these are my confessions...

• I think Train's "Drops of Jupiter" is one of the greatest songs ever written.

• I don't understand a single thing about any of the games on "The Price is Right." When they rattle off the rules for each game? That's Chinese to me, my friends. Showcase Showdown is like one giant word problem and I'm stuck on a train that was supposed to be traveling 140 miles per hour when it leaves New York at 2 a.m., but instead, it's stalled on the tracks.

• Speaking of trains, I'm totally not kidding about Drops of Jupiter.

• Also, in my entire life, I've probably only watched a total of five hours of The Price is Right, so it's not like I dwell on the fact that I don't get it, but I seriously don't get it.

• You know how sometimes when you were a kid, you'd fake being sick so you could stay home from school and watch game shows and General Hospital? Yeah, well, I watched Card Sharks and then played John Lennon's Double Fantasy on my parent's stereo and sang aloud.

• I'm no one's idea of a singer, but friends, I can KILL at some Card Sharks.

• I surreptitiously erase television shows from the DVR that my Tool Man records to make room for programs I'd enjoy. This explains how I got him to watch Glee with me.

• Shhhh - Tool Man totally loves Glee.

• "She listens like spring and she talks like June." That? That's poetry! That's embracing the English language like a secret lover and caressing the words until they melt into pools of awesome.

• I enjoy using words like 'surreptitiously' when really, 'secretly' would've been easier to use and wouldn't have required looking up the proper spelling. I don't have the ability to melt words like one Mr. Pat Monahan.

• Who's Pat Monahan, you ask? Lead singer of Train, yo.

• No. I know you want me to be kidding, but I'm not kidding. I LOVE that song.

• I want to lick melted chocolate ice cream off Pat Monahan's chin, risking the possibility I might cut my tongue on the scar he has there.

• Speaking of DVRs, I recorded The Strangers almost a year ago during one of those free premium channel weekends our satellite provider offered and, even though I know exactly how it starts and ends and that it's lame, I've not yet watched it because I refuse to do so when Tool Man isn't home to scare away potential intruders with his snoring.

• Still speaking of people I want to lick things off of, I have a totally bizarre and rather questionable attraction to Russell Brand. That's not a joke.

• Why is a bad joke like an unsharpened pencil? It has no point. That IS a joke. It is also a metaphor for this particular post.

• From time to time, my random celebrity crushes obviously skew a wee bit older than Joe Jonas.

• Speaking of eating things - and not that I want you licking things off me any time soon or anything - I have a habit of spilling something on myself every time I sit down for a meal. Every. Time.

• You're singing Drops of Jupiter in your head right now while you read this, aren't you? Tell me, did Venus blow your mind?

• I have a long simmering hatred of Internet abbreviations and acronyms. They don't make me LOL.

• There's a part of me I don't like that wants to see MacGruber when it's released this summer. This is a rather unfortunate desire considering the last grown up movie I got to see in a theater was Terminator Salvation a year ago. I'm not altogether fond of the part of me who made me go to that, either.

• Drops of Jupiter ranks in my top 10 list of songs I've deemed Driveway Songs, which are songs that, if they come on the radio when you're arriving home after an exhaustive absence or even just a quick hop across the block for milk, compel (see also - mandate) you to remain in your vehicle while the song plays in its entirety. Although not necessary, it's strongly suggested you sing along loudly and with much feeling while also using whatever means are available to you within the vehicle (the steering wheel, your child's stomach, an empty pop bottle, a crushed bags of potato chips) as instruments.

• In addition to the poetic opus that is Drops of Jupiter, my list of Driveway Songs includes, but is not limited to, the following - She Talks to Angels; Band On The Run (see also Live and Let Die, original recording); Paradise by the Dashboard Lights (only to be carried out if you've not consumed a copious amount of liquid prior to your arrival home); Mr. Roboto; Back in Black; Land Down Under; I'm Too Sexy; No Rain; Surrender; and any in the official Bon Jovi Trifecta of Sonic Perfection (patent pending) that is Living On A Prayer/Bad Medicine/Lay Your Hands On Me.

• For reasons still unknown to me, I continue to watch both Desperate Housewives and 24.

• Remember way back in 2001 (interesting trivia - Train's Drops of Jupiter was released in March 2001. Can you believe it?! Time flies!) when I told you I hadn't yet watched The Strangers because quasi-scary things scare the bejesus out of me? It's that very reason that I must quickly turn the channel or loudly hum a happy song (guess...) when commercials for the Nightmare on Elm Street remake air. One, two, the kid from The Bad News Bears is coming for you...

• I feel bad for the toys my kids no longer play with. Seriously. Except for the Bionicles, which just look mean and could, assuming they were real, possibly drill my brains out, which is not a metaphor.
  

• Any time I'm outside, regardless of the weather conditions or the time of day, I wear sunglasses. Yes, that means I wear my sunglasses at night.

• Oddly - and to be rectified post-haste - my list of Driveway Songs doesn't include Corey Hart's tribute to nocturnal ocular shields.

• I could have just as easily said 'quickly.'

• As well as Sunglasses at Night.

• I loathe the word 'nocturnal.'

• I still own Corey Hart's First Offense LP.

• I don't know about you, but I can imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken, my best friend always sticking up for you (because she's nice like that) even when I know she knows you're wrong. I can also imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance, five hour phone conversations, the best soy latte that you've ever had...and me. Yes. I CAN imagine it, and I don't like the idea of not having any of that. Especially the whole 'me' part. And if you can say you can't, well, then, head back to the milky way, my friend, because you're alien to me.

one small step...

Ever since his first day of kindergarten, my youngest son and I have walked the short distance from our front door to the corner of our quiet cul-de-sac to wait for the school bus to pick him up. It's a simple routine, often encompassing the few moments in each day that I get to spend purely alone with my child. There are days when I find the process to be more a burden than a treat, but as a whole, I look forward to our launches.

Every day at exactly 8:16 a.m., we run through a final checklist of his academic requirements - Water bottle? Check! Homework folder? Check! Snack? Check! - and then set out on our way. It's a ritual borne out of my parental need to feel like my son is safe at the corner for those few minutes before the noisy yellow bus groans to a stop and he passes through its gaping maw and into the noisy belly of the beast. I do not wish to believe anything horrifying could happen to my child, but I do know I could never get to him fast enough if I were standing at Point A while he was at Point B.

Out of this parental need has sprung joy. I've mentioned many times before that our daily walk is something so much more than just a quiet stroll. We sing songs. We announce our arrival at the corner by jumping on the large rock nested in the neighbor's yard and bowing before our royal subjects, which are the birds and whichever one of us is left standing because they didn't make it to the rock first. Before we've reached the end of our driveway, my son will be chattering away about his plans for recess or the latest book he selected at the library, and while I listen, I'll fan the fingers of my left hand and he'll quietly, instinctively, twist the fingers of his right around them. As he chatters or we sing and we walk, my son, now almost nearing the end of second grade, will forget he's outgrowing his need to hold my hand, and I'll respond to his questions while thinking I must not blow my chances at being able to repeat this next day by smothering him in goodbye kisses when we reach the corner.

Perhaps his willingness to still hold my hand during this routine is purely his way of thanking me for never embarrassing him in front of his fellow bus riders with overwhelming displays of public affection! If so, I accept his deal.

So, as you might imagine, today started out like every other school day. At 8:16 a.m., I began ticking off the items on his list, he made a last minute stop to the bathroom, checked to ensure the episode of Bakugan he was watching would be recorded for him to watch later, and we were out the door. At the end of the driveway, while we talked about the slight chill in the air, I fanned the fingers of my left hand out and waited for him to twist the fingers of his right around them, and just as it hit me that he wasn't taking my hand, my little boy dashed two houses ahead of me, then turned his head slightly to see if I was following.

"Do you want me to stay here and just watch you the rest of the way?" I asked quietly, hoping he wouldn't hear.

"Yes," he responded loudly.

I took a few more steps forward and he took a few bigger ones to counter me.

"If you don't want me to go down to the corner with you, I can go back to the driveway and just watch to make sure you make it OK," I said. I just needed to hear it again. To be punched a little bit harder in the parental heart one more time. Clearly, the independent swagger displayed by my second grader before I even finished asking indicated he'd be fine. He took off in a sprint to the corner, his camouflage backpack bouncing against the sweatshirt I made him put on before we left. He marked his arrival at Point B by jumping atop the neighbor's rock while I slowly turned around and moped back toward Point A.

When I heard the bus turn our corner and grind to a stop, I turned (for the 12th time on my short adventure) to wave goodbye to my son, and just before the doors swung shut and swallowed him whole, he turned back toward me, fanned open the fingers of his right hand, and quickly waved goodbye to me.

The first big goodbye of many.

five days since you laughed at me saying get that together come back and see me

Oh sexy Internet!! Do you know what I haven't done for a very, very long time?

Uh, how 'bout update your dang blog for like a hundred million years?

Well, yeah, I know, Internet. I know. It's been a little while. The title of this post sort of gives that one away. It wasn't exactly what I was going for, but it works, so I'm sticking with it. I'm sorry, both for being a bit lazy in the title thing AND for not coming around in awhile.

However, yours was not the answer I was looking for when I asked if you had any idea what I haven't done in a very, very long time. Want to try again?

Sang opera badly?

That would be the only way I sang it. Also? No.

Pretended to know something about that one thing when really you don't know jack about a lot?

Done and done. I didn't come here so you could make me feel bad, Internet...

Had a starring role in my dreams?

That's between you and your God. P.S. - Nice job kissing up to me.

Been totally exhausted and defeated, but bucked up like the good little camper you are?

Totally. However, that's still not the answer I'm looking for today.

Then we give up.

Really?

Did I stutter?

No. Also, nice Breakfast Club reference. Fist bumps, Internet. That's why I love you.

The thing I haven't done here for a very, very long time is bust out with a gigantic Tits List!!
That's right! You know them, you love them! It's My List Of Things I Currently Think Are Awesome That I Like To Refer To As 'The Tits' But Will Also Refer To As 'Cool Stuff' For Those Of You Who Don't Care For That Word!

You've missed them, haven't you? I can't say I blame you. My previous Tits Lists are huge (ok, that particular one was sort of small) and, if you're like me, you can't take your eyes off them! I know this. That's why I still love so many of the things on those earlier lists. However, a good Tits List needs tweaking, and I'm here to give you one of those tweaks. Are you ready? Let's do this!

Tits List IV - Comin' Back For More!

• Desmond's return to LOST (I've missed ya, brotha)
• the word 'glisten' (it's almost 'moist,' but not quite)
• getting free CDs from work (Michael Buble, it's the only way you'd be in my collection)
• working out (only listed here as a means of convincing myself it's awesome)
• reruns of How I Met Your Mother on Lifetime
• roasted vegetables (who knew I'd love you so hard, brussel sprouts?)
• the return of Glee (to paraphrase Sue Sylvester, I was aroused and then furious when you were gone for four months...it's good to be back)
• What Would Brian Boitano Make on Food Network (love him)
• BBQ Popchips
• caramel Milky Ways
• the way my jeans are constantly falling down even though I've indulged in a few (too many) caramel Milky Ways (you win, working out...)
• Prince's Sign O' The Times cd (I'm gonna party like it's 1987...)
• brownie husband
• the guy shopping at the bookstore last week who, while on a cell phone call with a friend, said 'Talk to me, Goose."
• sleeping with the windows open again finally (until an ACTUAL goose flew over my house, loudly, at 4:30 a.m., and I lost that lovin' feeling)
• the massive, block-long hopscotch grid my kids and their friends drew in chalk that started at our garage door and ended up the street.
  
• logging onto Facebook and seeing the status update of one of my friends who plays Farmville that read "Jim is in search of wood."
• that my oldest son has decided he will get his haircut tonight after all (and by after all, I mean after I showed him a photo of Justin Bieber and told him hair like that took more work than someone who can't remember to brush his teeth twice a day could put into it)
  
• Modern Family
• the 'I Will Remember You' episode of Angel. When the clock ticks and memories are dissolved and Buffy clings to Angel and cries? I BAWL LIKE A BABY. I purposely watch it JUST TO CRY!
• my dear friend TwoBusy now likely saying "When is it you DON'T ever cry?"
• the fact that I don't watch as much TV as this list would have you believe
• Polite Fictions
  
• also Culture Brats, the lovechild of my other dear friend, Chag, and his pop culture team of crime fighters.
• walking out of Walgreens with $40 worth of merchandise that I only paid $4.50 for (and not because I shoplifted it, m'kay?)(those days are long over!)(psst - coupons!)
• the fact that my inappropriate crushes on young male celebrities doesn't kick in until said young male celebrity is close to 19 (except in the case of Nick Jonas, but he seems older than 17)

Holy hell, that is a monstrous Tits List! I should stop now, even though I know you all love a good TL, so I hope you'll share some of what you think is awesome right now with me. Do it. You know you want to...

(oh, speaking of things that are the tits, and, well, have to do with, I guess, ACTUAL...yeah...OK, you remember I went to the doctor? Well, I'm happy to now report that my issue is a non-issue. Hooray! I guess that should have topped my Tits List, huh?)

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One more thing. Did you catch that Polite Fictions was on my list? Well, it's there for a reason and that reason is all the awesome that the great pool of talented writers fills the place up with, and NOT just because I'm going to take this opportunity to pimp my latest contribution there, but I just did that, so I guess...well...I guess I just want you to go read it, and hey, leave a comment, would you? Not just at mine, but all the (far, far better) offerings that have gone up. You might remember (or just now discover, lucky you!) that we're writing about the Alphabet of Regret this time. I just busted out a little something around the letter P. You may be asking yourself are there parenthesis involved, and I would be telling you that I could tell you, but instead, I'd like you go go find out yourself (because there's other P type things there, too...) and tell me if you think it's The Tits.

here comes peter cottontail, hoppin' down the bunny trail of broken dreams

So the other night, the boys and I were gathered around the dinner table to partake in whatever luscious concoction I'd whipped up for dinner that night when my oldest son piped up and announced with great fanfare "I know what the Easter bunny better have in my basket this year!"

Lest your first thought be, "Wow. Isn't that kid closing in on the dark side of 13? He still believes in the Easter bunny? Isn't that weird?" the answer is he doesn't firmly believe any longer, but he likes the idea that something resembling an oversized and adorable rat bounces through the house in the wee hours of the morn to leave delicious treats and treasures (and even if he still believed, so what, because deep down inside me, I keep waiting for Santa Claus and his elves to stop me each December in the parking lot of Target to say, "Don't worry, little lady. We got this.").

Now onto your second thought, which, if it was like mine, was to ask, "What do you think the Easter bunny better have in your basket this year?"

(I had to ask because if you're a regular reader around these parts - thank you - you might recall that last Easter, I stuffed the boys' baskets with solid chocolate rabbits, and sweet resurrected Jesus, my youngest son STILL HAS NOT EATEN HIS, so apparently, I might not be the best man for this job)

"A freakin' ipod!" the kid exclaimed, actually jumping up from his seat, sending portions of whatever luscious concoction I'd whipped up for dinner that night to go tumbling down the rabbit hole that may or may not be my kitchen floor. God knows there's enough Cheerios and Rice Krispie pieces down there to confuse visitors to our home into thinking I operate a toddler factory.

Needless to say, his announcement caused me to choke a bit on said luscious concoction, as well as channel the geriatric version of me who sits on a front porch somewhere sipping Country Time lemonade to chuckle softly in the way wise old people chuckle, crook my finger to wave the boy closer to me, and announce that "Back in my day, son, we didn't get no fancy la dee da presents in our Easter baskets. No sir. In my day, we didn't even have baskets. We had to share one measly hard boiled egg and a few black jellybeans and dang nabbit, we liked it!"

Then I made him run around the yard so I could yell at him to get off it, then race over to me so I could pinch his cheeks and ask if I smelled like powder and sadness. This kid will never visit me when I get old.

Long story short, I laughed at him. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed. Then I gently reminded him that Easter is not really like Christmas, and that if anyone deserved an ipod, it would totally be Jesus Christ himself, who I like to think would have an awesome assortment of songs on it when he hit shuffle on his genius playlist. "However," I said to him, "if you've been paying attention at all during church these last few years, Jesus did not emerge from the dead after three days and saunter out of that cave and say 'Wherest though my ipod, bitches?"

Methinks someone is going to be a wee bit disappointed Sunday morning when they come down and find his basket filled with delicious candy treats that have been nestled atop a comfortable pair of summer pajamas. Thanks for nothin', Easter Bunny. Bawk, bawk!

Oh, I can't fool you. As soon as I'm done here, I'm going to Target to pick up a few more things. Probably some more damn Bakugan balls and Tech Deck fingerboards (sidebar - can I possibly drop more product names into this post? - because they're reasonably priced and mama's got a gift card burning up her wallet.

First I have to wait for the damn eggs to boil, though. I started that process nearly 30 minutes ago (after consulting Google on how to cook them, natch) and the water still isn't boiling!! It'll be Monday before I get to Target at this rate, which, I guess, is fine because by then Easter candy will be on clearance. Sheesh!

I just heard one of the eggs popping. Excellent. I never, ever have good luck with this egg coloring tradition. It may have something to do with the fact that I think chickens quite possibly hate me after this particular post from way back in the blogging golden days of 2007. Good God, I've been doing this far too long. Go read those three posts. There probably far better than this one. Besides, it's Good Friday. You're probably not even out there reading or writing today anyway, are you? Hmmm? That's what I thought.

May you have a happy Easter and may all your baskets be filled with delicious Reece's peanut butter eggs...and maybe one Dove solid chocolate rabbit because if you want one, it's honestly still in my pantry.

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The doctor...

She made no "Hmmm" or "This is weird!" nor "Game over, man! GAME OVER!" remarks when I visited her Tuesday afternoon and she felt the lump. She did shake her head a little bit when she was reminded of my age (42 - where's my Country Time lemonade, yo?) and the fact that I've never yet had a mammogram (I know, I know...), so I got ushered down the hall for that. There was a needle. There was a biopsy. I'm pretty sure it's all going to be fine. Same rules as my last post apply.

Thank you all, again and again, for your kind words and pats on the back. If you emailed me and I haven't responded, please know that I adore you - seriously - but I went a little dark for a few days. I will get back to you, I swear. Even though I've not had the pleasure of meeting any of you in person, I consider you treasures.

And now my eggs have just started to boil. Wouldn't you know it...one of them is a damn rogue floater...

Hop along now, my rabbits.