...for a different kind of girl

silent surburban girl releasing her voice, not yet knowing what all she wants to say about her life and the things that make it spin. do you have to be 18 to be here? you'll know when i know.

Thursday, January 31, 2008

welcome back, brotha

Dear Henry Ian Cusick (aka Desmond on Lost),

I've missed you, brotha. It's been eight months since your Scottish brogue filled my senses with naughty thoughts. The only thing that has sustained me since your panicked eyes peered into Charlie's and you realized the truth, was that you would one day return to me. Well, to me and millions of others who devote Thurday nights to Lost, but I think you're really just there for me.

Oh, and return to me you did, brotha. Glowing with sweat and sea, hair flowing, gun cocking. Rawr, brotha! R to the A to the W to the R! One glorious episode down, eight more to go unless this writer's strike resolves itself and you and the casteaways get back to work.

Would it embarrass you if I told you I was a little damp in the pants last night around 7:46 p.m. Central Time as I attempted to settle myself for your return? Don't be embarrassed, brotha (I call you Desmond when were in public, brotha. We'll keep what I call you in private just that - private. Tee hee!). I shushed my family, I turned the lights down and the volume up. I squirmed and settled. I tuned into to every possible little clue. You didn't disappoint me, brotha, and for that, I love you more.

I'm glad your back, Desmond. Oh, how I'll be thinking of you until I'll see you next week, brotha. You may be Lost, but you've found my heart.


Wednesday, January 30, 2008

sing for the laughter, sing for the tears

So over the course of the last few years, I've learned a little bit about my personal limitations. Now, I'm not one to advocate squelching the ability to be all you can be, but I realize that within my very real realm, there's just a few things I'm not meant to do.

For example, a raging fear of heights that makes me wary of even step ladders means I'll never climb Mt. Everest. My distaste for blood and internal organs ensures that if I'm ever on a crowded airplane and a stewardess calls out, "Is there a doctor on the plane?!" when another passenger falls under the madness of a mystery illness, I'm just going to keep flipping the pages of last month's Glamour. Of course, the fact that I lack a medical degree may have more to do with my apathy then the fear of blood, but you get my point.

Additionally, I'm not much of a singer. Sure, I'll perform straight up rock star style while alone in the mini, and in my house as I do my little chores, but you're never going to see me on the YouTube, busting a love song for my paramour, even though I'm sure he'd love my interpretation of Total Eclipse of the Heart and tell me how hot I am and what a good job I did. I know my limitations, and believe me, singing is a huge 'oh, hell no!" This, of course, makes fronting Penchant for Panties - my all girl (and one token guy on bass who we're all doing ala Fleetwood Mac circa Rumours, which makes us seethe with emo jealousy and yet fuels some of our greatest hits, most notably "Hold up, G, that ain't my g-string, yo") - a smidge difficult, but for my art I shall suffer and for my art I would make you all suffer, too.

(side note: I discovered last night that I can play a stunning rendition of the Mac's Tusk on my young son's tiny heiny. I call it "Tush")

Keeping my public singing in check means I've never done karaoke. Ever. Not even in my drinking days, when the fuel of $1.50 rum drinks prompted me to unbutton my shirts more than my inhibitions. This does not, however, mean I don't have a set list worked out should I ever say "screw it" one day, toss up the rock hands, and take the stage like some self assured Joan Jett and rock the house.

Then I would pause, ask the crowd if saying "rock the house" was still cool, then charm them with the tale that, in eighth grade, I had Joan Jett's hairstyle, but rather than looking tough, yet sexy, I looked like a skater boy punk.

Anyway, back to my set list. I've tried to compile one that doesn't contain worn out classics you can always count on when the karaoke kicks in. There is no Patsy Cline, no "I Got You Babe", nor (even though this pains me greatly) "Summer Nights". Instead, raise your lighters and cell phones for the following:
  • Mr Jones by Counting Crows. Mr. Jones and me tell each other fairy tales, like the one he always tells me about how I rock and how cute I am, thus making me giggle. He likes it when we stare at the beautiful women. Mostly because he has this lipstick lesbian fantasy he keeps trying to get me to bust. Whatever, Mr. Jones. Whatever.
  • Standing Outside a Broken Phone booth With Money in my Hand by Primitive Radio Gods. Mostly because I like songs where the title is never mentioned. And I've been downhearted, baby, ever since the day we met. Ever since the day we met.
  • Popular by Nada Surf. My mom always said I was a catch. Moms pretty much have to say that.
  • Going The Distance by Cake. Because of cake. Cake is good.
  • Jukebox Hero by Foreigner. Everybody dreams of being a rock star, right? Some people just never get outta their house and go do it.
  • Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson. How can I put it? This song makes me bang my head and maybe gives a nod to my stalker tendencies. If I had stalker tendencies.Which I don't, thank you. In fact, I'm happy to say I have very few tendencies of any kind. I'm so movin' on.
  • I'm moving on to You Don't Bring Me Flowers by Barbra and Neil. Single names. Doubly wonderful. Clearly, performing this means I need a duet partner. Don't tell me used to be's don't count anymore, Numby. When it's over, you can just roll over and turn out the light.

This is the show I perform at least once a week while en route to work. Groupies are rocking the sides of the mini by the time I arrive, and my crew sells concert t-shirts out of the back. Old school baseball shirts with iron-on transfers of Penchant for Panties. I may one day be convinced to perform it in front of other people, but truly, it would likely take alcohol to convince me and maybe you should go back up and read what happens to me when I drink.

However, I would listen to you sing off-key renditions of popular hits, and shake my head adamantly when you begged me to come up on stage with you to sing a duet, telling you "No, no, there's no way I could do that! My voice is the only flat thing about me! I don't want to steal your spotlight!" So tell me what's on your karaoke set list.


Monday, January 28, 2008

i think we're alone now...and i don't dig it

My husband's job requires him to be out of town one or two nights a week, often just across the state. As I help him pare down his packing checklist (Clean underwear? Check. A pair of my underwear for doing goodness knows what? Check. Stuffed monkey? Check. Toothbrush and deodorant? Check.), I create my own list of activities to do while he's away because, honestly, I can't often do them when he's underfoot, begging me for sex or asking me what's for dinner.

These ideas include:
  • Falling into an orgasmic stupor on the couch while watching Mike Rowe and the eight hours of Dirty Jobs I have Tivo'd.
  • Getting my band, Penchant for Panties, together for an early evening jam and photo session to update our MySpace page.
  • Spiritual awakening.
  • Practicing my lap dance routine (note: working with major tools can make a man lonely for the touch of a woman).
  • Reading stacks of books I normally never touch because of all the wifely duties I'm performing during normal business hours.
  • Sitting around in my pajamas all day, watching VH1 Classics, carrying on sordid instant message conversations with strangers, and eating cereal for every meal.

I had to scratch that last item off my list when my husband graciously pointed out I sometimes do that even on the days he's around. Whatever. Geez. Like he's got a problem with me watching Winger videos and LOL'ing with strangers or something.

So, minus that last idea, I do try to find things to keep me busy when he's gone because, when it boils right down to it, I don't enjoy being home alone at night.

Because I'm a weenie ass.

"But you have two kids at home with you, Weenie Ass. You're not exactly home alone, you know."

I hear you, and thank you for reminding me. However, unless a potential home invader can be deterred by nonstop talk of all things Star Wars, Webkinz, basketball, and Hannah Montana, my personal safety and that of my two kids you reminded me of is pretty much screwed. The only chance I have of coming out of this type of scenario alive is if a 10 year old boy breaks in. And if that kid starts chanting, "One, two, Freddy's coming for you..." then screw it. I'm as good as freaked.

I'm good with being home alone up until the part where it gets dark outside. After I put the kids to bed, I come back downstairs to check and re-check the doors to make sure they're all locked, and peek out into the garage to ensure no one snuck in when we came home three hours earlier and is now laying in wait for the moment when they can tap me on the shoulder in the middle of the night and greet me with a hearty "I'm your boyfriend now, Nancy." Or a knife. Most likely a knife.

If the telephone rings, before saying "hello," I say a little prayer it's someone I know on the other end and not some breathy voiced ne'er do well telling me he wants to play a game or kindly suggesting I check the children. When the furnace kicks on and the house starts popping and creaking like an old man trying to roll his way out of bed in the morning, I'm prone to thoughts that involve Big Foot (just a little something rooted in childhood, if you have to know), and/or roving bands of hooligans trying to break into my house. God forbid I turn on the television to calm myself with some sitcom banter and come face to face with the mugshot of an escaped prisoner police are hunting down in a massive nationwide search. Because believe me, they may have escaped from Alaska, but I've little doubt in my stress-adled mind they've traveled undetected and are standing outside my little Midwest front door as the newscaster is telling me to consider my visitor armed and extremely dangerous.

My mother, who has lived alone for nearly 15 years, rolls her eyes and shakes her head when I tell her these fears. First, it takes me a moment to figure out if she's just rolling her eyes and shaking her head because that's pretty much how she communicates with me day to day, or because she believes I'm lame to think this way about being alone. She usually clears things up for me when she states, "You really think that? That of all the places a killer could go in this town, the first place they're gonna show up is your house? And by the way, you are aware we live in one of the safest, most crime free utopias known to man? Men who aren't killers?"

Fine. She's got me there. But tell that to Big Foot, or the shadow that looks like a hunchbacked, one armed, machete-wielding ogre, as it lumbers past my living room window, which is perfectly in line with where my head is, thus serving as bait. And make sure he grunts it to the person laying low under my minivan parked in the garage, who will in turn sneak into the house just as I drift off to sleep (a sleep wherein I pretend to already be dead to save a potential killer's time and me the pain of the inflicting death part). Tell them all that and maybe - MAYBE! - I'll feel better about being home alone at night. If she won't do that, I kindly ask her to leave her backdoor unlocked so we can take solace in her no crime zone of a house.

My husband leaves Monday morning for a week in Atlanta, so not only will I be alone for several nights, but now several states separate us in the event he must rush home and identify the bodies. I've known of this trip for months and have been bracing myself for them since, but now it's here and the furnace is popping and clanging.

At least, I'm hoping that's just the furnace. Because other than that, I think the only thing that may save me is my stellar ability to play dead. Just ask my husband when he comes home!


Thursday, January 24, 2008

the kid's alright

Today my gorgeous youngest son turns six years old. Perhaps you know this already. His daily countdowns culminated today with an exuberant cheer of "TODAY IS MY BIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRTTTTTHHHHDAAAAAAYYYY!!" Complete with a vibrato. It was, to put it simply, impressive. If your windows shattered this morning around 7:50 a.m. Central Time, I apologize.

It also made my heart simultaneously swell and then burst. I've been doing what any parent seems to do as they watch their children get older, and that is toil in my basement after their bedtime to built a time freezing machine. Thank goodness my husband works for a large scale tool manufacturer. I think I'm close!

As has become a tradition on birthdays in my house, we jump off the age of the birthday person and then share that number of things we love about them. When I turned 40 in November, I expected to be showered three-fold by love and adoration from my sons and husband. Seems they peter'd out around 18. Nice. But I'm not bitter. And, OK, this post isn't about me. It's about this amazing boy I'm lucky to know. I know you all haven't had the pleasure of meeting him, but you've gotten a little hint of what he's like in some posts scattered here and there, so I thought I'd share my list of six here. Because honestly, at some point, I don't doubt this kid will find my blog, and well, maybe he'll find this post heartwarming. Like I imagine he will when he gets to that one where we discussed Hummers and what a little devil I think he is. To remind him it's not all made up letter games and crazy drawings, I share six things I adore about my youngest son on his sixth birthday:
  • Everything is exciting to him. Everything. Every morning he opens his eyes and gives me a smile is a day when he expects to learn everything and explore everywhere.
  • Snuggling is not yet taboo for this boy. Out of nowhere, he'll creep up on me and nest in under my arm for a rare quiet moment. He's rarely not talking. Can't imagine that his capable legs are also designed to stop moving. But when he stops to take that breath, sometimes all he needs is a hug. This is, in part, why I need to put a rush on that time freezing machine.
  • The way he still finds some words difficult to say properly. No matter how often we work on it, he still pronounces "pattern" as "pad-u-when." I make him say it over and over again because it makes me smile. However, now that I think about this, his insistence in saying it as he does may really be his way of affirming his love for all things Star Wars.
  • The 12 times he'll stop and turn around to wave at me each school day as he walks from our house to the corner to meet the school bus. Each wave is shared with a smile and what I like to think is the thought "I'll miss you, Mama, and I love you, too. Try not to miss me too much. I'll be home soon."
  • That at any moment, he will toss up the rock hands, and knows the lyrics to everything from "Blitzkrieg Bop" to "Vertigo". To say I'm proud would be an understatement, and the rock hands never, ever fail to make me smile.
  • How proud he is to be able to read, which has fed his insatiable appetite for reading and listening to stories. As a "book kid" from way back, to see his eager face when I celebrate how well he's done sounding out a word that seemed impossible to him the day before makes me want to cheer. I hope this interest never wanes.

There's so much more that captivates me about this boy, of course, but now I have gifts to wrap and a chocolate cake to get decorated. In the end, I want the world for him, but for now? Now I hope he remains as happy and excited about his life as he is today, and announces his place in the world as boldly as he did this morning as he trumpeted his birthday to all of us.

I'm sure he'd also tell you he was sorry about those broken windows, too. Because not only is he loving, but he's also compassionate.


Wednesday, January 23, 2008

the smut meme (aka 'she'll never let your spirits down')

Melissa, the genius behind Grossly Unimaginative, is many things. One, she's owner of the blog title I wish I'd have thought of. Second, she's terribly clever. Third, she's the one who's succeeded in compelling me to do a meme!

To avoid anarchy, the smut meme comes with rules and regulations: Title your post the "Smut Meme," include the rules, and then select one choice from each of the following questions. When finished, tag two people to carry this topic through the universe. Tagged or not, feel free to share in the comments, or post it on your blog.

Now let's play TMI, shall we?

1. Chocolate or whipped cream - Perhaps you've heard about my torrid love for 100 Grand bars, yes? I would do things for chocolate. And when I say I would "do things,' I say that with a "wink, wink" implied there. Wink, wink.

2. Leather or PVC - According to a Google search, PVC is the poison plastic, and I'm not putting any poison plastic near my wink, wink. By default, this leaves leather. Leather + smut = assless chaps. Assless chaps + "Saddle up, cowboy!" = hot sex. You know this. Don't act like you don't.

3. Outdoor sex or indoor sex - Indoor. I am, however, willing to consider strategically open window blinds.

4. In the jacuzzi or in bed - In bed. I've nearly lost teeth when my knees slipped in a jacuzzi tub. While I suppose a lack of teeth could be considered beneficial in some wink, wink situations, I need them to eat the caramel goodness that is a 100 Grand bar.

5. Bad sex or no sex - I've participated in discussions debating the idea that even bad sex is good because at least you're having sex. I've had bad sex. I'll take bad sex.

6. Dominate or be dominated - If by dominate you mean cater to me and tempt me with the good stuff, then yes. Dominated. However, if you mean the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, then no thank you.

7. Thigh highs or body stocking - Body stockings make me think of a superhero costume. If I were a superhero, I'd likely be some tortured soul, living underground or wearing a simple pair of glasses to blend into the general masses. That's just a lot of responsibility for one outfit. Now thigh highs? Hello, sexy. Thigh highs for you. Thigh highs for me.

8. Fast or slow - In my house, smut is a race, not a sprint. It's like the Iditorod or the Tour de France. It's days long, complete with courses filled with twists and turns, and there may be pack dogs and steroids involved. So slow is how we roll.

9. Rough or gentle - Rough. Not "yank my hair out, slice into me" rough. That kind of craziness only happens in the fake realm, right? But consider me made out of durable industrial grade plastics. The poison plastic PVC, perhaps. I can take the pressure. Wink, wink.

10. Bite or suck - Suck. It's like a Tootsie Pop. You savor it to get to the chewy reward in the center. You bite right away and things are over before you know it.

11. Role play or reality - Only once have we even attempted a role playing scenario and it was before we were married. And it was hilariously bad. Like an awful high school drama production. Actually, it turned into a comedy almost imediately. Let's call it a dramedy. I shudder even thinking about it. Thus, reality is how we roll. In fact, if this writer's strike lasts much longer, we may fill a timeslot on Monday nights on CBS.

12. Dirty talking or dirty talking to - I can do the dirty talk like a champ. Mostly down the basement and in the old man's Ford. Long distance relationships will get you a blue ribbon in that category. However, I'm married to a man who has gotten me naked with the Beavis voice, so clearly, I like to sit back and have the work done for me.

13. Edible panties or no panties - There should be a line drawn at the level of stickiness that comes with smut. When I think sticky, I think edible underwear. And honey. What's not sticky? No panties. That's where I'm going.

14. Spanking paddle or bare hand - Bare hand. This way, I don't feel like it's Greek Week every time the smut starts happening.

15. Landing strip or Kojak - Landing strip. But I tell you what. If it looked like I was going Kojak, I'd not deny the inevitable with a comb over or a do rag. Embrace the bald. You ain't foolin' anyone. And for the love of Pete, if I was just wandering around my own house, there'd be no hat on. Vanity stops at the front door, ll.

16. Multiple sessions or one good fuck - See #8. Even when I'm looking for one good one, it has the tendency to go into multiple sessions. Pros and cons, people. Pros and cons.

17. Moaning or screaming - I'm a moaner, ladies and gentleman. I will moan in pleasure over a good meal, the pain of a Charley horse, and good (or bad) sex. Sometimes all at the same time.

18. Older men or younger men - My crushes are most often younger men. They're frisky. I married a younger man. So what if he's only six months younger than me? He's got some frisky in him.

19. Threeway or no way - Hell to the no. I will live vicariously through the very poor example of a threesome some friends pulled in college, and even that's closer than I want to be to a threesome. Plus hello? Competition! I don't need the competition. Oh, and there's that little thing about being enough woman for one man. Rawr! That's right. I just said "Rawr!"

There you go. Now you're all uncomfortable with what you know about me. Are we ok? I know that happened really fast, but it felt right. I don't do this kind of thing with just anybody, so doing it with you felt special. Can we do it again sometime? I'll ping you, ok?

To keep the glow of our fake love alive, I'm going to tag my girl Nan, and, because in my dreams he'll do anything for me, I'm also taggin FTN (I hear you now. "I don't, as a rule, do meme's, Fadkoggy, but since you're wearing that red bikini and we're 'what not' this and 'what have you' that, then yes. Yes, I will do this. For you."). I know Nan will hook me up. Believe me. I know she will. I'm not so sure about FTN, though. Even with the guilt smack I just laid down. So, if you feel bad for me, or strangly tingly knowing all this about me now (even if none of it surprised you), and you want to do this, let me know.

Especially if your answers involve 100 Grand bars and Beavis voices.


Monday, January 21, 2008

'i smell sex and candy'

Saturday morning.

Bliss. Love. Peanut butter toast and juice. Just another typical day in the Got It Goin' On household.

Sexy McSexerson (as he's known while doing undercover work as my husband): "So my hair. How's it look? Does it look OK? Do I need to take shower?"

Hottie McHotterson (me. 24/7): "Of course you need to take a shower. Whaddaya mean, 'Do I need to take a shower?'"

S McS: "Whaddaya mean 'Whaddaya mean 'Do I need to take a shower?' ' "

H McH: "Hello!? Don't you remember what you did yesterday afternoon?"

S McS: "Yeah. I didn't do any resets at the stores. I didn't get sweaty or anything. I should be good."

H McH: "Honey. Yes! Yes, you need a shower. Don't you remember? Sex. We had sex yesterday afternoon. For a long time. Many things were done. Wait a minute. You don't remember, do you?"

S McS: "Oh. Heh. I guess I did forget about that..."

H McH: (Silence. Silence coupled with the wonk eye. More silence)

S McS: "Well, I mean, I didn't forget the whole thing...."

H McH: "Whattaya mean you didn't forget the whole thing?! You just apparently spaced off over two hours of my patented lovin'!"

S McS: "I definitely remember that one part. And then when you did that other thing. So see? I didn't forget the whole thing!"

H McH: "Did you remember parts of the whole thing before or after I reminded you we had sex yesterday afternoon?"

S McS: (Silence. More silence. Definitely no wonk eye because by now he knows who's winning...)

H McH: "Maybe you outta go take that shower before I start talkin' about an entirely different kind of hole, honey..."

S McS: (Smirking. More Smirking)

H McH: "I'm thinking 'hole' more as in a label for you, honey, and not so much as what you're thinking..."

S McS: "So...I'm gonna go take a shower now."

H McH: "Good idea, mister. Because your hair? It is funky..."


Friday, January 18, 2008

and how was your day, luv?

Mine? Thanks for asking!

My day was shitty.

Actually shitty. Want to hear?

(Your head shaking says "no," but your eyes? Your gorgeous eyes say "yes!")

Number 1 - Within moments of arriving at the bookstore Thursday morning for yet another glorious and enviable shift in the children's department, I'm grabbed by a mother wanting a book to entice her toddler into potty training. "Isn't there some book about pooping? Like Where's The Poop? or Everyone Poops?" she inquired, actually giggling about using the word "poop" with another grownup. I suggested my personal favorite, Zoo Poo (interesting protagonist, compelling story, an unexpected twist in the second half, and "monkeys doo doo-ing right in front of you."). A variety of books at her disposal, the woman thanked me for my knowledge (I'm a regular Poo PhD., ladies and gentlemen!), and was on her way.

Number 2 (heh..."number 2"...snicker, snicker) - Shelving toddler board books, I'm having a delightful time, toiling through my day, when I round the shelves at the intersection of "Favorite Characters" and "Sound Stories" and am hit by a funk of such magnitude, I have to briefly wonder if I've triggered some type of sinister suburban warfare. Fearful the eight copies of "Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See?" ("I see a monkey doo doo-ing right in front of me!") won't be enough to protect me from the evil that awaits, I steel my resolve and peek around the shelves. And the evil? Crouched on the floor was a woman bent over her toddler charge, changing the most vile diaper I'd seen in my life. On the floor. In the children's department. Nice. In fact, I said that. "Niiiice." As in "It's nice you couldn't take that little jaunt to the ladies room and take care of that business there. Where there is a changing station. And trash cans meant for bathroom type items. But since you didn't, sure! Yes! I welcome you to throw that bundle of disgusting in the trash can right over there. There. Next to my computer. Where I can enjoy it all day. See you soon! The memory of your visit will linger! Before you go, can I interest you in a copy of "Everyone Poops"?"

Number 3 - At the little play area toiled a young boy and his mother. Mom was hyper perfect. The kind of mother I have a tendency to measure my own mothering skills against when I see how devoted and catering she is to her child. Then they start talking. "Mother, I believe it is time I go to the bathroom now," the boy, probably four years old, says. I'm momentarily jealous, thinking my kids would be all "Woo hoo! We're having fun. Check this out. We'll just go in our pants, like it's no big deal." Ideal Albeit Creepy Kid is very precise about his need to evacuate his system (I picked that "evacuate his system" thing from Ideal Albeit Creepy Mom). "Mother. I think now I have to poop. Before I did not need to poop. But now? Now I feel the need to poop." Vigilant Mom is all "Did I rush you before? Before, when you said you needed to just pee, and you peed, did you feel like you had to poop, but I only gave you the opportunity to pee?" (I swear to you, I am not making this conversation up! I was so taken by it, I grabbed a piece of paper and jotted it down as it went on). "You were in a bit of a hurry, Mother, but at that time, I did only feel like I had to pee. I did not then feel like I had to poop." "Oh, I knew I was rushing you! I shouldn't have rushed you! If I hadn't rushed you, you could have taken the time and pooped then." I could understand why he didn't feel he had to poop earlier. A mom this schedule focused likely caused him to clench up. Their scintillating conversation - which I quickly turned into the "How Many Times Can We Say Poop!" game - went on for 26 minutes, during which time I feared the child would poop on the floor of the play area, and the mother would scoop him up and scurry off, ninja style, and pretend he'd not just left us with a gift(this has happened, thank you very much, with a father and two toddlers sporting raging diapers of doom). The "say poop again" game ended at 28, btw. My money was on 34.

So that was my Thursday. It was, indeed, shitty. Four hours of work (phew, life's rough!) and that was the bulk (heh...'bulk'...) of my experience. Jealous?

And yep. I just wrote an entire post revolving around poop. Good job, me. Good job.

Seriously, though, how was your day?


Wednesday, January 16, 2008

filed under: "things I wish even I didn't know about myself"

There are a few things about myself I'm not particularly proud of. I am by no means a pristine person. Oh, I may pretend to be untarnished, don't get me wrong, but when I confess the following to you, I need you to remember this about me. OK? Because you are special to me. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb and say we're connected (What's that? Did I just say that to that one over there, you ask? And that one? The one over in the corner? I did. OK? I did. But you? You are the mostest special!).

I feel like I'm taking a huge risk here, but I feel it binds us to each other when we share our innermost secrets, and I want to give you this gift today. You take this in your hands and treat it with love and respect, OK? Because to lose you would hurt me deeply. Underneath this tarnished shell beats the heart of a good and honest woman, so your tenure with me is strong.

---- deep breath ----

Here we go...

Monday afternoon I was sitting on the couch, catching up with some emails, chatting a bit with Nan, and half listening to the daily news. Because the news has essentially become an episode of Entertainment Tonight with a weather segment, I wasn't surprised to hear the anchors cut to a package about Britney Spears' custody hearing that day. Because I must know every aspect of every celebrity's life whether I like it or not, I glanced from the computer screen to the television, and caught this brief glimpse of Kevin Federline and immediately I thought, "Oh, Kevin...you sexaaay, sexaay beast!"

I know. Trust me. I know. I was all "Kevin Federline?! I think Kevin Federline is hot?!" But remember what I said up there at the beginning. I'm not a proud person. Here's a pen. Add this confession to the list.

Then look at him. I see that picture of him and I think, "Kevin (because I call him Kevin), if you were clean and had that longish hair and, um, maybe didn't talk, I would allow myself to do you (because he likes it when I say "do you." He likes it better when I say I would allow myself to gift him with the carnal delights)." Because you know, you JUST know, Kevin Federline is probably a fuh-fuh-fuhreak in the bed and I am not above some fuh-reak, especially in the pretend realm.

Bear in mind I'm not talking Cornrow Kevin, Do Rag Kevin (though here's a second "I am not proud" confession - I'd dilly dally with CK before I would DRK because seriously, no one, and I mean no one, looks hot in a do rag), or Droopy Drawer Kevin. I'm full on Frat boy Kevin. Or Accountant Kevin (even if he does look a bit like Weird Al in his White and Nerdy video).

I don't want to have his babies or gift him with cars or careers. I just want to popo a little zao with him and then kick him to the curb, and remember him fondly when I see his face pop up on the daily news.

---- and exhale ----

OK. So now you know one of my dirtiest little secrets. Believe me. I can see where knowing this can make things uncomfortable between us for awhile. I don't share this with you without some shame. Just remember, none of us are completely pristine, so it's not even worth pretending to be. If you feel my little confession here has released something in you that makes you want to spill something dark and twisted about yourself, feel free to do so in comments.

Because we're connected, you and me, and Kevin and I would never judge you.

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Monday, January 14, 2008

boys and their toys

I came downstairs to find him sitting in the dark, hours past his normal bed time. The lone light in the room beamed from the screen of his laptop and shined ethereally on his face, which was twisted in concentration as he peered at what had captured his attention onscreen. Unblinking, his brain was sending rapid fire signals to his hand to click the mouse and move from screen to screen.

"Honey, it's late. What are you doing?" I asked my husband.

Startled from wherever it was he had been within the computer, he shot me a nervous look and acted quickly, but subtly, to twist the laptop from my view. The move, I admit, made me nervous. In my head, I began formulating the words I needed to say to let him know I understood, that I loved him, and that we'd get through this together. Stronger. Happier.

"Are you looking at porn?" I asked, my head rushing with thoughts of all I needed to say next. That it was OK, that we could talk and get through this if he'd just open up to me.

"It's not porn," he said quickly, but quietly, turning the computer from me just a bit more. "I swear to you. It's not porn."

Unable to fathom what he'd want to hide, I moved closer and watched as his expression seemed to resign itself with a mask of shame and fear. Closer still, my hand ready to rest on his shoulder, I heard music and random, unexplainable sounds coming from his computer.

"You swear it's not porn?" I asked, giving him one last chance to come clean with me. When he didn't answer, my gaze shifted from his - which had now settled downward to avoid my own - to the computer screen. My eyes widened as on it, I watched a tiny animated pug outfitted in a bandanna and dark sunglasses danced around a room decorated with a bed, sandcastle and balloon bouquet.

"It's Webkinz, OK?!" my husband cried. "It's Webkinz, not porn! I didn't want you to find out, but I'm not doing this for me! I'm doing it for the kids! Scruffy the Pug's favorite food is pancakes and I'm trying to earn enough points at Quizzy's Question Corner so I can visit the store and buy him some, and Goldie the Golden Retriever? He wants a trampoline and they're on sale today, but I need to earn more points by playing this hamburger match-up puzzle before I can go get it.

As if the weight of the world had been lifted from my husband's shoulders, he unleashed his confession to me, his voice raising as his excitement grew. "Let me tell you, it's practically a job, all this work I'm going through, but I want to do this so I can be sure Scruffy and Goldie's happiness meters go up."

"Honey?" I interrupted. "Speaking of jobs and happiness meters going up, any chance you wanna maybe log off and pretend you were watching porn? With me? Upstairs?"

"Maybe later," he replied, his guilt-free eyes turned back to the computer screen which was now fully on display. "Another round of fifth grade level trivia questions and I can pay for a window for Scruffy's room."

I turned to go back upstairs, but turned back to give him the answer for one of the trivia questions. Why not? I want Scruffy, the animated bandanna wearing, dark sunglass dancing pug, to be happy as much as the next 39 year old man playing with his kids' toys.

"You know, if this becomes a problem for you, you can tell me," I said. "We'll be OK."

"Pancakes, honey. I'm just buying pancakes."

Which is just how I suspect addictions start.


Friday, January 11, 2008

peanut butter & shark. two great tastes that taste great together. sorta. ok, not really

Nan hooked me up with the mix for these kick ass peanut butter bars from her pantry last week. Yum yum, man! These are damn good stuff! Delish!

As I was baking them Wednesday afternoon, the shark was swarming around me, eager for a snack. I thumped him on the nose several times, trying to shoo him away, pointing out shiny things that might distract him. "Look, Sharky! New toys! Oooo...shiny! Go play, Sharky!"
Normally, the big shark o' the ocean likes to swim and frolic amidst an ever-growing school of giggly krill, but it seemed this day it was all attention on me. Lucky!

"Maybe we could read books until our treats are ready to slice, Sharky," I suggested. "Why don't you go pick a couple out."

Of course, I realized suggesting this might be an exercise in futility, as sharks are notorious non-readers. If you quiz them, they give you just enough information to make you think they read something, but sharks find it hard to read because their fins are busy doing what fins need to do, thus, they can't turn pages. Conundrum! Sharky knows it's OK, though, because the tendency is to feed him the answers he's after. Especially if he flashes you a smile, all shiny teeth and attention.

Sharky swam back up with a book about surviving shark attacks, telling me to check it out. "Ha! Ten true tales of survival" I muttered. "Oh, I bet there are a TON of these survival stories out there!"

Scanning the pages and finding no pictures, I suggested Sharky pick a different book. Because of that whole non-reading thing, pictures really hold Sharky's attention, and we still had some time before our yum yum peanut butter bars cooled.

A few moments later, I heard Sharky chuckling quietly to himself. "Heh, heh, heh." I turned to discover he was looking at pictures of dolphins, glancing at me with a 'knowing' look,' and trying to make out the wordy words in the section titled "Fun and Games."

"Oh, you foolish, foolish shark," I laughed, shaking my head. "I totally see your motive. I know how it is. Sharks are all about about you, you, you when they start playfully bumping you around the ocean with their dorsal fin, but eventually they like to chit chat all about them.

"Do you think my dorsal fin is beautiful? I bet you think my sleek, torpedo-shaped body is hot, don't you? You know I don't have any bones, right? This is all cartilage, baby!"

Oh yeah, it's not one way at all! Riiiight. Sharks. They are such narcissists! Sharky wasted no time proving he's was no exception when, a few moments later, he nipped at my fingers and demanded I turn the pages back to the section on sharks. "Typical," I sighed.
Finally, Sharky could bear it no longer. The succulent smell of peanut butter was filling the air and the demands for a chomp began in an earnest passion that soon lurched into begging. "Gimme a snack! Gimme a snack! I need a snack! Can I have a snack! Feed me the snack! Snack! Snack! Snack! Please, will'ya give me a snack?!" Sharky pleaded.

"Hey, Sharky. Listen. These yum yum bars have peanut butter in them. You've told me sharks don't do peanut butter, remember? You've told me peanut butter is bad for your shiny, sharp teeth. You sure you want to tempt yourself?" I asked. "If you start with just a taste of peanut butter, you're opening a huge can of tuna. Why, you might start looking for people to give you peanut butter all the time! I'm not naive, Sharky. It's out there. I know it!"

"Gimme your peanut butter!" Sharky whispered, the slightest grin spreading across his face. Stunned at Sharky's apparent disregard for our bond when faced with the temptation of all the chunky and smooth peanut butter that's out there in the world, I gave in. "Tell me if you like it, Sharky," I said with barely a trace of resignation in my voice. I'd had it with Sharky. I told him to open his mouth wide and I shoved in the biggest yum yum peanut butter bar I could down his throat.

"That's so good, isn't it, Sharky?" I asked. Sharky nodded. "Goddamn girl! These are great. You're quite the cook! When I'm not here, I may want these again. Are these sold anywhere? Say, do you have any coffee?" he asked, then beat his fin on the counter, indicating he craved more (I don't lie, so when I tell you these peanut butter bars courtesy of Nan are delish, they are, as described, kick ass!). He downright shoved my treats into his gullet. You'd think he'd have gotten tired of eating so much, but apparently sharks are notorious for gorging and then going back for more, unable to accept their reality. Stunned, I could only watch this train wreck and ask, "That's just what you wanted, wasn't it?" Sharky couldn't answer. By then his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and the fact that he just then realized he had been existing outside a body of water for the better part of forever sent his body flailing around the kitchen. Helpless (and, huh, a little less than sympathetic) I watched Sharky flip and twist, making a mess of the place.

Hours (and hours) later, this was what remained of Sharky and the pan of peanut butter bars. Was it worth it? Well, only Sharky can say for sure, but clearly he's not talking. "Whatever," I say. He new the deal when he suddenly switched from being a blood thirsty carnivore to a sweet treat eating psycho shark, so clearly, I've little sympathy for the damage done. Oh sure, you could argue that I caved and fed his sweet tooth. I'm sure I wasn't the first. He'd dipped that sleek shark skin other places before settling at mine. And I know I wouldn't have been the last. In the end, sometimes sharks get what they deserve.

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Wednesday, January 09, 2008

do you love your monkey or do you love me?

A new study has been released that finds male macaque monkeys pay for sex by grooming female macaques they then have sex with. The study reports that the longer a male tends to the grooming tasks of a female, the more sex they'll engage in when the number of females in the group is lower.

A true testament to that whole "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," idea. Except they're not so much scratching backs as they are plucking bugs out of the other's hair, but a turn on nonetheless, I'm sure.

I read about this study in the newspaper over the weekend and it got me thinking about a couple things. First, how come there's funding and research time spent on learning something I, you, or even a monkey could learn from an hour spent watching Animal Planet (though, truth be told as gleaned from another study, monkeys would grab the remote with their amazing human-like hands and turn to the Spice Channel for some porn. Oh sure, if monkeys could talk, they'd be all "We don't do porn! Not us! Uh uh!" But they ain't fooling me or anyone. Monkeys are TOTALLY about the porn).

The second thing this study made me wonder about is this: how do I get my husband to be more of a male macaque? I'm not talking about picking creepy crawlies out of the raging mane of hotness or gnawing on my fingernails, but rather a full blown, make me promise you nasty things foot rub? It's not like I'm swinging around the house from room to room on some dried up old monkey paws. A little lotion, a bit of squeeze on my pressure points, and we're talking a potential round trip ticket. He enjoys sex. I enjoy foot rubs. Win win.

It's a proven fact (minus a costly, time-consuming study, ladies and gentleman!) that a stunningly executed massage at the nimble hands of an older and caring woman (there's some monkey porn for ya!) gets me purring like a tiger (no findings on what turns tigers on. yet.), so I'm quite sure I'd go full blown chimp scream on my husband if he decided to to kick up the action with a some foreplay techniques picked up from our simian friends. I'd probably eat a banana for him (wink, wink).

This study also got me wondering if I'm actually more male macaque then I realized. Because I spend a lot of time pondering what type of monkey I am. Don't we all? If we just admitted it, then we all could fess up to how we like the porn, monkey style.

Sure, I'm not really a male macaque (but if I were, you'd be all, "Damn! Monkeys can type good, too!") , but I'm insane for the picking and exploring that my husband allows me to (make that "resigns himself") do on him. I LOVE picking at my husband, even though it has yet seem to lead to hot monkey lovin'. OMG. Had I met him when we were teenagers and he had a raging case of acne, he'd have thought the way I climbed on him to get up near his face was just to make out, but I'd have been inspecting the potential pustules for popping. While there, I'd have blown in his ear. Not just to convey my raging lust. No. More to release any flakes or buildup stowing away in his canal.

The man, bless him, tolerates the picking and flicking. Come to think of it, there may be a point during sex when things do switch into the hot monkey lovin'. He's got a mole on his back that, when my hands graze over it, I stop whatever it is I'm doing (wink, wink) and give it a flick or five. Just thinking about that gets me kinda in the mood for a banana. I would so go all Jane Goodall on the man. We could totally play 'Primatologist and the Giant Silverback Gorilla".

Finally, I'll admit that I have spent some time considering what type of monkey I'd be, and I've decided that, clearly, I'd be an orangutan. Why?

Raging mane of hotness, of course!

That revelation comes to you minus a lengthy study. Science is amazing!


Monday, January 07, 2008

'in fact, it was a little bit frightening'

So my weekend, it was random. Guess what that means! You get a little taste of it! It's been awhile since I've served up a piping hot casserole dish of random ("But what about Shark Week?" "That was literary greatness! Pray for it's return!"), so grab your forks and dig in:

  • I'm at the WalMart on Saturday afternoon because I'm on a quest to find the perfect round hair brush and I needed some generic Goldfish crackers (only the best for my little spider monkeys!), and I'm in line at the customer service counter to remit my receipts after returning empty pop bottles (we've got a house payment due and that Diet Mountain Dew is gonna own me one day). I'm minding my own business, thinking about why in heaven I'm here at the WalMart on a Saturday afternoon, when I feel something warm behind me. Having some experience with back of the neck action and a predilection for personal boundaries since my Dirty Dancing days, I venture a peek up to the security monitor hanging behind the customer service counter and notice an older woman so close to me I fear she's going to mount me and ride me through the store like a mythical unicorn (People have wanted to do this, I assure you. That or something about wanting to get behind me and cut me to watch me bleed. I get fuzzy on the details sometimes). Alarmed, I turn my head just a bit (because a bit is all my new Siamese twin has given me room for) and think "Perhaps you'd like to step back just a smidgen, Sugar" really loudly in my head, thinking since we seem to now share a brain and I like it when strangers call me Sugar, she'd pick up the message and do as I thought. Not so much. Every step forward I could take in my escape attempt, she was right there on me. Like a shape shifter, I think she wanted to actually be me. In retrospect, that migh have been a good idea, because her hair looked pretty good, leaving me to assume she's secured the reigns of a really great round brush, and my life is so ragingly great, what with the redeeming empty pop bottles for spare change, that it would be a win-win for the both of us. Eventually I lost her around the toiletry aisles, but I feel a part of me is gone. I miss you, Sugar.
  • You know how you sometimes do something and don't remember doing it (or remembering doing it, but can't imagine why you did so now - Hello, 2007!). That's the sense I got yesterday on the way home from WalMart when I was busting my groove to the iPod and Kung Foo Fighting came up next on the shuffle. There's never been a time in the two years the iPod and I have carried on this torrid affair we have that I downloaded this song, and how it got on there is a mystery to me. But oh-ho-ho -ho, oh-ho-ho-ho, you bet I sang along with it, and now I hope you are, too. Thanks to me. You're welcome.
  • Remember my husband? That guy who's basically a 14-year-old with only one friend and even that friend wonders what he's doing hanging around with him? This is the kind of conversation we had Sunday that keeps our marriage throbbing: Him: "If I go get you a pop, you gonna suck on my straw?" (laughing, laughing, laughing, 'I just said the funniest thing ever!' grin). Me: "Does Diet Mountain Dew come out of it?" I'll stop now so as not to make you uncomfortable describing the exchange we shared when he discovered I was reneging on the hand action I promised him if he took me to see Sweeney Todd Friday afternoon, but clearly, I think you can tell he's a happy boy.
  • So I'm playing catch up with kimmyk this weekend when talk turns to the french fries at Red Robin and we had a momentary time out to the topics at hand so I could ramble about how I'd just recently discovered the addicting crack that is Red Robin french fries. Kimmy's good to me like that. Let's me be all wordy and stuff and will politely LOL me. Thanks, girlie! Anyway, with our conversation fresh in my mind Saturday night, I dreamt of Red Robin french fries. And they weren't layered across the body of some hot guy or anything. Just basket upon basket of piping hot french fries. Brought to me by hot guys. Whatever. So I got to thinking - I didn't really catch up with kimmy so much as I played ketchup with her. Ha! I know, right!? It's why I'm married to a 14 year old.
  • Back to WalMart. I'm in the checkout and I ask the nice gentleman behind the register how he is, expecting the standard "I'm good, and you?" answer that doesn't require either party to commit too much to the other. Instead, he unleashes what turns into way too much personal information about his married life and his grown kids and grandkids and how ungrateful they all are, and how he's not appreciated unless one of them needs something from him. After taking a breath, he begins chapter two, which is a manifesto against his ex-wife and the drama holidays create in families. The entire time, I can only stand there and listen with the blank smile that attempts not to encourage him further, but serves as a pleasant "I'm listening" coda to the whole thing, and worrying he'll expect me to say something in response when he finally finishes what has now turned into his seething expose on the downfall of women and how they are never truly satisfied. Then I'm like, "Light bulb!" Blogging is like a vast worldwide cash register where we share personal information (sometimes way too much personal information - Hello again, 2007!) and hope that the person standing there waiting to have their toilet paper and peanut butter bagged up so they can be on their way will have something insightful or humorous to say in response. I considered suggesting he start blogging, but I think there are probably enough people out there already who think the world will implode because women are never truly satisfied, so I grabbed my hopefully perfect round hair brush and scurried out.

So there you go. Hope you're full because, like my brain, the casserole dish is empty. Feel free to offer up some desserts in the comments!


Friday, January 04, 2008

'but i don't feel like dancin' no sir, no dancin' today'

"It says if you are over 25, return this product immediately and don't make a fool of yourself," my charming husband says, reading the back of my brand new copy of Dance, Dance Revolution SuperNova 2.

"Oh, you did not just call me old or a fool!" I respond. "Because I can dance. I can jive. Now open up the game and plug me in, baby!"

"I can't stand here and watch the shame that is about to befall this house," he says, plugging in the PS2, shaking his head, and walking away. At least that's what it sounds like. My head is cloudy with thoughts of dancing superstardom and touring the world on a dual bill that also has me headlining my Guitar Hero III band.

"I'm a slave to the music, baby!" I cry to his retreating frame, which, honestly, I am happy to see because I don't need him making fun of me as I start to wind it up with Gwen Stefani and a series of bizarre animated creatures who pop into my television screen to teach me the steps.

An hour later, after rockin' my body with Justin, taking on A Ha, getting called a skank by Fatboy Slim, and raising my temperature with Sean Paul, I award myself the Dancing With the Stars trophy and head to bed.

The next morning, I awake with visions of dance marathons playing out in my living room, so eager am I to get back to a revolution o' dance. Then I roll over and am seized by crippling pain. My left hip screams it's hate for me. When I finally can swing my legs to the floor, I'm immobilized by a Charley horse. Holding tears in while also raising a fist heavenward to curse my husband and his burst of wisdom, I'm interrupted by the sound of smugness watching my defeat from the doorway.

"So," he beings. "Are you the dancing queen? Young and sweet?"

"I'm so totally sweet," I say through gritted teeth.

"And that young thing?"

"Age is just a number. Let's start with three. As in three ibuprofen so I can make it downstairs."


Tuesday, January 01, 2008

what I learned in 2007

  • It's OK to put yourself first and not feel guilty about it.
  • Enjoy the moment and not stress about the process.
  • Duran Duran still makes me happy.
  • Dave Grohl makes me happy "down there."
  • Calling it "down there" makes me happier than a Dave Grohl/Duran Duran sandwich.
  • Toenails painted blue/black are the tits.
  • You can talk about tits all you want. Doesn't mean you have to show 'em off. Seriously.
  • Family is sometimes best in small doses.
  • I worry I'll never fully forgive myself.
  • Though I know I am, I don't know if I'll ever fully feel forgiven by God.
  • I don't know if I'll ever fully feel God, and I realize therein lies my dilemma.
  • I fall in love again every day when I see my kids.
  • I'm pretty amazed how quickly I can forget about them as soon as they're at school.
  • Some of life's best lessons don't happen in school.
  • Growing out my hair was a notch in the 'sex-ayyy' column.
  • You know what my hair is? Yep. Exactly.
  • People who go on and on about how much they value honesty aren't always honest. Ironic, dont'cha think?
  • Some games you really, really, really want to lose. Celebrate defeat.
  • Consider your choices.
  • Really, really consider them.
  • Goatees are the tits.
  • I miss my husband's goatee.
  • I don't miss his nose hair. Or errant body hair.Or his burping. Or how these tools are used as foreplay. Even if they do work on me.
  • But the Beavis voice? I'll show him the tits for the Beavis voice.
  • I'm either super needy or just in love.
  • My vote will always be for in love. And he's cute, even without the goatee.
  • I need to say "no" more out loud and not just in my head.
  • Know the rules. Then disregard them and follow your own.
  • When the show's over, be relieved. In fact, don't even watch the show. Turn the channel.
  • Your friends know - they just know - when you need help.
  • It's OK to step away from friendships in which you put forth all the effort and garner none of the same reward.
  • Some of the best friends you'll ever know are people you may never actually meet.
  • BOOBS! rule. Papier mache BOOBS! would rule, too. Alas, the world may never know.
  • You don't need to hide an affinity for Neil Diamond.
  • Or Hanson. Mmmbop, baby. Mmmbop indeed.
  • Even if you don't always like them, that one next to you? The one who loves you even when you do stupid things? That rocks.
  • I am not responsible for all the shit I dealt with in 2007.
  • I'll never have the balls to sing or dance in public. You're welcome.
  • I'll never tire of this song. I sing along to it, but you'll never hear. You're welcome again.
  • Being perfect is not what I want to be.
  • So that perfectionism thing kinda sucks.
  • The world is obsessed with Grease and doing it doggy style. Take a note, Hollywood!
  • Sometimes you should think twice before hitting 'send'.
  • It's a good idea to have a regular laundry routine.
  • Know that this regular laundry routine will backfire on you.
  • My living room couch is like a sex machine. The kitchen counter? The couch's apprentice.
  • Despite random giggling, I'm a pretty smart person.
  • Sometimes you have to be able to just let things go.
  • Seriously.
  • Let it go.
  • There is such a thing as happy endings.