do you ever think...

• Rick Springfield ever gets tired of singing "Jessie's Girl" for a bunch of 40 year old women who don't so much care he has a new album coming out as they simply wish to relive the glory that was 1981? *
• Sitting in a perfectly quiet room with just the sound of the clock ticking is the best. thing. ever. And that it might be considered extreme if you were to take said clock and perhaps, oh, I don't know, smash it so you didn't even hear that?
• Perhaps five - OK, maybe five - hours of sleep a night for the past, oh, three nights barely scratches the surface of what someone, let's call someone "me," needs to still be sane in the morning?
• Writing things with a period between every word (i.e. "best. thing. ever.") gets a little annoying sometime?
• Talking to yourself is much more fun when done in an Irish accent? Is that just me? No, wait. "Is that just me, laddy?"
• Seriously. Rick Springfield had more than one hit, people. Let's let "Jessie's Girl" get some rest.
• You should apologize to any actual Irish readers (I know you're out there. You can come in. I won't put on the bad fake accent for you, I swear!) for thinking you can sound like them, but it's really a sitcom voice at best?
• Mother Nature is a tease when one day it's 40 degrees out and you're whistling a happy tune at the car wash, and the next, it's snowing and you're regretting ever telling that bitch you loved her?
• You should just apologize openly to everyone you owe emails to because, well, good intentions can be easily clobbered when you sit down to respond and find 3 hours of "Family Guy" episodes on your DVR and suddenly it's like an hour later and you're in a bit of a stupor?
• Life is too short not to just say screw it about the cake and dive right into the container of frosting?
• Enough "Jessie's Girl" already! You want to hear "Bop 'Til You Drop" sometimes?

* I hope not because, hello? I love you, Rick Springfield!

I. Love. You.

This picture barely scratches the surface of the Rick Springfield items I proudly own. All the LPs - all of them! - and my huge posters are stored at my Mom's. Note that these items (I'm sure my 45 of Jessie's Girl is an antique) rest on a concert Tshirt which I proudly wore while fighting my way to the front of the stage when Rick came to play live for me here in 2000, and whatever, I let hundreds of people in to see, too, because it was hot outside and I felt bad that they had to stand outside.

So sing Jessie's Girl on a continuous loop for me, Richard Lewis Springthorpe. Perhaps while naked. I mean, only if you're OK with that.

I love you.

Call me.

tell me! tell me! how to be a millionaire!

I sell books for a living. It's not even a living. It's for grocery money and maybe a tank of gas for the mini if the price per gallon ever falls below $2.89, and I haven't had to buy snacks this month for the kindergarten class on my grocery run.

So I don't make enough money to put up with some of the stuff I put up with. I do it because I like books. I would marry books if books were in love with me, too. You know why? They don't talk back. All their words are contained between pretty pictures.

I wouldn't marry Danielle Steele books, though. I don't love them.

(OMG, in making this confession, I glanced up to look at my Tool Man sitting here next to me - the one who is reaching around the screen and pretending to type on my computer keyboard and saying, "They'll think you're drunk! They'll think you're drunk at 9 a.m., and wonder what it is you're talking about!" - to which I responded, "I think they may think that already, and if I were drunk and typing this, I'd be telling them I loved them and wondering if they wanted to sleep with me and bending over so they could see my assets." - and I realized "OMG! I'm already married to a book!")

Anyway, I don't make enough to put up with attitude. I've got enough of my own, thanks. Minimum wage buys you a ton. So to the lady who called me stupid yesterday? Thanks. I planned to give you excellent customer service after you asked me a question and I told you we didn't have the product you were desiring. I didn't even roll my eyes secretly when you rephrased your question and thought you could trick me into changing my answer. I'm above such antics.

Until I get called "stupid." Then I am done. Thanks for giving me your bad day. Thanks for stooping to name calling for no reason.Thanks for showing your kids how to treat people. It makes cashing my tiny little check every Friday so rewarding.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

OK.

This is the best I have today, People I'd Sleep With If I Was Drunk. Please don't secretly roll your eyes at me behind my back. Now I'm off for a bit to enjoy a few hours with my husband before he leaves for the next five days, have Chinese for lunch (a little extra in that paltry paycheck last week! Woo hoo!), and prep for an early out play date this afternoon. This involves making cupcakes in case you were wanting to come over, too. If you bring drinks, I may show you the finger quotes - cupcakes - finger quotes.

Sure.

Now, show me the love.

Just don't call me stupid!

'the dude abides'

Over the top of my book, I see my oldest son push 'play' on his Madden 2007 game, then turn to punch his dad in the arm to get his attention. Wondering what was up, I glance at the television and see an army of cheerleaders raising the spirits of those ready to get their virtual game on.

Aha! Pom poms. Or, you know, "Pom poms."

"Nice," I say, my eyes perhaps rolling a little bit.

"DUDE!! What?? He told me to let him know the next time they came on the screen!" my son announces.

I look to my husband, smile, and ask if what his prodigy just said was true.

"It's true, man," he says, eyes barely peeled from the cheerleaders on the screen.

The cheerleaders? Oh, they clearly weren't men. Nor were they dudes. But me? Apparently I'm a dude, man. From my book, to the game screen, to the front of my shirt, I glance down in a brief moment of exaggerated panic to assure myself that, oh, thank goodness, those two things I hang my X chromosomes on are still intact! Woot!

My status as a woman intact, I question just what this whole "dude" and "man" label means when it's applied to a woman. I've been called "dude" with affection and "man" out of laziness. I realize it just gets tossed out in conversation, and most often, it's been used in kindness. It's been most often said to me with endearment. As a means of bonding with the pack. But I admit a bit of annoyance at being called "man."

As my boys get older, I find I'm becoming more of a "dude" than I am "mom," even despite my attempts to alleviate their moniker by responding to them with an occasional "What's up, girlfriend?" When my husband tacks a "man" on to the end of his remarks to me, I sometimes ask if his vision is OK before I answer.

I've been known to use the word "dude" a lot, but when I do, the one I'm using it on is most often a dude. But me? I'm all woman, dude. I know you can't see that for yourself, so let me just prove it to you this way: I don't understand sports (not even Madden 2007, a fact my son manipulates when I play with him and am all, "What are all these plays? Should I be going this way or that? Did I just score a touchdown for your team?"), I suck at poker, and I don't get the allure of watching two straight women make out with each other.

Perhaps the confusion my family's having with my gender is the fact that I apparently sound like a 10 year old boy when I'm on the phone. When my son's friends call, they inevitably begin talking to me as if I am my son, and as kids are prone to when they're focused, I can't get a word in to let them know I'm not their desired objective. This fact allowed me to be a little dude AND pull out my people pleasing female skills last week when the neighbor boy "just called to tell you I'm never going to speak to you again!" because he felt my son had slighted him in some way. After a moment to think, "Geez, who's the girl here?!" (and "Kid, seriously, you accidentally saw me naked, so you know I'm not a boy!"), I was able to pretend to be my son and smooth things over so afternoon playtime would, indeed, remain intact.

In the end, for better or worse, I think I'll inevitably retain a rank as just one of the guys among all my boys. To them, I'm a "dude," "the man," and, for some strange reason, "bro".

Even with the pom poms to prove otherwise, dude.

In a world of those who stand to pee, I sit alone.

'i will always be weird inside, i will always be lame'

It's time for some random around here, my lovelies. I'm sure you've come here lately and wondered when I was going to kick in the assorted bullet points of strangeness I've been depriving you of for awhile, so I'm giving it to you now, because I think it's so adorable when you get that cute look of longing in your eyes. I'm here for you. Enjoy.

• Tyra Banks scares me. I see her and fear she's capable of breaking free of the television and sucking my soul out. Straight out of my eyeballs. Forget Big Foot. I totally now double check my house twice every night my husband's gone to be sure Tyra can't unleash her fierceness on me in my sleep.
• I intend to look for every opportunity in my daily life to say the following to those who choose to smite me: "Yeah, like YOU got the stones." Classier than "cojones" and more ladylike than "balls," and I am nothing if not a classy lady.
• Why do I have this animal attraction to Larry the Cable Guy? I do. I so do. Git-R-Done? If you must, Larry the Cable Guy. No. If you will!
• I now urge you to go back up to that bullet point directly above the previous and remind yourself that I am, indeed, a classy lady. A classy lady who says "squirrel covers" and "down there dingle dangle" and giggles with my hand covering my mouth. With my pinky finger raised. Classy lady style.
• Last night I had approximately 5 dishes to wash. Under normal circumstances, this job would take, at most, three minutes. However, with ear buds crammed in and the iPod much too loud to be safe in the long run, "Jungle Love" came on and, without warning, I started doing that kicky little dance Morris Day rocks in the video. Three times completely through. "I I am dangerous. Girl I wanna show ya." But I can't, for there are no silly YouTube moments right there. Please. Anyway, those five dishes took 20 minutes to wash, and I now wish I had someone with a mirror following me around so I could admire my smooth moves.
• Add Harvey Danger's "Flagpole Sitta" to my list of songs I would perform if I ever do work up the nerve to karaoke.
• Why am I still watching "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles"? Especially since that quirky guy who played David Silver on "Beverly Hills, 90210" is on there now? The only reason I can think is I have an unholy love of all things Terminator because, while on my honeymoon, Tool Man and I discovered a Terminator pinball machine in the hotel's game room and we spent hours in there trying to defeat Skynet.
• Yeah, I spent my honeymoon ballin'. Pinballin', that is. The job of dream wife is filled by yours truly (curtsy bow).
• btw, so what? So what I used to watch "Beverly Hills, 90210"?
• Recently I ducked into the break room at work to put some lotion on my dry hands. Winter is killing me by sucking all the moisture out of my body even before Tyra Banks gets there and sucks the marrow of what's left of my bones after winter's ravishes (even though I'm all "You don't have the stones, winter!" while keeping one nervous eye glancing behind me for Tyra to creep up, ninja-like, and snap my neck). So I'm standing there, rubbing in my big dollop of cucumber melon lotion from Bath and Body Works when a coworker looks up from his lunch and charmed me with the following: "So, looks like you're in nude of a little lubrication." Hello?! Wha?! You're talking to a classy lady, sir!
• Today I'm going to go see U2 3D, and I'm beyond squirmy with delight. Bono and me. Dark theater. Sexy plastic 3D glasses. Match made in heaven. He just doesn't know it yet. But in the dream I had about him recently, he wrapped me gently in his stubby arms and sang "With Or Without You" in my ear, and traced his name on my arm. It seemed so real that I nearly asked my husband for a divorce when the alarm went off.
• Here's exactly why I'm a catch, in the event my dream man is reading. My breasts are a catch all for dropped food and miscellaneous crumbs. Hungry? That might be a cookie crumb. Need a snack? Do you like Doritos? Yes, I'm a veritable boob buffett. I am not, however, disgusting. I don't really walk around with errant food on my cleavage, but there is a certain sexy factor this creates, I'm sure.
• Speaking of snacks, I love Cheetos. I crave Cheetos. I've not had them in years, but lately, I want them constantly and can almost taste them (Before you ask, yes, I've peeked down there. No Cheetos).
• The other night I was home alone and decided to watch television. Free reign to watch whatever I wished! These are exciting times, people. I flipped through channels and landed on a show that caught my eye. Two and a half hours later, I realized I had been watching Hannah Montana. Not because I had to. Not because that's the channel the television had been left on. Because I apparently wanted to. I won't even deny this if asked, either. In fact, I want a blond wig so I can pretend to be someone else. Oh, and be rich, too. That wouldn't suck.
• The truck up there in the photo isn't the Four Wheels of Fun Lovin' parked in our driveway. It belongs to the neighbor. I took this photo because I appreciate the fact that, while we all gripe about the cold and the snow, kids simply see it as glorious. Then come inside crying that their feet are cold and they have to pee.
• When I tie my sensible and unsexy shoes each morning, I make "whooshing" sounds while looping and tugging the laces. Like I'm in a knife fight in a movie. I just realized I did this while getting dressed this morning. Let's just pretend it's a cute quirk about me and move on, shall we?
• If you stumbled over here from somewhere, or read this nonsense regularly but don't comment, peek your head out and say "hey," OK? Yeah, I bet you got the stones for that.
• Olive juice, my pretties. Olive juice.

'goin' 'round the world in a pickup truck'

Secret time. I've got a case of truck lust. I credit my enamored state on the fact that I had my first taste of the lovin' in the cab of my boyfriend's truck while we were in college.

Additionally, every time I run across my pretend husband, Mike Rowe, pimping for Ford trucks, I get a little squirmy in my fully boxed spring. I don't know what fully boxed spring is, but Mike seems to think they're important, and I'm all about whatever Mike thinks. Built Ford tough? Come show me, Mike. Come. Show. Me.

When my husband started his new job last fall and learned he'd have access to a pick up truck he'd be able to drive for personal use, I began to conjure up thoughts of just how personal the use could get. Last week, in an effort to coax him home earlier than scheduled, I promised him that if he could make it, we would do something that rhymes with truck (big ole' wink, wink) when he got here. That something also rhymes with the root of "lucky," and I told him I wanted him to get that way in the truck.

Or 'trucky' if you want to make this into a silly, immature poem. I'm OK with that. And yes, I had to explain my plan to him, which, in some small sense, diminished the planned spontaneity of it all, but we rolled with it as soon as he was all "OH!"

Fast forward to said day, and my mood brightened as I pulled around the corner and spied the bed of the truck peeking out from the garage. I know that actually getting the truck into the garage had been a task of monumental proportion for my husband because seriously, with all the deliveries that come to our home on the daily, our garage is reminiscent of the final warehouse scene in Indiana Jones and the "Raiders of the Lost Ark," with boxes and boxes and boxes as far as the eye can see (or I can trip and/or knock over, but I digress). In my head, I totally thought "bow chicka bow wow!" and started humming "Let's Get It On".

Ok, no I didn't. In keeping with my truck love, I actually started humming "Convoy". I had big dreams for this F150 extended cab, ladies and gentlemen. But that was after I finished humming a little of the "Raiders Of The Lost Ark" theme (which, tell me I'm wrong if you don't think it sounds a bit like the theme to "The Empire Strikes Back" in the beginning. Or don't, because a conversation like that one would be the type of thing that would turn my husband on and distract him from something like the truck/luck poem I'd be trying to conjure up to get his attention again. "Look, honey! Shiny things and boobs! Snap, snap. Over here, honey!").

Anyway, back to the task at hand. Hopping out of the mini, a renewed spring in my step and a big old heart thump going on because, oh my gosh, I am NOT kidding when I say trucks get me revved up, I caught the receptive gleam in my husband's eye, and I started to unbutton my coat so he could take a look at what was going on under my hood. BTW, the garage door was down by this time. I'm a giver, people, but not to my neighbors.

A few moments later, we were in the early stages of our own Paradise By The Dashboard Lights when, in the midst of whispering encouraging words, ("Do you love me? Will you love me forever? Do you need me? Will you never leave me?") I realized my teeth were chattering. Chattering so much, in fact, it had the potential to make one of the desired goals of our pick up truck tête à tête risky at best, and painful at most. When my husband mentioned something about not being able to feel his legs, it hit us. The fire of our combined lust had made us forget that the temperature outside at the time was arctic. Not wanting to give up so quickly, there was rubbing and talk of friction put into play, valiant efforts to forge ahead outlined, but when I saw things starting to turn pink that normally aren't quite so pink, we conceded defeat to Mother Nature, who we also decided need to get herself a little some soon.

So, moral of the story. If you wish to ram your Dodge, don't go thinking you should go dropping a payload - or your pants - in the middle of February in some suburban Midwestern town. In the end, the only engine you'll succeed in getting running is the actual pickup truck engine so you can throw open that garage door, throw on your shirt and wait for the heater to kick in again.

For now, you can come knockin', but I swear to you, I will get that truck rockin'.

One day. Probably around the middle of May.

'wish me love a wishing well to kiss & tell'

So Valentine's Day, eh? Went off without a hitch at my house. Hope it worked out the same for those of you who took a little stock in the day. That hunk of gloriousness I call my husband surprised me and came home a day early so we could spend Valentine's Day together. This was lovely, of course, and was richly rewarded, even if I didn't yet have someplace to stow our kids for the night, and it was too cold outside to grill the steak I planned to make him so I had to blow the dust off the George Foreman grill.

(fyi - that freakin' George Foreman makes a mighty fine steak!)

We exchanged lovely and heartfelt cards before the boys got home from school. I bought the first card I read (at the Walgreen's!) because it was absolutely fitting to my husband's personality and his little jokes. I can't say how long it took my husband to pick out the card he gave me, but he told me it made him laugh, so he knew he had to give it to me. I gave him the one on the left. Sensible, yet cute. He gave me the 'Sex is GREAT!' card. This is our line of greeting cards, btw. Don't I look hot as a blonde? Who knew the Tool Man wanted me to lead him around by a collar? Certainly not me, the woman who thinks she's a 50s-era housewife who busts double entendre all over the place.

I know you're wondering, so I'll let you know that yes, there was a present. A little something for the two of us that the Tool Man picked up someplace other than Walgreen's. Someplace where they like to look at your driver's license when you walk in the door and the inventory can often by found for less online, but when you're looking to get it on with your wife and/or significant other, you're willing to drop the bucks down on.

So, all in all, it was good. Very good. I apprieciate all the nice comments from people on the last post, including those of you new here. Hope you'll come back from time to time.

------------------------------

On to other business. Last week, the lovely Lori and the equally as lovely Scarlett each tagged me with a meme, asking me to list five material wishes and follow those with five spiritual wishes. This, of course, made me get all "Hmmmm. Think. Think. Think. Tap forehead. Tap. Tap. Tap," for a few days, but I think I finally got my list narrowed over the weekend.

Material wishes:

1. My quest has been and will remain this until I either find them or invent them - a sexy yet supportive bra and a pair of sexy yet sensible shoes, neither of which you even realize you're wearing because they are just THAT comfortable. I hope this miracle happens in my lifetime.

2. A giant, spa retreat-worthy bathroom, complete with heated tile floors and heated towel bars, a whirlpool tub, and a huge shower enclosure with several shower heads placed at different (and, um, delightful) heights. Oh, and I want the walls to be soundproof, the counters to be covered in vases filled with lilacs, and music wafting from speakers in the ceiling. Bliss. Basically, I want bliss.

3. Someone to come to my home every week or so and give me a spa treatment after I've locked myself away in the above mentioned bathroom. I want the works. Facial, manicure and pedicure. They don't have to talk to me if they don't want to, and I don't want to feel icky about that, thinking I've got to fill the silence with small talk. However, if they wish to tell me about some new invention they're working on called the "It's Like Two Tiny Cherubs Cupping Your Knockers" bra or the "You've Got To Be Freakin' Kidding Me!! These Magical Things On My Feet Are SHOES?!?" shoes while they're working me over, I'd be all ears.

4. Our house remodeled for a bit more room for all the material things that currently makes me crazy to have in my house, yet have resigned myself to because I'm raising two growing boys and one slightly older model boy who can't seem to part with his various items of memorabilia for hobbies and/or sports he's never had any real interest in. Ahem. Of course, I'd like the entire house paid off and the attached garage to house two paid for, newer model vehicles (Only vehicles. Enough with the boxes and junk already, thanks).

5. To travel. Anywhere and everywhere. I want to go all fashion model poses in front of the Eiffel Tower, complete with the beret and kicky red heels (I suspect the invention of my magical invisible sensible yet sexy shoes will be bankrolling this trip in the future) and massive bouquet of balloons that I'll let free to waft through the glowing Parisian night sky. I want to drink coffee while old men tell me about their lives as I look over the bright blue sea in Greece. Walk where members of my family walked in Scotland and Ireland (where I may also probably - aka "without a doubt" - stalk Bono). Take an observation boat out to the Statue of Liberty. Plant my feet in the sand on the west coast. I may have to take a free spirited lover in order to see this wish play out. My husband grew up traveling, and sadly has no real heart for it any longer. So, of course, my free spirited lover must have hefty material bank accounts. Or be Bono.

Spiritual wishes:

1. To truly believe that by asking for forgiveness, I've been forgiven. At the core of who I am and what I believe, I know this is the case, but being able to let it go is a stumbling block.

2. To be able to feel comfortable enough in myself as a Christian to share that with others. Right now, I shy away from opportunities where it seems a door is being opened because I feel that, just because I believe something, I don't know enough to back it up.

3. To explore the idea of fasting and spiritual gifts on a deeper level. I've participated in a few 24-hour fasts as part of a prayer room experience my church has done and, in retrospect, I don't know that it's necessarily the fasting part that has been enlightening so much as how entering into a room, alone and free to worship as I wished for my time, was so magnificently freeing to me. The experience also, at times, broke me. I felt gutted the moment I knelt at the cross and offered up my prayers or asked for forgiveness of my sins, and it is that feeling, not the feeling of pushing aside any hunger or what have you, that has, at times, been the most enlightening to me as I try to figure out my way on this spiritual journey I, quite admittedly, struggle with.

4. To be open to the idea of praying with others or praying out loud with others. While I have no qualms about praying for someone, I do so privately. Yet, in doing so, I feel like I'm squashing a connection I could be making with other very powerful believers who could be helping to further me with this particular wish. I've had people pray for me - both on their own and by actually surrounding me in their words and arms - and, while it may sound "odd" or what have you to someone, I firmly believe I've left those experiences feeling lighter. That having someone pray for me was a means of shouldering some of the burden I could no longer carry because I was finding it too difficult to hand over whatever it was that I needed help with on my own. I find that my lack of Biblical knowledge puts a roadblock up when I'm with others and we're praying out loud together. I don't think that's really supposed to be how I feel.

5. To feel as connected and open to the experience during the message portion (and beyond) of church as I do during the worship portion. I love worship music. Love it. I love watching talented people offering their praise through music. It is a point in church where I can, and often do, close my eyes and sing without thought other than that particular moment. I don't care who sees me or what they think (though they shouldn't be thinking anything about me in church, eh?), because at that moment, church is everything I want it to be. I wish that same feeling was there as I sit and listen to the message.

OK. That's the wish list. I'm not sure if any of these items are available for purchase at the Target, but I'll check this week when I go to pick up some more hair conditioner and nice buns.

'under my umbrella...ella...ella...eh...eh...eh'

For rolling your eyes at me and laughing when I asked you to call me your shawty. And for rolling your eyes again after I had to tell you what a shawty was. And especially for just skipping the slang and calling me your fine ass woman.

For the way you stick out the tip of your tongue and take a rockstar stance when you think no one is watching you play Guitar Hero III. I see you, superstar, and I'm totally plotting ways to get backstage after the show.

For the way you can fire off a little catnap at church without concern of who sees you. Whether we're in the front row or clear in the back, when you're tired, you're tired, and I respect that.

For thinking you can sit right down next to me on the couch and watch the Season 4 premiere of Lost - the first full episode you've ever watched, btw - and actually think you have everything figured out! Just by watching it and asking me three questions (Which, let me thank you again for waiting for commercial breaks to ask them. And yes, the numbers they're always rattling off DO have significance!). Paybacks come in the form of a little infatuation of yours you like to call Battlestar Galactica, my friend.

For letting me use you as a foot stool even though you seem to have an aversion to rubbing my feet, which is the sole purpose (get it!? sole purpose? feet? hi-freakin'-larious!!)

For shaking what God gave you at me all the time, and for grinning like a lovesick teenager everytime you see me without a shirt on.

For our long distance conversations where you totally miss the point when I ask you what you're wearing (rawr!) and you respond with some completely out there in the universe remark about the weather.

For keeping the truck running in the driveway in the middle of January just so I can act out Mr. Roboto when it comes on the radio.

For always asking "Want me to suck you?" when you get the vacuum out, and for thinking I'm equally as hilarious when I respond, "Depends. Show me your hose."

For going all out for me and hitting the Kum & Go when I'm acting all 'crack addict in need of a fix' for a delicious 44 ounce Diet Mountian Dew from the fountain. With crushed ice, please. Thank you.

For the matinees - both the real ones and the ones filled with double entendre and lots of rolling around. My, but we've seen some good ones lately.

For sending me a three word email consisting of the phrase "ACCIDENT. I'm OK." and then letting me stress for another hour and a half until I heard from you.

For everything I loved about you last year (except for maybe that part about not spilling about what happened on Heroes because, well, obviously I worked days during this season's run so we could watch episodes together, but honestly, it got to the point where I simply didn't care as much because wow, this season sucked!), I love you for it more this year. Wait. The underwear folding thing. I gave it some thought over the year. I don't really love the annoying way you fold your underwear, but I always take deep breaths as I watch you, and sometimes I bite the side of my mouth to keep myself from saying anything.

For these things and many, many more I dig ya, my husband. You're good people. You make me good people, too, just by loving me back.

Even if you won't call me your shawty...but you will. Oh, you most definitely will...

'only ever has to give me love forever & forever'

My experience with bad Valentine's Day gifts (perhaps bad gifts in general) started in eighth grade, when my flaxen-haired, freckled face crush presented me with a hand tooled, red leather wallet purchased in Mexico and carried lovingly back to the Midwest when his family returned home from a Christmas holiday trip. I was, needless to say, thrilled! Ecstatic! My crush had gifted me with his heart! This must really be love!

Never mind that up until that morning, when he shoved the present at me with a heartfelt "here," between our English and math lessons, I was not his crush. His crush was another girl in our class. Another girl with whom I shared initials and a briefly one-sided affinity for this boy's heart. (Did I mention this hand tooled, red leather wallet purchased in Mexico and carried lovingly back to the Midwest had my - her's/ours - initials in it? It did. We shared first and middle names, and our last names started with the same letter. So thoughtful!).

After P.E., my doppelganger with better adolescent breasts and a trampoline in her backyard (one and a half strikes against me, dammit!), rebuked the affections of my one true love, thus compelling him to give me the gift.

Except strike "compelling" and make that " he resigned himself."

And I LOVED it! As much as my eighth grade, "I'm going to marry a rock star and be happy, happy" heart could bear. I believed his giving me the gift and being spurned by She Who Shared My Initials would indeed drive him into my open arms (admit it - right now you're hearing Journey in your head, aren't you!?) and we'd be going together by lunch, which would really just be dating in name only, what with him sitting with his friends and me with mine. Mine who would be all gooey and jealous by my hot boyfriend and sexy - yet very practical - gift!

Of course, this was not to be. As I was writing my new "pretend we're married, no longer sharing initials with She Who Shared My Initials" names into swirly hearts on my Trapper Keeper, my paramour jabbed me in the back during science lab and asked for the wallet back. Just like that.

"Give me back the wallet."

Not "Can I maybe have the wallet back, please?"

Not "I'm going to break your heart now so why don't you just keep the wallet as a symbol of my love and fidelity, which was very brief, but very real in your mind."

Just "Give me back the wallet."

So I did. Head held high, all "Oh, you mean this wallet? This hideous hand tooled, red leather wallet purchased in Mexico and carried lovingly back to the Midwest that you're now apparently going to give to She Who Shares My Initials who is hanging on you like a new species of parasite and is acting all stupid and 'Oh, gross, I wonder if I can wash the germs off this after SHE touched it?!' and giggling to her friends about how you two are going together now? Because if that's the one you mean, then here, take it. It sucked anyway."

Of course, I also thought, "One day, mark my words! I will exact my revenge upon you in the form of too many words written for anonymous people the world wide to read and think 'dick,' and this essay shall be called a blog. Or something as equally odd sounding. So there! Bleh."

Ironically, it was also around the time of this experience that I paved the way for my role as "The Portal Through Which All Must Pass If You Wish To Date, Fondle or Otherwise Mack On Any Of My Friends." TFTWAMPIYWTDFOOMOAOMF for short. But that's a story for another time. Oh, and not 'pass through' as in 'have sex with' because seriously dude, it was eighth grade.

Though She Who Shares My Initials did get more than just that handsome wallet from my crush, it would later be discovered.

And yes. That irritated me, too!

So, long story short, my Valentine's Day gift experience bites. Bites big giant chunks out of bad, waxy Russell Stover candy, then grimaces when it realizes it got that weird cherry nougat piece, so it sticks it back in the heart shaped box with the big, ugly plastic rose on top for the next unsuspecting victim who strolls in, all "OOH! Candy!!" and is stuck with nibbled on candy, but who maybe looks around to be sure no one is looking, then pops it into their mouth and eats it really fast anyway.

Food issues, people. A topic for another long winded post.

Aside from the gift of his love and my two sons (aww!), my husband doesn't do so well in the gift buying department. A short list of items he's purchased for me in our Valentine's Day tenure include: the Beavis and Butthead Experience (on cassette! and which, OK, didn't suck too much, because "Looking Down a Barrel of A Gun" by Anthrax is on there, and in the array of songs I admit to quoting from, Aerosmith's "Deuces are Wild" ranks high); the soundtrack to Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace (whereupon we graduated to CDs); a toaster; a men's shaving kit; and lip balm. That last one? It was on a rope. ITo wear like a necklace. If I were eight years old. And even then, I'd be "Lip balm on a rope? Really?"

I realize it's the thought that counts. That's why, when I am buying a gift for someone, I truly do take into consideration their interests and things they've mentioned they might like and then shop accordingly. However, in my husband's gorgeous head, "the thought that counts" means "Oh, crap! I think today is one of those days I'm supposed to get her something! Let me just flip an illegal U-turn here on the highway and race back to Walgreen's for a quick scan of the clearance aisles!"

Trust me. I've seen the receipts. Very few of the gifts I've ever gotten from him have been purchased more than two hours before he gave them to me.

In his defense, I will say that my husband hasn't struck out at EVERY gift giving opportunity, including not every Valentine's Day. Some years he has surprised me with beautiful jewelry and even some CDs I can tolerate. And I should confess that, while I do like gifts (I can't help it), I do try to make these experiences about much, much more than the tangible token that can come with it. Though, seriously, I freakin' lost it when I got the men's shaving kit. Hello!! One glance down at my then-lactating decolletage made it pretty damn clear I am not a dude!

Though in retrospect, I do hope ::shiver:: my husband wasn't hoping for/thinking I was a fat dude with massive DDs...

On this Valentine's Day, my husband will be out of town for work, and I'm somewhat sure that he really isn't even aware that it will be February 14th, because he's been entirely too busy to care. That's fine. When he comes home, I'll have made plans for our children to be elsewhere, and I'll prepare some fancy feast and dessert for him, which may quite likely then be followed by some of the Sexy Sex (patent-pending). Unless he says he's too full from the steaks and gooey brownies. Then I'll have to work some magic to launch the marathon. I've got a few ideas in mind. Trust me. They're good ideas.

Consider those ideas my gift to him.

And if he should happen to come home with a hand tooled, red leather wallet purchased in Mexico imprinted with my present day initials, well, that would rock.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Speaking of red things, here's a little something that doesn't suck in the gift department. Though, I suppose, calling it a gift is a tiny stretch. This is more a "Like he wouldn't do this if I said something! Geez! As IF!"

This makes me giggle, naturally, and maybe clap my hands together about 12 times, really fast, right in front of my face. OK, 15 times.

I wuvz thes. Plz seys u wuvz thes, two.

'i wish i was a baller'

Anyone who knows me knows I like things in pairs.

Peanut butter and jelly

Hall and Oates

Young and restless

Barnes and Noble

Bill and Ted

My kick ass Chucks

Duran and Duran

Ken and Barbie

Adam and Eve

Waldorf and Statler

All these things have a magic that just makes them work together. No question. Especially those kick ass Chucks of mine! What doesn't seem to work together so well is basketball and porn.

Oh, I can give you a moment to ponder that and come up with a case that yes, yes it's possible these two things can play well together, because I spent a chunk of my weekend considering just that, but you'd have to admit it's kind of creepy. At least, I thought so.

In the event you don't see it as creepy, let me set the scene for you. Saturday morning, we're courtside as my son's fifth/sixth grade YMCA team kicks off the first in it's series of March Madness basketball games (nevermind it's February. Sometimes life just doesn't make sense). Behind me sits the mother of a child from the opposing team. Up to three minutes into the second quater of the game (with my son's team up a handy 18 points over their opponent, thank you very much) this mother, who had been until then just mildly expressive in her cheers, decided a new strategy was in order.

"Grab those loose balls, boys!" she yelled. "Take it to the hole!"

"Box him out, baby!" replaced "Go team!" and was then enhanced with "You gotta kiss the rim!"

At first, it was fine. I get it. Sports euphemisms are cute. But these were coming from her with complementary breathy sighs and gushes of "OH, OH, OH, OH! OH, YES!!!" everytime a boy on her son's team made a move to drive the lane.

Or, as she described it, "penetrate the lane."

When that one came from her list - and just before she let her hair down, peeled off her demure librarian glasses, and loosened up the buttons on her blouse and whipped things up to the XXXth degree - I leaned over to my husband and asked him if felt as dirty as I did. My husband, being the playa he likes to imagine he is, gave me a look that was all "I'm gonna personal foul you later when we get home and play on the hard wood," so I knew he'd keyed in on this cheerleader.

In the end, after an overtime basket that clinched the win for my son's team (some one-on-one and double team action had paved the way for some out of control lay ups which pushed the score in the final drive. See? I'm down with the sporty talk, Sporto!), I left the school gym feeling like I needed a shower and maybe file a police report.

And wondering what I'd be getting myself into if my kids were into soccer, instead.

testing the theory of 'just what the doctor ordered'

When my husband gets sick, I tend to be as nurturing and caring as I can be while he pushes himself back toward health. I make sure he stays hydrated, eats right when he feels like eating, and stays on a meds schedule.

If it weren't for the fact I hate blood, can't handle anyone vomiting, and OK, have, on occasion suggested he take his stuffed up, lung ripped body down to the couch so I can get some sleep (I'm not proud, OK? I like beds. I like sleep. Beds + sleep = bliss), I could totally be a nurse.

Wait! Being a nurse might sometimes involve bodily fluids other than vomit and blood, right? OK. I couldn't be a nurse, then. Definitely not.

But I can be a good wife, so yes, when my husband is ill, I do take care of him and I do sympathize when he feels he's going to die by assuring him that under no circumstance is a cold going to kill him. And then I'm usually all, "Give me a break! I pushed two kids out of my body without pain numbing potions so just maybe zip it on the whole 'My guts feel like they've been yanked from my body through my nose, stomped on, set on fire, then shoved back in by a claw-handed rabid animal,' business, OK mister?"

Seriously. Sometimes the dude can be a little whiney. Sheesh!

So, ahem. Where were we? Oh, yes. I take care of my husband when he's sick. This doesn't, however, mean I (finger quotes) take care of him (finger quotes) when he's sick. Wink wink (because I say that in my head when I allude to the sexy sexiness). I've yet to read any journals of medicine that say a lack of anything sexy will kill you when you're recuperating from a generic illness like the flu or a cold. Besides, having him hack that yanked out lung across my back or in my face? Not freakin' cool!

But today? Today the tables are turned, my friends. Today I woke up with a raging sore throat and plugged up nose and itchy throat. A slurry of symptoms brought to a head from the cold I felt come on yesterday afternoon. I'm quite the sight, and I sound very alluring with the husky, yet whispery voice the sore throat has necessitated.

I came downstairs this morning hoping my husband would jump to my aid and shower me in Daytime Nyquil and blankets warmed in the dryer. I would do the same for him, you see (or maybe you wouldn't actually see, because that intent sometimes never makes it out of the file marked "good ideas, but eh, whatever" in my head, and if you could actually see, then I'm clearly sicker than I thought).

This is what I got instead:

Me: Cough, cough, ugh. Rattle. Cough, cough, oh, ouch.
Him: Stands up. Stretches. Smirks. Pats his down there dingle dangle. Looks at me, all "And so?"
Me: Eye (cough, hack, ouch!) roll.
Him: Thinks maybe she didn't get the message. Lowers waistband of pajama pants. Shakes down there dingle dangle at her. Smirks.
Me: "Are you (cough, sniff, sniff, blow, sniff, cough, ouch!) kidding me with this?"
Him: Shake. Shake. Flop. Shake. Smirk. Eyebrow raise. Wiggle. Shake.
Me: "I have a sore (cough, cough, ouch!!!, cough) throat and you want me to do that?"
Him: "It's nature's...."
Me: "DO NOT say it's nature's elixar and/or cure!!!" (cough, ouch, sniff, blow, sniff, ouch, cough)Him: Pat. Pat. Pat. Shake. Dangle. Shake. Pat. Flip. Twist. Smirk. Flop. Shake.
Me: Blank stare. Meds coursing through my system. Hallucinating. Pretty birds. Flowers. Cute men. No cares. Cough. Cough. Rattle. Ouch.
Him: "So, whataya think?" Pats down there dingle dangle again. Again. Again. Again.
Me: Cough. "I think you don't - cough, cough, ouch!, cough, sniff, blow, ouch!, cough - really need me in this study you've got going on?"

Alas, he has spent the morning shaking his thing at me.

All. Morning.

All.

(And again just now!)

Nevermind he seems to have not yet realized my stuffed up nose would prevent me from breathing, thus leaving him with the potential for an entirely different medical tragedy on his hands if I suddenly felt the need to partake of this wacky science of his!

Seriously. This is how the tables turn and he opts to try and take care of me!! By getting a little cared for himself.

Well done, Loving Husband, M.D. Well done. Your co-payment is in the mail.

'darling, don't you monkey with the monkey'

Saturday I spent a chunk of my afternoon running a variety of errands and basking in the brief respite we've had to this Midwestern winter. It was a super busy day, but it was also a chance to plop on the giant sunglasses, crack the windows in the mini, and bounce along to Kid Rock's Cocky* (and then be all "what the...?" when Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 was the next selection on the iPod) as the fiery mane of hotness billowed, supermodel style, in the breeze that kicks up when one is driving 35 mph down a suburban residential roadway.

Once back home, I made a quick trip to my local gas station/convenience store/wine cellar/softcore porn shop/Spencer's Gifts for a refill on my life's blood. Armed with my refillable 44 ounce fountain cup, I breezed in the front door, thinking maybe I'd like a snack to go along with my delicious Diet Mountain Dewy delight. "Perhaps an Almond Joy?" I asked myself. "You do know those are good for when you feel like a nut, right?" I replied. Vowing to think about my choice a bit longer, I hit my stride past the Krispy Kreme donut case and started to round the corner to the soda fountain. It was then, as I neared my approach, that I heard it.

Loud, self-assured, intent, and cockier than old Kid Rock up there could ever imagine being, let along sing about.

A hardcore wolf whistle.

For the briefest of seconds, I froze, and without turning my head, did a peripheral scan of the store. No one to my right. OK. What's that? The slightest hint of movement to my left! Oh, it's just the lady managing the store, gazing out the window and completely oblivious to me, which is fine, really, because while she appeared smart looking and self assured, and thus just my type, I didn't wish to break her heart by informing her as I plopped down my $1.59 that I didn't often get invited to the girl parties.

Cleared on either side of me, that must have meant the person with the great lungs and good taste (I'm not trying to brag, really, but I was rocking a good hair day and a good hair day coupled with a "what'chu gonna do wit all dat junk" in some good jeans moment can work wonders for anyone's big head) was behind me, admiring the view. This thought prompted a boost in my ego that caused my spine to lengthen and my rack to puff out, like a mating bird in the rainforests of South America. It also gave me a better view off the glass on the refrigerator case ahead of me, which, coupled with the previous mentioned giant sunglasses, meant I could check out my apparent admirer on the downlow.

But I saw nothing. NOTHING!

"Maybe they ducked behind the latest People magazine and display of fuzzy handcuffs so you wouldn't see them!" I said to myself. "Probably. You're probably right." I replied, curious and slightly charmed. Enough so that I turned around under the guise of wanting to pick up this week's copy of The Sporting News and the Penny Saver in hopes of bumping into my fan. Prepared to be entirely super casual, I put a puckery smile on my face and rounded the corner.

Where I bumped into nothing. NOTHING!

"Maybe your powerful sense of self and extreme confidence scared them and they ducked out after whistling," I said to myself. "Maybe you're right," I responded. "If such is the case, this store really should look into a security bell on their door. Who knows what kind of hooligans come in here day to day!"

I then turned and proceeded back to the soda fountain. I'd taken two giant steps past a display of Valentine cards and toys when I heard it again. The same cocky wolf whistle that got my heart beating all fast and giddy just moments ago. I whipped around, fiery mane of hotness flying everywhere, and immediately noticed my adoring fan.

Dangling by their furry arms along the bottom of the Valentine gift display, under the giant plush roses and "i have a 'heart' on for you" shot glasses, was a row of plush orangutans. Planting myself right in front of them, hand on my jutted hip, I didn't have to wait long for one of them - the cute one in the middle - to leer at me, maybe run it's monkey paw over it's nonexistant down there dingle dangle, and whistle again. Once again, I was compelled to look around the store. This time not to finger the culprit, but to hide my embarrassement in hopes that no one had actually seen me acting like I had a secret admirer willing to follow me into the local convenience store/wine cellar/softcore porn shop/Spencer's Gifts.

(and also not to notice that a stuffed whistling monkey made me blush and giggle and say "Awww! Me? You think I'm hot, little monkey?! Or do you know I've always had a thing for the tree swingers?")

Thankfully, the lady at the cash register was still there, still gazing out the window and still oblivious to my existence.

With a very quiet chuckle to myself, I again made my way to the soda fountain (seriously, by this point, I was jonesing for some pop!), but I certainly didn't miss the fact that just a few seconds later, two hot guys walked through the doors and my sexy simian sweethearts didn't serande them with wolf whistles.

"Definitely must be dude monkeys," I said to myself. "Oh, no doubt," I replied. "Dude monkeys with an extreme level of self confidence to be able to rock the pink and white hair bows and heart collars."

To make my two fella fellow shoppers feel better, however, I did wolf whistle at them in my head. Even Stevens.

In the end, I got my delicious beverage refill, settled on a 100 Grand bar - the perfect marriage of all the good things that make up a quality high calorie treat, minus the nuts, because the real nutjobs are out there - and made a bit of small talk with Daydream Believer (by The Monkees. Ha! Check it! Totally unintentional and not noticed until editing, when I was all "Oh! Hahahaha! You're so cute and ironic, you!") behind the cash register. On my way out the door, I glanced around the store one last time - this time to assure myself the coast was clear - then turned briefly and gave my fake furry friends a wink. And OK, I may have pointed to the cute pink one in the middle and blew him a little kiss.

You and me, monkey. We got it goin' on.

*This song contains lyrics the likes of which I sometimes use in the following cases:

• Striking my thumb with a hammer. Hard.
• Yelling at someone in my head simply to make myself feel better and then move on.
• Pretending to be the star of soft-core Cinemax after dark films.

Listen at your own discretion, yet know that I kick ass in a little dance to this when no one is around.