.

I find it amusing to bring the conversation back to me anytime an uncomfortable silence falls over the crowd, or my husband is trying to fall asleep. That's a bonus personality tidbit!

The complaints about my hip and back pain aren't new. In fact, it's been ongoing for about two months, and they are sometimes accompanied by tears. I would like to say it's the result of afternoons spent roundhouse kicking predators during secret ninja warfare, but I believe the primary culprit lies with several consecutive hours (days) spent dancing. Although I thought I was strong enough to suffer for my art, Dance Dance Revolution is an unforgiving lover, my friends, and art has been all "Tap, tap, tap. Hi! Remember that time we reminded you you weren't exactly a child anymore, and that we'd prove it to you by smiting your body with pain the likes of which made childbirth feel like a breeze? Well, we're here now. Scoot over. Oh! Ha ha! You can't scoot over 'cause your hip hurts really, really bad. Ain't that just a bitch."

Anyway, rewind. I'm complaining. Here's a smidgen of what my Tool Man put up with that night:

"This hurts so bad. I can't move. It feels like there's a creature inside of me trying to work itself out. Now it's in my shoulder, too. Please roll me over and see if you can spy a creature's head attempting to burst through my flesh. Do you think it's possible to die from this? Perhaps by a pillow placed over my face to quiet my tears and whoops! Stopping my breathing? Two months! Two months this has gone on! The heat didn't kill me, but I think this will. Donate my body to science so this malady can be cured. Do you think I should see a doctor? I should see a doctor. What kind of doctor should I see? What in the world do I tell a doctor!? Waaa...waaa....waaa...waaa."

In a shocking twist that must proves gender is a mystery never to be unlocked, my moaning and groaning didn't dampen the Tool Man's crazy lust for me! Turned on by my incessant whining, and satisfied that my core body temperature had dropped thanks to the return of electricity, my lovely rolled over slowly, so as not to disturb my geriatric hip, and gave me the patented sex move.

...sigh...the wiggly eyebrows get me every time...

"Be gentle," I said, sounding much like he did the very first time we ever had sex.

Waaa...waaa...waaa. Time passed. More time passed. A little bit later, I thought, "When did Cirque de Soleil come to town, (and will that creepy looking clown give me nightmares)?" and my hip and I eventually begged for mercy.

The next morning, I awaken and do as I've done every morning for the past two months, which was to approach the task of getting out of bed gingerly, afraid to rouse the beast within my back. However, upon gently swinging my legs around and toward the ground, I felt no pain. Assuming I must be dreaming, I bounced off the mattress and hit the floor at full stride, only to find that my hip had, indeed, been granted mercy.

I almost did a dance, but knowing the dance is my enemy,(but beware, dance, for I will claim you again!) I refrained. Instead, I tested myself on the stairs and found I could glide down them like I was atop a cloud. "I'm cured! I'm cured!" I yelled, and rushed into the Tool Man's arms, showering him with love for whatever miracle elixir he'd sold me just a few hours prior.

Nearly a week later, I'm still virtually pain free, and have been making regular appointments with the Tool Man for (say it with me now, then groan really loudly) refills on my prescription. Oh, yeah! Surely this is one for the medical journals!

So, you've gotten this far and are probably saying, "Yeah! You got some! Even with the image of a creepy clown in your mind, you got some! Good for you! Oh, and you're pretty much pain free now, freeing you to dance and do whatnot (wink, wink). Kudos! But what were we supposed to learn about you upon reading all your words? And why do I not use the word 'kudos' more often?"

Add the fact that I am unashamedly cheap to the list. During my check ups with Dr. Feelgood, I've often thought, "Think of the copay I'm saving, baby!"

'twas the first thing I could think of to do in the dark...

The other night I returned home late to discover my little slice of the suburbs had sunk into a pit and was experiencing a blackout. Being incredibly intuitive, I only asked myself, "Why is it so dark? Why are there no lights on in the houses around me? Why aren't the traffic signals working?" about 15 times before coming to the conclusion that there had been a power outage.

I know, right? It's as if all the hours I've spent watching Schoolhouse Rock and Bill Nye, The Science Guy were for naught, my friends, as I was clearly calling into question the fact that I have garnered much of my smarts from the little people inside my television (which I couldn't watch as a result of the blackout, however, I tried turning it on a couple of times anyway...after I also tried to open my automatic garage door to get me inside my shrouded house).

It was just after 11 p.m., when I walked into my pitch black house. Wired from hours of coffee and conversation, yet thwarted in my usual nightly ability to read, educate myself via TV, or get on the computer, I fumbled my way upstairs with the Tool Man and the ungodly early hour of 11 p.m., and got ready for bed.

Now, bear in mind that the night of this blackout, it was approximately 80 degrees, 100 percent humidity, and there was no breeze. Thanks to TV, I have learned that heat rises, so these factors meant our bedroom was hella hot. I don't really do hot well. With those factors in mind, please join me as I take you into my bedroom for a brief transcript of the conversation my husband and I had:

Me: Gaaaawwwwdddd. It's SOOOOOOO hot up here!!!
Tool Man: You'll be fine.
Me: I swear to you, I'm gonna die!!! I will die!!!! It's toooooooo hoooooootttttt.
Tool Man: Quit moving around. You'll cool down.
Me: If I could see, I would get a paper and pencil and write my last will and testament.
Tool Man: It's not that bad.
Me: Tell the boys I loved them.
Tool Man: Can we go to sleep now?
Me: How can you possibly sleep? It's soooooo hooootttt! And I'm sooooo bored! I wanna read. I can't sleep. There's no way I can sleep like this. Didn't you hear me? I said it's too hot!
Tool Man: (silence)
Me: Maybe if I whip my ponytail around really fast, I can generate a breeze. Scoot over so I don't take your eye out.
Tool Man: (silence)
Me: Oh, that's just going to make me sweat more! I hate sweating! Do something!! It's soooooo hooootttt.

After several minutes stating my obvious displeasure, tossing in several (as in "shut up, already") references to how bored I also was, and trying to think if I'd ever seen a television program about how fast a person dies when subjected to extreme high temperatures, I turned back to the Tool Man to engage him.

Tool Man: You don't have to say it. I know. You're hot. You're soooooooo hooootttt.
Me: I'm totally hot, and if it wasn't sooooo hooott and didn't just feel a river of sweat cascade between my breasts, I'd show you just how hot I am. Alas, I thought I should just tell you that I don't think I have what it takes to cut it as a pioneer. I am truly sorry.
Tool Man: (silence)
Me: If I were a pioneer, I would pray every night for a plague of grasshoppers to come and wipe out my family's fields, thus forcing us to pack up the wagons and head to cooler climes. Short of grasshoppers, I'd also consider a roving band of miscreants to ride in one day and unleash hell upon the inhabitants of my tiny town.
Tool Man: You know you're being a little dramatic now, right? You know that we'll never experience pioneer hardships ever again, right?
Me: Hello? I've seen your silly science fiction movies! I know the population can be wiped out with the tiniest experiment gone wrong! Who's to say this blackout isn't the result of someone tinkering in a secret lab in their basement four blocks over right this very moment!?
Tool Man: Who's to say...
Me: I'm sooooooo hhoooooottt!!! It's too hooottttt!! I think I'm gonna die...I want to die......

Seconds later, I heard the tiny click of our bedside phone, which was soon followed by the resuscitation of our clock radio, it's flashing "12:00....12:00...12:00," signaling it's pulse back to life.

"OH! Praise Jesus!" I yelled, feeling the breeze from the ceiling fan increase and spill down upon my sweaty, ravished, pony tailed, naked, and splayed body as the blades picked up their pace. "Thank you for not taking me like this. Thank you for the lack of grasshoppers. Thank you for electricity. Thank you..."

As I reached down to grab the sheet from the bottom of the bed to warm up my now chilled body, I asked Tool Man if he, too, felt like the blackout had gone on forever. "Something like that," he responded as I rolled over to reset the alarm. It was then that I discovered the black out had, in fact, not gone on forever.

No.

It had lasted only thirty minutes.

Thirty.

Minutes.

Thirty minutes.

Not only am I a whiner, but indeed, I am a very big weenie.