the answer is yes...

Yes, Dave Grohl of Foo Fighter fame, I will accept your imaginary marriage proposal! What's that? Oh, I agree completely! I think we're going to be very happy together, too! In fact, let's run away together now, not next year, and let me show you just how well I already know the lyrics to every song on the new release, k?

That's right, baby. I'm not a pretender. Besides, you had me at your cover of Tiny Dancer.

You know what's going to be the best thing about us being pretend married, Dave? Other than the fact that I can whisper the words to Everlong in your ear every night after we make the sweet, sweet love? You know. The kind of lovin' that leaves you exhausted?

It's that you're gonna get me one step closer to Taylor Hawkins over there, and I figure since we're just pretend married anyway, we should be open with our relationship. All my life I've wanted to enjoy the sexy prowess of a musician, and honestly, I think you two boys fit the bill nicely. Sure, I've had opportunity to become acquainted with other musicians, and they've revealed themselves to be dicks. But you two? Oh, you two are so not dicks! Please don't think I'm gushing with pretend wedding day jitters when I say you're my hero. Sure, I know you're just going to say you're ordinary. Taylor, too.

To that I say no. That's the last time you'll ever hear me say no, too. Oh yes. The three of us are going to be very happy together. But not "together together" ok? I was wrong about that "only time I'll say no" part up there. I'm gonna have to say no to any rock and roll threesome proposals, too. But that pretend marriage proposal? Yes. Yes. A million times yes!

(Now, I imagine you're all out there wondering "Ok. This is great and all, per usual, but I wonder what I'm supposed to say in comments to this one?" Understandable. How about you just tell me, if you wish, who you would pretend to marry. Or whatever. I'm kind of about the whatever this week. Just keep in mind that Dave - and Taylor - are mine...)

the castle started spinning or maybe it was my brain

If you knew me in real life, one of the first things you'd think is "Wow, FADKOG! You're really not the "princess-y" type! And your rack truly IS kick ass!"

If you thought that, I would thank you, of course. Next, I'd be a little shaken and yet highly amused that suddenly I could hear people's thoughts and I'd probably spend a small amount of time ignoring you (forgive me) as I considered who I'd apply this skill to. Finally, I'd be compelled to ask "Geez! Whatever made you think I was the 'princess-y' type? Gah! Oh, and do you think 'princess-y' is, in fact, a word? Ok, then what about 'gah'? It's ok if you just think your answer. Just let me tune in."

Then you'd be like "Well, I think you bypassed that whole princess thing and stepped right into the big throne 'cause I can certainly tell you're the frickin' queen of something alright. Queen of the bitches, that is."

I'd agree of course, and then be all, "Well then, lowly serf, off with your frickin' head!"

Or something. My imagination is pretty much what carries me through a day, and since my days are now spent toiling like Cinderella for her wicked stepmother at the bookstore, my imagination is in tip top condition.

Thanks, all you stay at home dads, for contributing to that, btw.

Anyway, I truly am not the "princess-y" type; however, I think I could rock a castle. Alas, the closest I'll get to a real castle is one that's inflatable and there's a bunch of screaming kids teeming about. Jumping. Not listening. One errant leap away from breaking a nose or blackening an eye.

And did I mention screaming?

So, this pretty much describes how I already live. Minus the inflatable castle. And the tiara, which, I gotta admit, I think I'd look stunning in.

I'd wear it as I rule over the Land of I've Got Nothing Better Than This Right Now. It's pretty cool here. Plus, there's unicorns. Join me until I have things to write about, won't you? I'm pretty sure the unicorns are up for giving rides (I'd be the queen, after all, and thus could decree it. I imagine, anyway. Honestly, I'm not a big fan of unicorns, so I don't know the rules), and if you ask nicely, I'll let you wear the tiara for a minute.

But for just a minute. I don't need any bounce house palace overthrowin' going on. One slip wearing that thing and you could poke a hole in my house, you know. And seriously, someone will get a black eye.

Yeah. I'll stop typing now. It's your turn now. Feel free to comment randomly about whatever you wish.

who's your snacky? come on. say it. tell me...

"O R U our whore?" they whisper from the kitchen cabinet where I thought I'd securely locked them away in the dark recesses of the pantry.

Nabisco! Damn you! What have you done to me? These Oreo Cakesters - little chocolaty cakes filled with oozing cream that I swear must be laced with crack or the love of a million elfin bakers who want me to have the ass of a sedentary soul - demand a level of love and commitment from me that, quite frankly, scares me. One taste. That's all it took. One simple, nonchalant taste and I was coming back for more as soon as it seemed reasonable. Like within 12 minutes. I mean, that's reasonable, right?

Since bringing this crazy lover into my home a week ago, I've found myself pacing my kitchen, my heart brimming with lust that has transpired into something deeper. Entranced in a love affair I know is going to end up making me feel really bad about myself and require an extra 30 minutes of kick boxing to break free of. Hanging my head in passion riddled defeat, I open and close the pantry about 20 times every night. Look at the box with longing. Tell myself to walk away, give them to my sons. Anything to break myself of this burgeoning addiction. But, because the sugar is stronger than me sometimes, because the sweet can be so sweet, before I realize it, I have Oreo Cakesters (god, what you do to me, original flavor...) out again. My fingers trace the shiny blue and red package and I feel the outline of their soft and springy roundness through the foil of their individually wrapped love. Their creamy centers are in there, wanting me as much as I want them.

I told them I loved them fast. Within two bites. If you've tasted them then can you blame me? Note that angelic light and cloud of deliciousness that surrounds the Cakesters on the box and tell me you'd not not spill your love to them the moment they asked if you cared for them like they did you. As the crumbs dropped from the corner of my mouth and landed atop my left breast, I knew I was taking the Whoreville Express to Snack Land. Oh, my love was a muffled confession, sure, what with my mouth full of the goodness and all, but when I looked down at the cake and saw that my delicate bite had transformed the once round snack into the sweet crescent shape of a smile, I should've realized that smile was its way of sinking deeper into me, knowing I'd be back.

And that it would have the potential for evil, as it seems all good things eventually do.

"O R U our whore?" they repeat, and this time it seems they are more intense in their inquiry.

"O R I ever, dammit" I cry. Caving. I've a history of being a caver. Tossing aside the bag of baby carrots I pull out of the fridge every time we play this silly game of "cake versus girl," I admit it. Again. Like I always do. This time I nearly tripped over myself to get to the pantry cabinet and free my sugary lover from its dark confines.

That's when I hear another voice.

"O R U sure about that? What about us? Don't you want us? Taste us. Now! DO IT NOW!"

GRRRR!

Oreo Chocolate Creme Cakesters! With creamy chocolate deliciousness oozing between its deep, dark cakey orbs. Sigh...

"O U know what they say, right?" they ask, a collective voice much more forceful than the whispered commands of my original fat-laden lover. I'll admit it. The control behind them is a turn on.

"Tell me..." I command back.

"Once you go Oreo Chocolate Creme Cakesters, you don't go back..." the twelve of them, conveniently twin wrapped into six tidy packages, say in husky unison. "So I hear..." I growl, and dive in, willing to let my once dominant vanilla lover watch as I put the chocolate Cakester's theory to the test. God. Sold. Sold hard. What's that? I have a little smidgen of the chocolate filling at the corner of my smirk? Impossible. I took that cake hard. There's no way there's a crumb left anywhere.

Yeah. I'm Nabisco's little snack cake whore. So what. Sometimes things that are bad for you are good for a time. I'm willing to accept that. I'm even willing to have a threesome with both flavors and myself. OK, fine, I must add that in the spirit of full confession I have indeed had a threesome with them. When a glass of icy cold skim milk comes sniffing around at the same time, I may have reached for it without once looking up from what I was doing in devouring the two delicious flavors and sucked it down, too. If that makes me a snack whore, so be it.

And the answer is yes. Yes, I'm prepared for the bad. The sugar headaches. The extra time with the Turbo Jam DVD. The guilt. God. The guilt. The lingering, festering guilt...

But when they're gone, they're gone. No more. Oh, I hear them asking "O R U doubtful?" The answer is no. No, I am not doubtful. Whether they like it or not, I control them.

O R I just kidding myself...

put the right letters together & make a better day

In the midst of winding down another school night this week, I decided that, rather than allow my kindergartner to complete his zombie transformation by watching yet another episode of SpongeBob Squarepants, we should do something to reinforce the lessons he's been collecting during his first month of school.

I did this, mind you, despite the fact that this was a rare episode of SpongeBob Squarepants I hadn't seen and I was rather curious to know how the brewing confusion and tingly feelings of lust and anger would play out in the simmering love triangle between SpongeBob, Patrick and Gary after Patrick had just heartlessly told SpongeBob to "f off" because he'd chosen Gary.

Retiring to my son's room to help him get ready for bed, we chose to play the "Alphabet Game." If you're wanting to play along at home, the rules are simple. One person secretly chooses a letter and then turns to their opponent and makes them guess the letter based on the sound it makes. To earn additional points, the opponent must then name at least one word that begins with the letter. Points increase if more than one word can be named. Or shouted. When playing with a five year old, it's most often the case the words will be shouted, along with other mysterious chirps and squeals.

Knowing the kid is a kindergarten Mensa, I gave him no leeway with my first shot. "What letter makes the 'mmm' sound?"

"M," he replies, and then decides to up the ante on the game by "air writing" the upper and lowercase versions of the letter for me. "Impressive, mister," I said. "Way to bring your 'A' game. But before you get cocky, tell me a word that starts with the letter 'm'"

"Mommy," he replied.

"Who is the best student EVER?" I asked, all charmed and clutching at my heart, yet onto his clear attempt at trying to end this educational foray and weasel his way back to SpongeBob (admittedly, so was I, for I left feeling bad for SpongeBob. Freakin' game playing Patrick).

We proceeded to run through letters and words. "Daddy." "Grandpa." "Car." Winding our way down, I moved onto the letter 'P'. After we affirmed the sounds and how to write it, I asked for a word.

"Potty," my precious said, a smirk breaking open under his nose.

"Sure, but can you think of another?" I asked, not looking to encourage the, um, potty humor that typically gets me giggling like a child.

"Pee. And poop," he said, not missing a beat, and before I could ask for another example, I got "penis." Because yes, we're not just up on the alphabet, folks. We've got a pretty strong lock on the anatomy and biology lessons, too.

Thinking it would be a good idea to perhaps backtrack, I suggested what turned out to be not such a great idea when gave him the letter 'F' as his next challenge. By now, he'd opted to skip telling me what the letter sounded like or looked like when written and went right into, as they say, a F word.

"Fart," he sang (sang!!). "Fart, fart, fart, fart, fart."

Then he figured why not demonstrate. So he did. Literally blew me away. Then used the word in a proper sentence to inform me he'd just farted, and rolled off his bed in a fit of laughter.

"Lesson learned, little man," I told him, looking skyward and thanking God I'd changed my major from education during my freshman year of college. Clearly, I have no control over a classroom. You'd think I'd know this after the great homophone incident of October 2006, but apparently I'm a bit of a masochist when it comes to the schooling.

Luckily, we got through our lesson with time to find out how SpongeBob, Patrick and Gary resolved their bizarre love triangle (waves to my gurl!), and happily discovered that all was well underwater. The gang had learned their lesson. As for me, I apparently need new lesson plans. And maybe the ability to not be quite so proud that this child of mine went for the easy fart joke at first opportunity.

Alas, magna cum laude, little dude. You are your mother's son.

(note to SpongeBob: next time some lame ass starfish asks to see you without your pants on, quickly scuttle away. and quit yer wimperin' when he says he wants Gary.)

an open letter:

• To my neighbor - Your wind chimes are lovely. Between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m., I quite appreciate the veritable symphony of pleasure wafting through my open windows as I enjoy the subtle hint of fall you must not be enjoying because your windows are sealed tight and the air conditioner still running. Thus, you're being denied the magic coming from your 10 wind chimes of various sizes and depth of tone. Between the hours of 11 p.m. and 6 a.m., your wind chimes take on an entirely different scope in my brain. Perhaps I'll pound on your door at 2 a.m., 3 a.m. and again at 5 a.m. (for good measure) and we can stand outside together and enjoy while I share with you my evening disdain.
• To my husband and sons - It's a reasonably large hole made even bigger by the lifting of the seat, so why do you all have such a difficult time hitting the target? Do you think it's a pleasure ride for me to come in after you and discover your poor sense of direction when I sit down? Are you smirking outside the door as I mumble nasty words and wiggle away from the offending puddles? Not cool. Perhaps eliminating the 'dick flick' at the end of the routine would lessen the chances you have for missing the hole entirely. Besides, I've never seen the value in it anyway.
• To my husband again -That other thing is also a reasonably easy to find hole. 'Nuff said?
• To the Powers That Be at the bookstore - Sure, it beats a month of John Denver or Carly Simon, but I swear to you, if I hear Hide and Seek on average of seven times in a six hour shift over the course of the next two months (which, it appears, we're on track for), I will lose it. A perfect freakin' meltdown. Seriously.
• To Me - Hey baby! Have I told you how hard you rock? Yeah? Let me tell you again. You rock so hard. Hold onto the magic, baby! I'd so do you. What's that? I have done you? Heh. Well then, allow me to compliment you on how you've addressed the topic of, well, you know, here at the old "...for a different kind of girl" without once using the proper name for it! So cute! Besides, I know you like it when I call it "riding the unicycle."
• To Ann and Nancy Wilson - Yeah, just wanted to say thanks for Magic Man and its perfect companion piece, Barracuda. I might be Crazy On You two wacky gurls lately.
• Parents who bring their kids to the bookstore rather than put them down for naps they desperately want and/or need - Good call. Great times. Thanks for letting them run like rabid spider monkeys in the children's department, tearing out books I've spent the previous four hours shelving by author's name or subject. Not as easy as it sounds. Don't let the ease with which I do it fool you. And don't think I'm particularly enjoying it to the soundtrack of Hide and Seek, either. Oh, and when you finally go on a monkey hunt and yell the kid's name over and over, there's probably a reason why they don't respond right away. It's because they're hanging out behind the column on the stage and working their way through a raging bout of diarrhea. Fabulous. If we're all lucky, I'll only be left with the heady perfume of your lingering visit when you finally leave, a trail of Berenstein Bears books, stuffed animals, and god, hopefully nothing else, in your wake.

Sincerely,

Me (still rock, baby!), who barely survived Monday and is a smidge fearful for what Tuesday brings...

hey they say a stitch in time saves nine

Yeah! Packages arrived Thursday. Welcome home from work, FADKOG!

So this pretty much describes my weekend in a nutshell...

this year, I also learned to walk and eat solid foods

I started blogging last September 13. On a dare. Well, not so much a dare, but for the sake of editorial freedom, I'm calling it that. I intended to be a "one and done" blogger. No one was going to read me, and really, I didn't think I had much to say anyway, so why go through those few steps to create a blog? I'd post a couple times, continue to silently enjoy the writing of others, and then hit 'delete blog' and say I'd given it a shot.

Welp. So much for that. One year and nearly 200 posts later, here you go. Me. FADKOG. Wordy. Very wordy. I should really be a writer. I wonder what that pays. Hmmm.

I'm kind of hooked on this thing that started out as a dare. Like I used to be hooked on having a routine to my days and an organized life and an empty TiVo because I was all caught up on my favorite shows so I could then read books. Instead I'm on the computer, writing about my panties and girly boners and quoting movie lines and song lyrics, and doing God knows what else and things I don't want you to know about.

I've picked up a few things along the way during the last year. Wanna hear some of them? Yeah? Ok. Here goes:

• There's never a bad time for a little Neil Diamond. Ever. You can't argue this point because you know it's a fact.
• My husband, who I'm positive reads this blog and has for almost its entire run, will continue to stay quiet about it. Hello, mister! Keep those hands limber. You never know when the nipple tweaking will strike again!
• Always take a moment and think about what you want to be called when choosing a name for your blog. By the time you get a couple comments, it's too late to go back.
• Sometimes, I've really got nothing beyond the BOOBS!
• Other times, it's just about the sex. But I mostly drop that on other people's blogs.
• The remainder of the time, I'm pretty sure I'm just here to amuse myself.
• I'm quite easily amused.
• I hope you're amused from time to time, too. I worry about these things. It's silliness, really.
• There's no right or wrong way to do this. If you've got thick skin, it helps.
• It's probably not logical to immediately think "Hey! This would be perfect for my blog!" in the midst of a family crisis, when bleeding is involved, or immediately post coital. However, I'm guilty of all that and more.
• Figure out your own voice and just write that way. If you ramble, then ramble. I love a good ramble.
• It's humbling and gratifying to discover how helpful people you've never met can be.
• I'll never understand code or HTML. Ever. And I think YOU think it's cute to watch me squirm.
• My blog roll is imaginary and right there off to the left of this entry. You're all on it.
• FTN is like a tractor beam. There are days when I think most of my readers, silent or not, are directed here from his place.
• The world is teeming with Grease fans. Those who find my blog by searching for "Rizzo quotes" or the lyrics to Hopelessly Devoted to You will be going to war with the Dirty Dancing brigade who also regularly find my blog through various searches for "baby, oh baby, my sweet baby, you're the one." However, my money is on the people who come here just because they think they'll find me naked and/or engaged in a threesome with some bizarre animal/human combo. Naked and dancing dirty with an ape to Hopelessly Devoted to You. People so rock.
• The power of the penis is mighty. Seriously. If you have one, you hold the key. If you don't, you may find yourself doing a tribal dance honoring it without even realizing what's going on. I'm just saying. How do you think I started blogging in the first place, eh?
• I like to write. I hope you like to read what I write, but if you don't, that's ok. If you want to see me on the back of a book jacket that you'd pay money to buy and then stalk me because you want my autograph on it, even better. I could use the money. And the attention.
• There's nothing necessarily wrong with writing your posts in all lowercase letters. Nope. Not at all.
• I'm a fan of the wordy. Shocking, I know.
• The posts you think will get the fewest comments will garner the most.
• Always appreciate but never take it to mean you're great when your comments start to rise. I'm not great. I'm just some girl sitting in my basement, typing a bunch of words. That you comment and say nice things in regard them is flattering and I really do appreciate the kindness you've shown me here and in chats or emails. It's you who are great.
• Yeah, big secret. I'm not always just sarcastic and snarky. What are you gonna do about it, eh?
• I like the sound of my own voice. I mean, just the one I hear in my head all the time.
• There will be giggling. And a lot of snorting.
• I love the people I've come to know here. Not Buffalo Bill, "put you in a pit in my basement" kinda of love. I'm not creepy, and I know it's creepy to go all "Oh, I love you. And you. Oh, and especially you!" But I think most of you know what I mean. Additionally, I miss those who were regulars here and had to, for whatever reason, depart blogging.

Sincerely, thanks to all of you who pass through here daily and leave comments and banter back and forth with me when I have something new to say. I do hope there are a few nuggets in here that entertain you. You've all certainly entertained and charmed me, in many varied ways. That you've put up with me is most gracious. Thank you for giving me this year.

'and i got so far before i had to say...'

So let's say you woke up today and you're all "Dang! It's a perfect day! But why do I feel this nagging sense there's something missing? Why does it feel like there are three or four pieces to life's mysterious puzzle that are missing? Like, did someone throw those pieces away when they were cleaning up the house and they'd complained AGAIN to the deaf ears that if the pieces didn't all get put back together and put away, they'd not be responsible for what happened? Why does it feel like that?"

I'll tell you why. Because if you have any tenure around here at all, you've been collecting pieces of information about me for very nearly a year (a year tomorrow, if you're thinking of making me a cake, or buying me a present or want to just call me and say nice things to me. I'd dig that). You know:

• I'm way hot for my pretend husbands (and my real husband...but God, I do love me some pretend husband harem...)
• I appreciate nature in all it's manifestations, particularly our aquatic friends
• I apparently only crawl into this decade with the knowledge that Duran Duran is still making music and yet the fact John Hughes is not making films is hard for me to just accept
• My rack is spectacular
• My panties work as a team to embarrass me
• I await science's discovery that Diet Mt. Dew can, in fact, be used as a blood substitute
• I have very little problem with nakedness
• Despite my penchant for grooming, giant nose hairs worthy of starring in their own SciFi Channel original movie will not prevent me from claiming sex
• Haikus make me hot

But I bet it's all the stuff about me you don't know that has you all in a funk today (play along, k? I'm easily amused and this simply makes me smile like a child who doesn't know any better). So here's your chance. You can toss off a comment and include any random question you like and I'll do my best to answer throughout the day. I know it's compelling, but don't ask to see the kick ass rack, because it's currently in rehab and isn't taking any visitors at the moment. Same with my ass. It did try to visit the rack and the staff at the rehab place thought it was looking a little shaky and weird, so they pulled it in for a 72 hour observation.

Break out with the questions. Pretty soon, you may have all those missing puzzle pieces and that "all is right with the world" feeling will be in place. Or you just really got a good night's sleep and in all honesty, you're just not that curious about me, in which case I'm now jealous about the sleep and a little bit despondant that you don't dig me the way I dig you. Geez. I thought we meant something to each other.

Oh, now you're gonna sweet talk me! Was it the fake and yet seemingly sincere tears that worked for you? Nice. That's a little move I picked up from my well crafted time spent watching bad reality television. Still doesn't mean you're gonna get to see the rack, though. Nice try.

Really, I just like talking about me, so this is a post that lets me do that (um, yeah, I do know that's what a blog is about, too, but follow my lead...). In the end, you know, we all win.

(Oh, and best part of all this? You don't have to listen to me giggling to get my answers!)

Duran Duran - Please Please Tell Me Now

can you hear the dolphin's cry?

I can't say I'm a fan of roller coasters, but I imagine the best thing about them is that moment atop the first peak when you seem to hang for a few seconds and anticipate the massive adrenaline rush you'll be flooded when your body is finally plunged into a screaming descent that has you begging to ride again as soon as it's over.

While that may be the best thing about roller coasters, the worst thing would probably be getting to that top peak, knowing you're so close to falling over the edge, and then stalling. Nothing. Cut short. The ride has come to an abrupt and unsatisfying conclusion.

Personally, I think coming to rest atop a slopping hill in a tiny little roller coaster car would be scary as hell. However, for the sake of where this post's going, let's just call it a disappointment, shall we? A huge, crushing disappointment.

And then let's substitute "riding a roller coaster" with "entertaining myself with my dolphin and bullet vibes." And then let's pretend that the bullets completely stalled on me mere seconds from reaching that first summit and plunging down into a screaming, hands in the air, "Oh my freakin' God! Let's do that again! I don't care that I just ate a hot dog and cotton candy!" orgasm.

Only it's not pretend. My trusty dolphin and bullets truly did die on me in such a fashion. The tiny little battery operated motor simply sputtered a whimpering cry of mercy, as if to say "We love you, but we have to go now," and then stopped. Shut out. Lights out. Pencils down. Not quite shafted, but pretty damn close, missy. Were it a cinematic death scene, I'd rank it above Julia Robert's death in Steel Magnolias, which never fails to have me blubbering like an idiot 30 minutes before it even happens just because I know it's coming and I'm all "I told you so!" to Julia about her decision to have a baby.

Sadly, however, I didn't know my dolphin was near death, so I wasn't able to brace myself for its demise. It hadn't beached itself on my sandy shores. It got regular exercise. Fresh batteries. Tender loving care. And yet, it's time had apparently come.

Well before my chance to do so had been achieved.

Perhaps you recall my massive crush on my trusty aquatic friend and its shiny orbs of goodness. If you do, then you may understand why its untimely death has been quite devastating for me. Upon its final whir, I dangled its lifeless wires in the air above me, looked quizzically at them and wailed "Why have you forsaken me?" (only it sounded more like "What the fuck?"). Then I jiggled the orbs, gave them a little thump with my fingers, pushed the control button on the remote from 'fast' to 'slow' a few times, and then asked for 10 ccs of epi, stat! My husband, bless his soul, suggested surgery and went in search of soldering tools. While his efforts were driven more by the idea of what we spent on this toy and not so much on my massive love of it (and perhaps some Freudian connection between man and tools), I was leery. I know how he completes projects, and I had a fear of being electrocuted if something went wrong. Or at least suffer a hellish shock. No orgasm, no matter how kick ass, is worth that to me. I'm many things, but I'm not into the creepy sex, thank you.

But for a moment, sweet life was breathed back into them! Praise the Lord and double A batteries! "Now get back to doing what you were made for, my trusty friend!" I cried (or something like that). Unfortunately, it was a short reprieve from it's ultimate fate. My dolphin and bullets are dead, memorialized with an epitaph that reads "We have proven ourselves worthy of the huge coin you spent in that overpriced neighborhood lingerie store. Go now! Go back to your primitive ways of orgasm. Forget us, if you can, but love us forever. Or, for better values, begin hunting online for a replacement immediately for we know you are a greedy, demanding wench!"

So I did. Hunted every online site that popped into my head and, because this is one thing I'm anal about, compared prices and read every review I could find before plucking my credit card out for the greater good of my orgasmic health. That package I'm waiting for from Amazon? It contains a new diving dolphin toy and another little treasure. It should come delivered to my doorstep by Friday.

Then, shortly after, I should be, too. Roller coaster style, baby! Totally screaming down the hill, hands in the air.

Live - The Dolphins Cry

things I learned this week...

• The world is populated by one or two truly fickle people.
• Rather than making me organized, five years at home with my children has wiped out all ability I have to accomplish 12 things at once.
• Fifth grade math is already harder than a full year of fourth grade math.
• I feel no shame in admitting how pathetic I am at math.
• My age drops by 15 years the instant I'm reunited with college friends. You can almost see it happening.
• Finding a way to laugh as hard as I did with my college friends this past weekend is a goal I need to achieve regularly.
• Telling people to "bugger off" or asking to get a gander at the husband's "meat and two veg" would sound so much more cool with an English accent.
• I'm obsessed with having an English accent this week. I can pull off a reasonably tame drawl, but only if I say words like "river" and "bar".
• I can be quite seductive, but I can't figure out a way to transform "river" or "bar" into a phrase that make a bloke want to faff me.
• Contrary to popular belief, I don't need a variety of blokes to faff me to be happy. I'm no slag.
• People who think with their dicks have a tendency to actually be dicks.
• I'm horrifically impatient these days. The package I'm waiting for from Amazon is both the reason and the remedy for this matter.
• I'm surrounded by books every day and yet can't catch a break to read one of my own.
• It feels like a weight has been lifted off me this week. This is inexplicably good.
• The universe brings you friends you didn't even realize you needed and now know you couldn't do without.
• I want an English accent so badly I even typed this entry thinking in an English accent.

Now it's your turn to witter. Tell me a few things you learned this week in the comments below, then together we can pool this brain trust together and take over the world. Or at least a small section of the Midwest. We should start small, after all. Not appear too greedy.

i the end{linkin park}

naked blonde walks into a bar with a poodle under one arm...

See that over there? That's a glimpse of how I intend to spend my evening. Words can't begin to express my deep love for The Breakfast Club. That's probably because when I speak of The Breakfast Club, I do so with every possible quote from the film I can break out with faster than the person I'm speaking to. I've proudly had entire conversations while innocently acting it out.

"I'm thinking of trying out for a scholarship."

To this day, 22 years after first seeing this masterpiece, my heart swells at the idea of having a real life John Bender. However, while my love for the movie is untarnished and pure, I've learned sometimes the Brian Johnsons of the world are the best route to go. Not all John Benders are as good for you as the movie version.

"Sweets. You couldn't ignore me if you tried. So...are you guys like boyfriend-girlfriend? Steady dates? Lovers? Come on, sporto, level with me. Do you slip her the hot beef injection?"

I was sharing a conversation with a friend at work recently when, suddenly, I started quoting from this film (honestly, it's sometimes like I have Turrets Syndrome where TBC is concerned!). At a perfectly timed moment in our talk, I looked at this young man and said, "Well, what I had said was I'm in the math club, uh, the latin, and the physics club... physics club."

He just looked at me. So, naturally, I continued. "Well, in physics we... we talk about physics, properties of physics."

What I wanted from him was to fall right into play and give me the classic "So it's sorta social. Demented and sad, but social. Right?" and I'd have been thrilled and then maybe a little in lust and quite possibly would've had to excuse myself. But he was absolutely clueless!

Then I realized he was 23 years old. Just barely older than this movie (and probably more inclined to be able to quote from the actual movie Clueless)! When I asked if he'd ever seen The Breakfast Club, he said he'd not. My jaw dropped. Sacrilegious! The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing before anyone earns their high school diploma! I suggest it be shown over an extended lunch period where viewers are offered pb & j with the crusts cut off.

"Uh, Dick? Excuse me; Rich. Will milk be made available to us?"

In the meantime, I'll be watching it again in all it's glory. Tonight. And probably again over the weekend.

"Well I'm free the Saturday after that. Beyond that, I'm going to have to check my calendar."

I've lost count of how many times I've seen it, and it doesn't matter. Why doesn't it matter?

Because "you see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions..."

Because unlike the world, this movie is perfect.

"Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place."

And seriously, I'm not kidding about those John Benders. Even if they lean in and whisper, "Wouldn't I be OUTSTANDING in that capacity?" Just run across the football field, far away from them!

I'll be waiting for you, and we'll watch this together. Maybe sing the theme song. Good times.

"Well, well. Here we are. You have exactly eight hours and fifty-four minutes to think about why you're here. You may not talk, you will not move from these seats. Any questions?"

What's that? Will I share my popcorn and pop with you? Yes. But I won't make you make out with me, though. Unless you're a straight up Brian Johnson. Then prepare.

"You won't accept a guy's tongue in your mouth, and you're going to eat that?"

I've got no problem with sushi.

Foo Fighters - Best Of You

'and all this science, I don't understand'

Things that I just don't get:

• The games of football and chess.
• Actually, I don't get most games, really. I blame this on skipping the directions.
• My uncompromised love of pepper jack cheese. Don't even think of tempting me, co-jack.
• My near orgasmic love of Qtips.
• Picture puzzles meant to convey hidden meanings.
• My unwillingness to stop watching Ice Road Truckers, even though every freakin' episode is the same, over and over and over again.
• Cock blocking. It’s a cute name, but a damn stupid game, and as mentioned above, I just don’t get most games.
• Why cookies must be so damn good and brownies even better.
• Why people don't respond when spoken to. Do they think they're being aggressive or controlling by ignoring?
• Yoga. Clearly, if I'm dwelling on cheese and Qtips, my mind doesn't shut down long enough to concentrate.
• Jell-O.
• The way friendships can shift and you realize too late to rein it back in.
• My huge new crush on Ricky Gervais.
• HTML. Duh!
• Why there seems to be so many derogatory words for women, but not nearly an equal number for men.
• How easily you want a derogatory word for a man to just pop into your head and out of your mouth sometimes.
• How easily I cave at some perceived good word.
• Why I can remember the dance routine I made up to Pop Muzik in 1979, but I can't recall the survival tips Bear Grylls just told me I should know if I'm ever stranded in the rain forests of Costa Rica. This could have something to do with the fact that I'm watching Man vs Wild and thinking "MMMMM...Bear..." and not so much about how to survive in the Costa Rican rain forest. Whatever.

Well, I actually do get a couple things. First, how to survive the wild. Bear always suggests looking for a river or stream and following it down, covering your head to keep your body cool (and look hella hot at the same time!), and just accepting the fact you will cringe when forced to drink your own pee. These are all reasons why I rarely leave my house. Additionally, it means I don’t have to charm people with the cocktail party knowledge I have that, pound for pound, termites have more protein than beef or fish.

Second, picture puzzles. I do actually get them. Well played. Clever.

So tell me, what do you not get? Saying “you” and pointing to your computer monitor and shaking your finger at that tiny image of me up there to the left doesn’t count, for it’s really just a given that you wouldn’t “get” me. Because seriously, I’m writing about pepper jack cheese, after all. I don’t get myself a majority of the time.

(edit - for the benefit of Mr. Kite, please leave your comments to this post below the Phil Collins' clip please. For one, that's where I'd like them because it gives me another chance to listen to this song and remember why I need to, and second, I do so wish to hear from you. Yeah, you, too, even, because every word is scintillating. I mean that...yep...).

Phil Collins - I Don't Care Anymore