mrs. :real name goes here: jon hamm. JH + me = TL4vr

Let me start this post by apologizing to all of you for posting a little 'guess what!?' query last week and then disappearing the way my waist line had been before I caved to the siren's call that is Reece's peanut butter trees. I'm sorry, but those things are delicious and I, well, I am a bad writer. Forgive me?

Good.

Now, can you forgive me for lying to you up there in the first paragraph? Oh, there's some truth contained within. I have been eating way (WEIGH!) too many Reece's peanut butter trees lately (and peanut M&Ms), but the truth is, ever since receiving my Entertainment Weekly in the mail Saturday afternoon, I've pretty much been standing in front of my bathroom mirror, holding this cover shot of Jon Hamm up next to my face, and smiling demurely at that look he's giving me. Sometimes I pretend he's just called me a precious scamp and is smiling at how I giggle when he says that. Other times I think he's wondering if he should plant a big old kiss on me or chuck me on the shoulder. What's that, Jon Hamm? You want to nuzzle your whiskers on my neck? I do so like scruffy and Hamm!

Basically, I've spent several moments over the last three days pretending Jon Hamm is my pretend husband, which is crazy, I know, considering my real husband is presently standing in our kitchen, approximately 35 feet from me, chewing so loudly after shoving a giant wad of potato chip crumbs in his mouth, I fear going deaf. Back off, ladies and perhaps some gentlemen! That one is all mine.

Honey baked, indeed.

p.s. - Please forgive my atrocious chipped fingernail in that photo. It's all part of the look when you're a punk princess like me. OK, that's not true, either. Truth is, it was a tough day burying the bodies. The ground freezes quickly in these Midwestern winters.

(What's that? You say you didn't even notice the chipped black nail polish because you were so taken aback by my man-like digits? Nice. Alas, you'd not be the first person to think it)

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Speaking of digits...

The thing I was asking about when last I wrote? Do you still even care to know what it was that prompted someone in my house to ask if they could stick one of theirs in it? Yes? OK, it was a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime I received in the mail. For free, because why would I pay for a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime other than the fact that it would make my children gleeful, which is my sole agenda in life? Before I could secretly toss this offensive glob of goo away, my 8 year old saw it, and ran through the house with such speed I thought he'd gotten into my secret stash of Reece's peanut butter eggs (by the way, no endorsement implied with all these mentions, but my hips would be willing to attest to their deliciousness), screaming "CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT?! CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT!?"

Of course, it was so adorable, who was I to say no? I was still the woman who wanted to throw the stuff away, of course, but I am all about the happy times.

(you hear that, Jon Hamm?)

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The other reason I've been away is due to some medical issues with a family member that came to a head with yet another of those famous 6 a.m. telephone calls that I'd like to see abolished. This time, the call concerned my mother-in-law, who is battling several cancerous spots in her body as well as some other pressing medical issues, and has been in and out of the hospital over the last month. My husband and I rushed out the door last Wednesday morning thinking we would be saying final goodbyes to her. The day came to pass, but she did not, which, in light of what we were told when the call came, is wonderful. What's not, of course, is the continued medical issues my mother-in-law will continue to face, and helping my husband come to peace with the realization that life for her is changing. It's been a very long, sad week.

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Now I must prepare to bring the start of this week to a close by getting my above-mentioned slime-loving boy ready for his winter concert this evening. If in a few weeks you find yourself staring at the face of an adorable boy on the cover of your copy of Entertainment Weekly, the one where the headline declares him a triumph on the glockenspiel, that's my kid. If your daughter wants to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and moon over his pure cuteness, that's cool, but you might want to let her know that, at least for right now, he still thinks girls (but not slime) are kind of gross

p.s. - Wouldn't Glockenspiel be a most excellent name for a hardcore rap group? One whose members spit out extravagantly long beats about firearms. Maybe they'd have a hit with a remake of Pop Muzik. "Wanna be a gun slinger, don't be a rock singer. " (um, that's music from the olden days, kiddies). I'm not condoning that sort of thing, of course, but I assure you, it would be nothing short of awesome, and if I ever decide to form a hardcore rap group, it's what I'm going with, so don't you go lifting it from me, DJ Jazzy Jeff.