it's the great mellowcreme pumpkin, hips and thighs!

Oh, Fall. You know what I think of when people say they love this season, with it's shorter days, confusing weather patterns, and trees resplendent with vibrant colors?

Meh. Big deal. Whatever.

When this time of year rolls around, I only have one thing in mind and that is the triumphant return of mellowcreme pumpkins to the grocery store. Oh, yes, my friends. You can have your nippy temperatures, but I only want this nipply confection!

When I went to the grocery store last week to buy wholesome items like fruits and whole grain breads, these were the first things that hit me when I walked through the door. In fact, when I caught sight of them out of the corner of my eye while making my initial beeline for the berries, I immediately made that squeaky brakes noise, and then I said "beep, beep, beep" while backing my cart up to bow before the towering display of Halloween candy. It was absolutely necessary I made that wide load/watch out for large objects/things in mirror are closer than they appear safety beep because if I keep eating from the bag (OK, BAGS! SHUT IT!) I brought home, I'm going to need pilot trucks with the flashing lights trailing in front of and behind me as warning to my fellow shoppers to make a wide path for me when I eventually return to the grocery store. I'd feel bad about knocking down an unsuspecting child with my thighs.

There's a method I have to eating these treats:

1. Only purchase Brachs mellowcreme pumpkins and no other. Do not try to ply me with your generic mellowcremes for I will not be fooled. Yes, I will eat two or 18 before declaring them inferior, but I will not be fooled.


2. Hide the bag(s) from my Tool Man and my children. Every fall, my boys insist they love mellowcreme pumpkins and beg me to share with them, and though I resist mightily, I eventually cave (for they are adorable) and give them one apiece, into which they bite, make a face, and then declare them disgusting. Then I send them to their rooms and tell them not to come out until they understand what they did, which was waste two perfectly good mellowcremes that I could have eaten and also forced me to say "I told you so!" and I hate saying that.


3. Laugh sarcastically at the suggested serving size (six candies? pffft!) and proceed to dump fistfuls out into my grubby paws. Hold one aloft and alternate declarations of love with sneers of contempt. Saying "Oh, mellowcreme pumpkin, I see we meet again!" can go either way.


4. Indulge in an elaborate eating process that signals to everyone around you that you have a little bit of a problem with disordered eating. My method for consuming mellowcreme pumpkins involves first biting the tiny green tip off the top, then scraping at the green layer surrounding the former tip. Finally, bite the pumpkin in half, sometimes horizontally, but preferably vertically, and enjoy the two bites this provides. Then tell observers that if they think that ritual is odd, they should see me eat a slice of pizza. And pie. And also cake. And seriously, watch me eat a sandwich sometime. Oh, and ice cream? It's a process, too.

I'd eaten eight of these sugary orbs of fantastic bliss before 8:30 a.m., today and I can assure you that pairing them with only a small glass of water may not meet the USDA's recommendation for a healthy breakfast, but I feel like I can cut through steel using just the power of my eyes. I'm like Jared Leto in Requiem For A Dream after dancing with the devil and a pound of pure. Or Jared Leto in eyeliner with some sweet sword fighting moves. I don't know. What I do know is I've got a case of the Kenickie shakes and if I keep eating these, I'll end up looking like Jared Leto in Chapter 27 after he beefed up to play Mark David Chapman.

Besides, I need to leave room for the Reece's peanut butter pumpkins that are waiting for me at lunch.

this post brought to you today by the letter B

I planned to be a bitch today.

To be the best bitch on a day begging for bitchdom, I brainstormed and blueprinted and banged out a mission. I'd cry "Just because!" while banishing boys to the basement, then retrace my steps and return to my bed to burrow under blankets and perhaps even bawl. Find my inner Betty Draper, bend my hair into a bun. Imbibe in badly mixed elixirs while brooding about my day, bury myself face first into pillows once tastefully cornered on the davenport. My mind was bent on saying davenport rather than sofa or couch, because it's what my grandmother would say, and though she is forever among my beloved, she could also be quite a bitch, and today, that trait was going to run in the family.

I planned to be a bitch today.

But instead...

Instead I chose to burst forth upon the day where burst forth was the eager understudy for take a moment to stretch my weary bones. "Nay," I broadcast. "I shall not be a bitch today!"

Instead of banishing boys to the basement, I bunched them both up, the one who is a beanstalk and the other who answers to the nickname Boo, and we banded together to bake blueberry muffins. Because we don't believe in store bought mixes here (no offense to the other Betty, this one a Crocker), we blended and buttered and beat our way through bags of flour, sugar and broken eggs - blissfully, just two. Blessed with but only a 1/2 teaspoon measuring spoon where 2 teaspoons were a must, we bent our brains around the business of beefing up fractions (thank you, seventh grade math, chapter 2, for backing us up and bolstering our egos), then we watched the all the pretty flour(s) bloom upon the counter top.

While waiting for tiny blue pillows to burst, we also made these, and while I can think of no B-words to describe them and blow you away, I can break the news these cookies are the bomb. The secret ingredient? Banana pudding. "Best believe it," boasts the beanstalk, so you can bank on it being true.

Then the boy nicknamed Boo brought forth books and a query, so we buried ourselves in the pages. A blow-by-blow account of a chicken with a craving and a belly in need of filling, he set out to brew up bites for his buddies while they watched the big game. But just then came the big twist in the story! Those buffalo wings? They weren't quite what they seemed!

After bursting into laughter at our protagonist's beguiling tale, we broke free of the building to brave the great outdoors, where we backed down from blowing bubbles because we were blown away by the breeze before boogieing back inside to sample our fruity treats. The night is still young, there's time yet for burgers that have been barbecued and Buffy's season six exploits, but I already believe we've made the best of this day.

I planned to be a bitch today, but I'm blessed to know I thought better of it.

oops, i did it again!

So last night, with homework finally done and peace in the land once again brokered, I sat down prepared to soak in the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy, which I was looking forward to because my Tool Man and I spent a recent weekend watching 17 episodes from last season that were clogging our DVR. Before you say anything, just let me say I know. I know that Grey's Anatomy is hardly Shakespeare. I know it's ripe with trite moments, and seriously, believe me, I have paused the action plenty of times to question how it is doctors have so much time to sleep with one another in tiny closets throughout Seattle Grace. Don't even get me started on how amazing it is that they're also always able to schedule surgeries for the very same day and that complicated brain surgeries take mere minutes.

I know. Because it's a television show. "It's not real, honey," is what I always say to Tool Man when he goes off on one of his science fiction programs, though I do think there would be something oddly satisfying about knowing there could be a mega shark terrorizing the oceans.

Anyway, long story short, my night was set. Until I turned the TV, fired up the DVR, and discovered no McDreamy. None. Because my very own McDreamy had chosen to record two different shows at the same time Grey's Anatomy was broadcast. Like those 17 hours (14 1/2 if you count fast forwarding through the commercials) we'd spent like slugs on our couch a couple weekends ago meant nothing to him. Needless to say, this made me want to be entirely angsty like a fictional television doctor, and perhaps preface and end my rant with a thoughtful voice over.

Tool Man, of course, pretended he forgot how to cancel a previously set recording on the DVR in order for Grey's Anatomy to be recorded. Thanks to the knowledge I have gleaned from that medical drama, I was able to diagnose him with something called "Convenient Amnesia Because You Have To Watch That Stupid Show 'Supernatural'." He's just lucky this doesn't require removing a portion of his frontal lobe.

Alas, it also isn't cured with sex in the linen closet, either.

Well, it might, but I don't think it would be covered under his insurance.

So my night, while not ruined, left me a little dejected. Would have been a perfect time to maybe write a post here, but I think I have a case of serious writer's block that may be incurable. At the very least, it may involve a complicated series of tense and down to the wire organ donations.

However, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing at all! Remember a couple weeks ago when I shared one or 18 links to Polite Fiction and the chunk of a growing story there that I had written? Well, guess what? I'm there again today! Have you been reading along? Oh, you should! There are some really damn fantastic writers there, and then there's me. We'd love if you read and chimed in with your thoughts. Do you see that totally kick ass button for Polite Fiction over there to the left? Click on it. It'll take you to a world of mystery, intrigue, and veiled baking references. And cursing. Yes. Remember what I said last time? Art is messy? Yeah. It's gotten messier. We're about twenty uses of the f-word away from being a Tarantino movie.

So after all this, what's the moral of the story, Meredith Grey? Sometimes you get what you weren't expecting. The one you love will give you ghosts when you expected grief. A woman suffering from potentially fatal writer's block will pace her kitchen, stare at the pile of drafts littering her files, and spend a crazy amount of time worrying her four-paragraph contribution to a kick ass fiction writing blog will be the mega shark that emerges from the murky depths that she'll then have to jump over.

Or something like that. I don't know. What I do know is this:

• Please go check out the latest at Polite Fiction. Except the latest won't make a lot of sense if you haven't been following along. Wind back. Savor it. There are people there who love words and know how to use them in ways that should be illegal. And then, of course, there's me.
• The title of this particular post actually does make sense.
• Please don't tell me what happened on the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy. Thanks to this new-fangled thing called The Internet, I'll be watching online tonight while plotting ways to regain control over the DVR.

if the real thing don't do the trick you better make up something quick

Hello, my name is fadkog. You might know me from my work here at ...for a different kind of girl or twitter. I appreciate you tuning in, and I apologize for not being around for more than a week. I'll assume you've noticed I've not been around for more than a week. If you haven't, then I'm going to feel like a goof, in which case, here, let me me just tell you, again, that you're looking especially pretty and/or handsome today in an attempt to hide my assumptions. It's a pretty damn big assumption, too, because I've been stuffing fistfuls of candy corn and salted peanuts in my gullet for days.

What?

I know.

And THAT is why I've not been around for awhile. I've got nothing with the words lately. I sit down to write and then my kid has the nerve to come home with homework and OMG, THE HOMEWORK!!! Or my Tool Man starts hanging around the house on a daily basis and I'm all, "Um, don't you have a job? OMG! Did you lose your job?!" and no, he didn't, he's just taking some vacation days, but interesting, very interesting, he's growing that whole "I have no job" beard, and though it's only been four days, he already looks like Barry Gibb and I wonder every day I come home from my taxing book selling days if he's going to ask me how deep is my love.

What?

Yeah, I just wrote a paragraph name-checking a musical icon from the 70s. I like to keep up on what the kids are diggin' these days. So much so that, over the weekend, while the boys and I were running errands, a song came on the radio and I was all, "What is this crap?! Do kids like this crap?! In my day, singers didn't need radio edits! They needed a mean synthesizer and a pseudo-military jacket and they sang things like being hungry the way a wolf is hungry or obsessing over someone and demanding to know what they could do to make that person love them." In short, I felt old. Let me get my shawl, get off my lawn, "Oh, look, NCIS is on!" old.

What's NCIS, you ask? Good question. It's apparently some television show that's been on for awhile and now has a spin-off staring Chris O'Donnell and LL Cool J, and to that I say WHAT? I don't know why I say that, though, because I've never seen a single moment of the original show, but because I've got nothing at all to write about, I actually tweeted about it.

Yes, this is the type of scintillating goodness I give the wonderful people who follow me on Twitter. What do you mean you're not following me there yet? That's a grade A zinger right there, folks.

And that's another reason I've got nothing going on here, either. Oh, sure, I could have told you about how I was TOTALLY hit on over the Campbell's tomato soup cans while at the grocery store last night. I mean TOTALLY! Like, the dude after remarking about the amazing way I handled the cans, asked if I'd come over to his place and actually make soup with him!! Of course, because I'm happily married to a bearded hunk of man (even though he doesn't love tomato soup), I had to decline this Lothario's advances before he started telling me about the noodles in his chicken noodle soup which I'm *pretty sure* weren't actually noodles but a euphemism for things that are sometimes noodle-like. I also was compelled to turn him down because he had a far, far prettier ponytail going on than I did at that particular moment. I can do beards, but the wavy, thick man ponytails make me jealous and I don't need that over my refreshing cup o' soup.

So I won't tell you that story.

I will tell you that I noticed my Tool Man is totally rocking a six-pack these days. I was captivated by it the other night when we were sitting on the couch as the glow of the TV set off the chiseled lines. Of course, the six-pack is on his forehead, and it really pops when he scrunches his brow while deep in thought. The beard? It absolutely sets it off.

Speaking of off, I must now be. If you read this entire post, please accept my apologies. There are just no words.

i got no car and it's breaking my heart

You might remember in May we bid farewell to the Little Tikes turtle sandbox that had been in our backyard about a year longer than my boys cared for it to be. The day after dragging it to the curb for a citywide clean sweep, my Tool Man purchased a bag of grass seed, intent on offering the 43" x 47" circle of barren land back to Mother Earth. I watched him that weekend, sprinkling the ground, imagining the moment was like New Year's Eve on Time Square for the ants and other insects dwelling in the dirt, the seed falling like ticker tape from the sky.

I'd hoped having grass growing there, emerald green blades bursting upward, would help me forget the fact that we'd tossed out a link to my childrens' not so very distant pasts, but over the summer, real rabbits replaced the plastic turtle in our yard, and those rabbits circled the area like pygmies around a boiling cauldron, the seeds serving as their version of the hapless jungle explorer tied and trussed and prepared to meet his doom. Four months later, the grassless circle where memories and sand castles were made is still the first sight my eyes land upon when I look out my bedroom window each morning. Quite honestly, it still makes me sad.

"The rabbits are a sign," I told Tool Man one evening after I'd counted eight of them sunning themselves in the yard, perhaps smoking fat cigars and downing shots of aged scotch after another seed feast. "You know what they say about rabbits. I think the rabbits want us to have another baby."

Tool Man rolled his eyes because he thinks that I think everything wants us to have another baby. He made me stop finding reasons to go to Target last week during their baby sale because I'd return home and sigh about how I must have just missed that day's shipment of adorable infants. "I think if you buy five, you get a free $5 Target gift card," I'd wistfully remark. "Perhaps I should see if they're issuing rain checks!" Needless to say, no baby.

And now no Wiggles Big Red Car taking up a corner of my family room. When I returned from one of those many Target trips last week, I walked into the house and was immediately taken aback by the wide open floor plan. "There's something different going on here," I deduced while Tool Man remained calm and quiet. "Did you vacuum while I was away?"

"I sold the Wiggles car," he said. Then there was silence. Then some more silence. Tumbleweeds released from the expanse of open land where once the Wiggles parked their Big Red Car next to the couch may have actually rolled between us. I was physically crestfallen. In the hour and a half I was gone, this man who never gets rid of anything up and sold the Wiggles car. "I wish you would have just vacuumed," I cried, and not just because there were apparently tumbleweeds in our house.

Granted, my youngest son, for whom we delightfully purchased the Wiggles car as a Christmas present years ago during the height of his Wiggles love, is advancing toward the age when he can drive a real vehicle and not some plastic car one navigates with Fred Flintstone-like precision, tooting his horn at me when I jaywalked through the kitchen or watching for stuffed animal crossings. So many days my boy and his four Australian lads would cruise through the house, occasionally stopping to pick up that minx, Dorothy the Dinosaur, and sing ditties about fruit salads. For the last couple of years, the car's roomy front seat was the table where I rested my cup. It's trunk, with the gas tank lid that was typically flipped up because I'd reach down and flick it up and down with my index finger while we watched television, balanced my laptop each night when I logged off. Tool Man might say I kept the large toy car around these last few years because of my residual crush on Anthony Wiggle, and to that I would say...maybe.

Mostly, however, it was there for the memories. The memories and the lingering hope that maybe I'd come home one day, from Target or elsewhere, with another child who would cruise the house in it.

Toot, toot, chugga chugga, weep, weep, weep. The Big Red Car is gone.

"I got 20 bucks for it!" Tool Man said. Considering the car is practically an antique and formerly retailed for $39.99, I'll confess I was momentarily impressed with the man's salesmanship. But still...

Later that afternoon, my youngest son returned from school and plopped down on the couch next to me. "So, Dad sold your Wiggles car," I told him. I may have been pouting a little. "Yep," he nonchalantly replied. "That kind of makes me sad," I said. "How about you? Does that make you sad?" With a look on his face that stopped just short of including an eye roll, my sweet 7 year old responded, "Mother, honestly, I can't even remember the last time I used that car."

Honestly. So...so much for memories, eh?

(at least the ones I'm going to keep tucked away now that some other child is cruising around in the Big Red Car!)

With that, he asked for a snack (and in the spirit of all things Wiggles, I - albeit unsuccessfully - suggested fruit salad)(why? because it's yummy, yummy) and then was on his way, and Tool Man and I are 20 bucks richer. You know what you can buy with 20 bucks? A few memories, perhaps, and a hell of a lot of grass seed.

future employers, take heed!

My boys didn't have school on Tuesday. Our district had scheduled a teacher work day for the day after Labor Day, thus effectively avoiding having to make a decision as to whether or not President Obama's speech on the importance of a good and responsible education would be shown to students interested in listening. That afternoon, I plucked the boys away from the grips of play and together we sat down and watched the President's speech online, and afterward, although they were itching to run back to see what kind of inane videos they could find on YouTube of dudes racking their gonads or field one of the 86 trillion phone calls made to the house for them, I emphasized that the President's hope that they choose to do well in school was a hope their father and I share.

"Remember what the President said? That each of you has something that you're good at," I reminded them. "Each of you has something to offer, and one of the best ways to do that is to work hard in school and discover something that interests you."

Later in the afternoon, because my oldest son is not interested being organized, I pulled out his school binder and went about flipping through his assignment book and notes to see if there was any outstanding projects to be completed before they returned to school today. Happily, I didn't find any outstanding projects. I did, however, find something that I, honestly, can only describe as outstanding. Perhaps also astounding. At the very least, I deem it exhausting. Take a look:

Sigh...

During this academic year, middle school students will be setting academic, home, and character goals. Because we're only three weeks into the school year, my son's academic goal was to maintain his already strong grades. He's a smart one, that kid of mine. However, his home and character goals, honestly, leave a little bit to be desired. I didn't put a direct call into the White House to see if the President would concur, but I'm pretty sure Sasha and Malia are striving for a little more than being cool.

Seriously, check that home goal out. This month - being cool and playing. First, please know that the spelling? Yeah, we get it. We know. He knows. THAT is our goal. Being proactive in remembering to spell being without an extra i is on our long term home goal list. What I love about his goal is how my son plans to achieve it - Like saying 'What's up, homey?' and playing with my brother."

What's up, homey?

Eh, not much, dude. Just chillaxin' here while I bust out some sweet life goals.

Wanna play later?

'Spose so.

Cool.

Yep.

Do you notice the part where I circled some ideas from the list of goals my sweet, sweet homey could really, truly benefit from? "What about being organized? Remember how we always talk about needing to be responsible for yourself?" I asked him. "I forgot," he replied. Homey forgot. That means later on, I circled listening.

Honestly, I give the kid credit for creativity. I also let his character goals slide because he really is already everything someone with good character demonstrates.

During his speech Tuesday, President Obama told students that "No one’s written your destiny for you. Here in America, you write your own destiny. You make your own future." Never mind the future. Around here, we're taking the future one month at a time. And being cool, homey.

i give you the greatest post about nothing ever!

So I planned to come home yesterday and write an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, but by the time I returned from work and prepared to nestle safely back into the loving arms of my children, who immediately trumpeted my arrival with rapid-fire skedaddlin' out the door to play with their neighborhood friends (oh, and to tell me my Tool Man HAD been home, but had left because he apparently had, and I quote, things to do), my left foot was afflicted with a kind of pain that caused me to moan and thrash and weep mascara destroying pools of salt down my face, and apparently, though I've not yet figured out how, the pain in my foot makes it utterly impossible for me to also use my hands for such things as cleaning and typing, which is going to seem really odd in a few hours if you see me splattered all over Twitter or attempt to engage me in a jovial chat session where we spend enlightening moments LOLing each other's greatness.

So, long story short, my mysterious foot pain has rendered me incapable of writing my inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages. The human body is a miraculous and incredibly mysterious thing! As a result, you get this.

LOL!

When my Tool Man did return to the fold, he finally sighed and declared "Enough!" (although silently, for sometimes, and isn't that cute, I think he fears me), went out to the garage (aka - hell) and came back inside with the mangiest looking, science experiment containing plastic bucket and what appeared to be a dried up container of milk. I deduced it looked to be a dried up container of milk because he was shaking it and I could hear (over the gnashing of my teeth and crocodile tears)(seriously, when people say you forget the pain of childbirth, clearly that is the case for me, because I gave birth to two big babies without the benefit of modern pain temping medicine, but this foot, this demon appendage, is killing me. Were I to actually call a doctor - oh, what a novel idea! - and describe it to them, I would say, between the tears, remember, that it felt as though my heel had been secretly removed and replaced with a butcher knife. A BUTCHER KNIFE OF DOOM!) the maraca-like sounds of what could only be dried milk being forced to party. Or Epsom salt. It was totally Epsom salt (question - why do we have Epsom salt, dried out or otherwise, in our garage, aka hell?).

A few seconds later, Tool Man was plunging my demon paw into a vat of scalding hot, milky water, and when I was shocked out of the daze of my pain, I looked down to see he'd placed my foot in that nasty bucket he'd brought in from the garage (aka - hell). AND HE HADN'T REALLY CLEANED IT!! The the pain! The PAIN made it impossible for me to tell him that I now suspected I'd die of some parasite that would worm it's way in through the impenetrable fortress of my dried foot skin and wow, for that I hope you're happy, Tool Man! No. No, I didn't do that. Instead, I sat with my foot in that mysterious sludge factory for over an hour, and while my foot still does not feel the least bit better, something good did come of it. Want to know what?

Tool Man made supper last night! Hooray! Fireworks! No sex, though, because OMG, my foot!! She burns!

Also because he didn't do the dishes (and this surprises me why based on the bucket he had me put my foot in?), which was a little thing I discovered around 11:30 p.m., last night when I crawled my way up to the kitchen from the living room and sought refuge and inspiration for the arduous task of crawling up stairs to bed that lay before me. Living in a tri-split level house is not exactly The Tits when your toes (and your butcher knife heel) mocks you, my friends. So I busted out a flamingo move - balanced on one leg, don'tcha know - and did up those dishes because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's waking up to last night's dishes all over the kitchen.

Oh, and I also can't stand my unbearable, makes it difficult to stand, foot pain, too.

And world suffering.

And that show Eureka that Tool Man has to watch every Friday night.

Speaking of watching things, Tool Man and I are just now watching last season's Grey's Anatomy in an attempt to unclog our DVR and prepare for the hunting and gathering required of the new fall television season, and while we're watching Izzy go through her cancer issues (surely this is no longer a spoiler to anyone, right? I mean, it wasn't even a spoiler to me because hi, Grey's Anatomy has been off since early last May and even I wasn't able to avoid finding out how the season ended, but please, don't tell Tool Man because he doesn't know and, friends, in the past, Tool Man has totally wept a little bit at Grey's Anatomy and I find that adorable)(he doesn't find it adorable when I weep at Eureka, though, because he says I'm lying and my tears are to tears of heartfelt emotion but more of annoyance tinged with exhaustion) and as I was sitting there with my butcher knife stabby, potentially parasitic foot, I realized I was really starting to work on a headache and then after that, my left breast got incredibly itchy and while I thought that was odd, I also thought, "You know, that itchy sensation isn't exactly something new," and then I started to get hellishly paranoid that I have what Izzy has and I started to get emotional about not being there for my kids and OMG, Tool Man can't even wash dishes after making supper so how is he ever going to live without me?!

And then I thought hey, if I get a Dead Denny and his perpetually erect nipples out of the chance, then what's a few baked on messes?

I know. Seriously, I am not that insensitive, nor do I use as many curse words that screamed through my vortex last night. Stabby foot pain can and will make you think and do a lot of crazy things. I am not, however, sure what a routinely itchy left breast will make you do, though. Except scratch a lot, and I hear you're not supposed to do that.

And so today, instead of an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, you get this. You're welcome.

You'd also be welcome to come do my bidding today because, seriously, I'm going to be kicking it (note - not ACTUALLY kicking)(because of the sickly foot, remember?) like Jabba The Hutt, unmoving and talking gibberish, on my couch. While it's not necessary, we can discuss whether or not there's any chain yanking or dancing that will take place while you're in that Princess Leia slave girl get-up. You're welcome, indeed!

one of these things is not like the other

A few weeks ago, I logged onto my laptop, fired up my email account, and unearthed a couple emails from the ever-charming TwoBusy and clll asking if I'd like to be part of a writing project being cooked up among a handful of blog authors. Their initial emails were rather mysterious, but they used flattering words and I was having what could best be described as a colossally horrible day when they foolishly chose to lure me, and so I bit. It should be noted that this is pretty close to the way my Tool Man snared my heart and took me for his very own, lo these many moons ago. Apparently, if you refer to me as 'darling' or 'captivating' - which I'm not saying the above mentioned two men did, at least not necessarily in that order - I'm a pretty easy catch. So I was in.

Aha! THEN they told me their project - dubbed Polite Fictions - involved the participants creating a work of fiction, each one contributing their part to bring the story - whatever the story may be - to life. And that is when I panicked and considered pretending I was a 14 year old Japanese boy who had hacked onto Fadkog's account and agreed to this madness while also clearing out her measly bank account. Friends, I haven't written a piece of fiction in nearly 20 years when my college advisor and I made up an unaccredited minor in creative writing when I was a semester away from graduating. Remember that time when I said I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up? Yeah. There was no, nor is there to this day, creative writing minor at the college I attended.

(I just realized this may make me a trailblazer! Cool!)

Anyway, the only work of fiction I've been capable of for years is the weight on my driver's license, so admittedly, I was freaked out by the idea of jumping in on this project, but, I already told them I was in, and then TwoBusy spent far too much time talking me down. Did I mention he's charming? He's totally charming. So charming, in fact, that I think he thought he'd softened the blow enough to reveal to me the other INCREDIBLY TALENTED, FAR MORE GIFTED, BETTER QUALIFIED TO CALL THEMSELVES WRITERS who are also taking part in Polite Fictions and when he did, I began singing Alanis Morisette's Uninvited to him. "I don't belong here," I crooned.

Then I also dry heaved. Searched the internet for ways to render myself useless by breaking both my arms in the least painful way imaginable. Called ACTUAL 14 year old Japanese boys to inquire about blog hacking. Allowed TwoBusy to speak to me like Hannibal Lector as my scheduled day for posting at this new site approached.

And I caved because if there is one thing I am, it's a sucker for someone who asks me if the lambs have stopped crying.

So today's the day when my contribution posts at Polite Fictions and all those links to the site are my way of asking (pretty please) for you to go there and check it out. Seriously. Please. Start at the beginning and marvel at the way far better and more gifted writers are spinning this story, then read my entry and be nice. Then, I beg you, go back regularly to see how the story unfolds. Sure, there's curse words there. Whatever. Art is messy sometimes, yo. There's a pretty good chance some of us will have additional installments in this story. There's also a good chance the others will forget to tell me that, though, so I won't. Anyway, did you notice who else is writing at Polite Fictions? Check out that sidebar! That's what I'm talking about! You're going to want to know how this turns out!

Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm off to the mall with my new 14 year old buddy. His name is Shouhei, but I just call him...wait for it...Seth. You're not supposed to be here, anyway. You're supposed to be at Polite Fictions. Read there and leave some love, please! What are you waiting for? A picture of my boobs? HAHAHAHA! Go. Now. Scoot!

Here's the link one more time in case you missed it