things I just don't understand...

• Everything about the bids and games (except Plinko) on The Price Is Right.
• How Fiber One cereal sucks ass, but Fiber One chewy chocolate chip bars are fantastic.
• Why my oldest son thinks it's enjoyable to say "No" to me when I wasn't giving him a choice.
• Why I keep buying Madonna's new CDs.
• Most science fiction movies and/or programs. Halfway through, I have to pause the television and have my husband flowchart it out for me, and even then, I just nod and pretend to get it.
• Why the above mentioned husband thinks he's figured out Lost after watching just six episodes in the fourth season.
• How high school kids today look like teen models
• Why the word "high school" still makes me make a face like I just stepped into a horrific crime scene, slipped on the bloody entrails and gotten entangled in the corpses
• Why people I know but have hardly ever spoken to in "real life" want to be my Facebook friend.
• Financial reports.
• Why my husband shakes his head 'no' at me when I dry hump the Rock Band package when we go to Target.
• Why you'd buy regular old Oreo cookies when hello? The Doublestuff are right there!
• That fuzzy feeling in my gut when I see Robert Downey Jr.
• Why I feel I should use the word "tummy" instead of "gut," but just can't bring myself to do so.
• Why the guy I tried to help at the bookstore yesterday felt compelled to keep me in a disbelieving eye lock when I told him there was no way we still had a book in stock that his wife recalled seeing there. Two years ago. On a display in the front of the store. And all he had to go on was "it had photographs in it."
• Why I can't get rid of this cough I've now had for two months.
• Who Dairy Queen thinks they're fooling when you order a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard, hoping you're going to get a treat of goodness like that pictured on the menu board, one laden with the two great tastes that taste great together, but instead end up with a sprinkling of candy on top and a vat of plain old vanilla at the bottom. Dairy Queen makes me a Bitch Queen.
• Why I can't find anyone who owns the second season of Dexter and is willing to loan it to me, because I can't find it in any library and know I'll never watch it again if I were to buy it.
• Precious Moments figurines.
• Buffets.
• Why my husband dawdles at buffets. The instant mashed potatoes are not going to get any better.
• My desire to have a comic book name.

OK, your turn. I promise you won't hurt my feelings if you say "you" in the comments.

when you call my name, it's like a little prayer

I spent part of my weekend at an overnight retreat hosted by my church's women's ministry. Twenty-one hours filled with nothing but good times.

Or maybe I should call them God times.

(...and rim shot...Thanks, folk! You're a great audience! I love you! Have you heard the one about...)

Anyway, here's a little breakdown of how my weekend went off, in the event you're interested and willing to say, "There, there, honey. We know you've got nothing else on your plate worth writing about today..." :

• Miles by which both Google Earth and Yahoo Maps was off between my house and the destination I was to be at Friday night - 11
• Miles that actually broke down to be by the time I realized I wasn't where I was supposed to be, turned around, retraced my route, had to turn around again, yada, yada, yada - 25
• Telephone calls I made trying to get correct directions - 3
• Minutes spent on the telephone with my husband, expecting him to solve my directions problem while approximately 42 miles from where I was at - 23
• Times I said "Screw it! I'm turning around (again) and just coming home!" - 6
• Times that "Screw it" was actually said as "F*@& it!," then was all, "Gah! I'm going to a church event!" - 12
• Times I may have cried a bit when I was forced to look at a map - 2
• Level of humility I felt when I realized the corner I needed to turn at was 1 mile up the road from where I'd pulled over - 10 (sorry, Tool Man...)
• Number of minutes late I was arriving at my destination - 45
• Number of women I barely know who I was assigned to room with - 3
• Size of room we were assigned to stay in - 8' x 8'
• Minutes spent finagling my way into a room with my best friend, who I was supposed to have roomed with in the first place - 20
• Times we all prayed together- 12
• Women in attendance I swear I'd never seen before, yet discovered when I went to church Sunday that we've been attending the same church for months - 3
• Number of times I marveled at the very thin ability some of the speakers had to tie the theme of of the event into their presentations - 4
• S'mores eaten - 1 (one of my prayers was for restraint)
• Number of times I had to speak about my passions - 9
• Times I spoke of my raging adoration for my sons and husband - 14
• Level of enthusiasm said sons and husband displayed upon my return home were it measured on a Richter scale - 0
• Number of women who asked me "Wanna see my underwear?" - 1
• Games of Catchphrase I dominated - 2
• Number of times I thought "Wow, we're not lame at all..." - 3
• Number of women who ambushed me in the bathroom to inform me I couldn't go to bed - 6
• Times I said "I'm in here! I'm IN HERE!" while in the bathroom in hopes of thwarting said 6 women from coming in - 2
• Spiders I captured on my bed before hoping to go to sleep - 2 (plus 1 ladybug)
• Times talk seemed to turn toward the topic of sex, yet came to an uneasy halt when I said "It's because I'm easy!" - 1
• Time my bunk mates and I finally went to bed - 2 a.m.
• Hours of sleep achieved - 4
• Minutes late the Saturday session ran - 45 (full circle for me, ladies and gentlemen)
• Times we sang the same song over the course of the weekend - 12
• Times I glanced at my watch when I realized we were running late and the women leading worship kicked into the third of what would be a six song set - 2
• Number of panties I couldn't find upon my return home - 1
• Age I feel when I use the word "panties" - 6
• Months I have to decide if I'll be attending next year's women's retreat - 13

Yep. God, God times, people. God times.

Even better if I knew where my panties disappeared to.

you drive me crazy...i just can't sleep...

So the news today says economic stimulus checks will be mailed out next week, a few days earlier than originally planned.

Right now I'm torn between using it to pay off our crippling credit card debt or using it as a pay out to the one who takes out the person or persons responsible for Subway's five dollar foot long jingle. I'm completely off Subway (which I don't eat anyway) until this thing goes away.

When that job's done, the next assignment will be to off the Steak-umms jingle writer(s). Though, to be honest, I have to imagine that were I responsible for a commercial that pimps a product no one I've ever known has eaten with the song, "You can Steak-um in the North, you can Steak-umm in the South, but the best part about 'em is when you Steak-umm in your mouth," I would giggle maniacally and hit the person seated near me on the shoulder and ask if they heard that, and maybe rewind the Tivo so it played again.

And maybe again.

While I decide whether to get Discover Card off my ass or go into a life of crime, I'll just be happy that, for now, my kids haven't heard the Steak-umms commercial yet (I've only rewound it for the Tool Man, and given him the eyebrow wiggle), so there's been no dance worked up for it. Such is not the case with the Subway tune.

But trust that I've totally dusted the Subway song with a dose of double entendre and rewound it for my husband, too.

In other news, I believe I'd like to be Kelly Ripa.

And I would like to have a small fan attached to me so my hair blows around my face constantly.

That's about it.

i said to the man 'are you trying to tempt me?'

In an attempt to keep the pilot light of our passion blazing while he's traveling, I've been trying to teach my Tool Man the fine, fine art of dirty talk.

Because I have an associates degree in the carnally-infused chit chat, and there's nothing sexier than using it in the sterile world of instant messaging.

Sure.

My husband, bless his delightfully innocent soul, is one of those students who sits in the back of the room and hopes to blend in with the walls so as not to be called upon, so our lessons have been nothing short of challenging.

After a few interesting attempts and a random suggestion that I pretend to be his dominating tutor, I thought we made a breakthrough a couple weeks ago when, after getting settled into his room, my husband called and told me to open up my email because he had sent me a photo. There was glee in his voice when he told me how much I would love it.

"Six inches, honey! I sent you six inches," he exclaimed, waiting for me to fire up my laptop and open my email, which, I'll admit, was difficult because my fingers were literally shaking with glee that the Tool Man had finally jumped on board my lesson plans.

Just as I was beginning to show off my post-graduate dirty talk skills, telling my husband how he was so going to get it good when he got home, up on my email popped a photo of snow.

Six inches of snow.

That was my husband's way of tempering my heat. I gave him a C for effort, and suggested, through his uproarious laughter, that we try again the next evening. Twenty four hours later, a chat window pops up and Tool Man is all big talk with his "You want nasty, baby? Are you alone? Let's get nasty. Now!"

Well, let me just get settled here on the couch and pause this episode of Dirty Jobs I'm watching, baby!

I gave him a little verbal foreplay (Mike Rowe, how you thrill me...), then encouraged him to show me what he'd learned. Up on the screen popped photos of people with facial tumors. Lots and lots of facial tumors.

"Nasty, isn't it, baby?" Tool Man typed between photos. "I know how this kind of Discovery Channel porn gets you hot."

And while I can't deny that fact one little bit, my mad desire for my husband was being tempered with every clip he sent me and I had to finally tell him it was time for us to say goodnight.

"Tomorrow night, honey, be ready for penetration," he said.

"Promise?" I responded.

"It's gonna be hardcore," he taunted.

And it was. The following night he filled my inbox with photos of people who have been impaled by all forms of things OTHER than what I wanted him to be chatting with me about in the dirty talk.

Sexy. Super sexy.

Clearly, I'm looking into some remedial lessons for the man.

we built this weekend, we built this weekend on rock & roll

The above represents the bulk of what I accomplished this weekend. Oh sure, I had grand plans for a very productive Saturday. When the boys all left the house, I was going to tear through the place with garbage bags as my side arms and start tossing out the carcasses and trash that have accumulated around here over this long, hard winter.

That was the plan in my head, anyway.

But in my heart?

In my heart I heard the roar of the crowd. I could picture the scene. I put my ear to the wall, then like a distant scream, I heard one guitar, just blew me away...

So, around 1:15 p.m., approximately 30 minutes late (like any rock star worth their contract rider in green M&M's and weed), I strapped on my blazing red plastic guitar, hit the Bud Light Stage in my living room, and under the guise of one Judy Nails, kicked ass, and proceeded to do so until, oh, let's say 8 p.m.

What's that you say? Nearly seven hours of solid rock goodness!? You get your monies worth when you buy a ticket to one of my shows, ladies and gentlemen! You came here to rock, didn't you? I can't hear you! I said, "YOU CAME HERE TO ROCK, DIDN'T YOU?"

Then rock you shall do!

Except for the part when, in a fit of "I'm a golden god!", I believed I could execute a pristine rendition of Heart's Crazy On You (I heart you, old school Heart) in 'expert' mode and kept having to restart it within the first two minutes of the song. Around the 12th time, I thought I heard a "boo" off stage left, so I flipped off the culprit, tried one more time (curses, Nancy Wilson!), then backtracked for another go at the Foo Fighter's Monkey Wrench (I really heart you, Dave Grohl).

Around hour five, I hit pause and took a little nap, but only because my roadie (the one who keeps me juiced via the Red Bull and our simmering sexual tension, and who scours the crowd for cute boys to come backstage and fawn over me) insisted I looked tired. He was all, "Sometimes you sleep. Sometimes it's not for days. The people you meet, they always go their separate ways," and really, he speaks the truth.

However, it's hard to sleep when you've got the rock coursing through your veins. Thirty minutes later, I was at it again. Three more hours of this rock and roller coaster we call life and it was encore time, baby! In true rock cliche fashion, that encore would've been Freebird, but I've not gotten that far yet (probably because I like to play "Surrender" a lot and that slows me down a bit, ok?).

I realize the day was excessive (excessively cool!), and my house is still littered with the bones of those who came here to die over the winter, but this will no doubt be the closest I come to rock super stardom (if by "super stardom" you believe "medium" is the level to play, and you continually blame it on sensitive fingers), and there will always be some kid out there, with no responsibilities or cares, who's all, "eh, here's your rock hands, mofo!" anyway. So next weekend? Next weekend I clean the house, and dream about the days when I used to be a legend in my own living room.

Unless it's time to hit the reunion circuit! Then I'm all in, baby, but only for the right price and a percentage of ticket sales. I have lots of pretend alimony to pay, and a crazy lust for Rock Band.

wanna ped my egg?

So the other night, a 30 percent off coupon burning a hole in my sassy green purse, I embarked on a romantic night out at Kohls, hoping to score some sensible shoes for my 'wish we were sexy' feet. An hour later, spurned by the lack of sizes, I wandered around the store, intent on spending some money on something.

Anything.

And I mean Any. Thing.

That's when I rounded a corner and walked smack dab into my thing hanging on a display between the kitchen mixers and patio furniture.

The Ped Egg!

Hello, lovah...

Now, I realize that some people are scared and/or disgusted by the Ped Egg and it's promise to remove dry, calloused skin from the soles of one's foot. I know that watching the commercial and seeing the actor unleash said dead skin into a waste can like Parmesan cheese upon a plate of spaghetti is a smidgen unsettling. However, for me, watching that commercial is akin to watching porn. Granted, I'm talking really bad porn, but something captivating nonetheless. I have sat in the dark on my couch and rewound the DVR at that money shot so many times, my fingers running down my legs to rub the length of my cracked heels, that I knew it was really just a matter of time before I was going to have to have a Ped Egg.

(Sidebar: My feet - which I tried to photograph effectively in both a 'before' and 'after' environment because I've long known it's my feet you're all quite interested in seeing, yet failed miserably at - can run on the dry side because I stand around in sensible shoes on a concrete floor the bulk of the week, then I subject them to various forms of sweaty exercise or barefoot belly dancing. Do not let this fact put a damper on your simmering desire for me)

My hands shaking with glee and griping my Ped Egg and 30 percent off coupon, I walked up to the register to pay for my purchase (and by "walked," I mean "floated happily upon my phalanges in a state of podiatric glee the likes of which would prompt people to smile at me in response, then look knowingly at their partner and exclaim, 'Yep. That's a Ped Egg smile!'"), and then rushed home to try out the goods.

Well, first I attempted to get the Tool Man to do the job for me. I figured it looked like a hand plane, he'd probably be all over it, right? Nope. Dude is brand loyal AND has a serious foot aversion. Finds them, and I quote, "Blech."

So I journeyed to the bedroom to test my new little toy.

Three words:

Oh, my GOD!

Three more words:

I LOVE it!

Now, I've said these very same six words about other little toys I've taken up to my bedroom to try, but this one was clearly different, and that would be obvious, but I do have to say there was a moment when I felt a little "Oh!" in my swimming suit parts because it is JUST THAT GREAT! There was a point in the proceedings when I stood upon softened soles and danced around my bedroom using the dead skin in the Ped Egg's handy dandy collection chamber as a miniature maraca. I then composed a love song to the Ped Egg, and performed a small, but tasteful civil union between it and my feet.

Let me put it this way. If my feet were hands, and I'd just committed a crime, and the first thing I thought of to elude authorities was to burn my fingertips with acid so they couldn't trace my prints upon the inevitable point when I was captured (because of my poor criminal planning, and thank goodness I never knew this was possible during my shady past as a teenage shoplifter...), the Ped Egg would be my acid. My feet are so smooth they would elude authorities.

They also turn on the Tool Man, who suddenly lost some of his disdain when I rubbed my feet upon his back and asked him to guess which part of my body was acting as a temptress.

Long post short, I urge you to toss out your perceived aversion to the Ped Egg, run on calloused foot to the nearest available retailer, and throw down your $10 (seriously, this thing is so glorious it deserves full retail price, though 30 percent off makes me feel a little smug and all, "Oh, I should probably get some lotion for my paws, too!").

Then let's play footsie and throw our magical foot dust in the air like some creepy kind of confetti (or not) while singing Gloria Estefan's "Get On Your Feet" (or not). My feet may be a bit more sexy, but they will always and forever be sensible.

the pajama game is the game i'm in

In the event I am ever chosen to lead the free world, expect the following to be instigated immediately:

• No sequels to stupid horror movies. Additionally, no movies and/or television shows will be remade from old television shows.
• I will marry Bono, and serve as the inspiration for at least three of 12 songs on each of U2's subsequent releases.
• Research money will be set aside annually until such time a comfortable bra and a sensible, albeit sexy, pair of women's shoes are created.
• Brownies are ripe with vitamins, anti-aging properties, and calorie free
• All citizens will be expected to spend three days maximum/one day minimum in their pajamas.

This last mandate is actually the one aspect of world leadership I'm most looking forward to. It resides just slightly above having Bono sing passionate songs of angst about me, and mightily trumps the comfortable bra cause for there's rarely been a time my bra wearing has peacefully coexisted with my pajama wearing. Hell, I'm wearing pajamas right now. At least twice a month, I try to plant the idea that pajamas promote productivity and we should be able to wear them at work.

While I put together an exploratory team to gauge my chances of seeing these matters bloom into full glory, my kindergartner is already working behind the scenes at the grassroots level to sabotage my chances. About once a month, my son's class earns enough good behavior points to have a special day, and most often, the group (minus my little independent spirit) chooses to have a Pajama Day.

Last week, crushed by the mighty defeat handed to him by his classmates (the boy seriously wants Stuffed Animal Day), my son came home from school, tossed his backpack down, looked me in the eye and practically spit out the words I love to hear.

"Tomorrow is...(sigh) Pajama (sigh) Day," he declared. This is the part I love to hear, and that love typically stops there, but sometimes I think it's super cute to hear such determination falling from a six year old's mouth, so I egg him on and get what follows:

"I will NOT be wearing mine," he continued. "You can't make me. Don't even try. I will not. Nope. This will not be happening today. It will not be happening tomorrow. It will not be happening ever. Discussion ends now."

Now, I love Pajama Day because it means I don't have to have a small battle with the boy about what he's going to wear to class that day. These battles typically begin when I launch the "Why don't you wear your pink tshirt with your camo pants today, baby?" bomb. When he arrived home at 4 p.m., last Wednesday to tell me the following day would be Pajama Day at school, it should be noted that I was still in my pajamas. When my oldest son asked if I was still wearing the pajamas I put on that morning (therein lies the challenge of my personal Pajama Day mandate, for I don't sleep in the things), I wiped the crumbs from my antioxidant rich, calorie free brownie off my "Bad Kitty" pajama tank and lied, but whatever. All good world leaders lie at some point.

That night unleashed drama the likes of which I'd expect if I had daughters. I love the day, but I didn't make a big deal about it, because I've yet to get what my son's big deal about this experience is. Cripes, even the teacher rolls in sporting pajamas, and part of the kindergarten day involves rest time, so how comfortable would it be to snuggle up on the floor in your comfy jams. Yet, over dinner, my boy further declared his disinterest in sporting p.j.'s to school. There was bargaining. There was stress. There was debate. There may have been tears. Wait. Yes. There were tears. One would think I was hoping to send the kid to the bus stop sporting feetie pajamas with bunny ears and a little squeaker that played a lullaby when you poked his tiny tummy. Which, yes, it would be cute as sin, but the kid has this kick ass pair of skull and cross bones pajamas that are always at the ready for situations such as this. Stomping down the stairs the next morning, he was sporting the compromise we made during his bath time, when he'd reminded me for the 1,204 time in the event I'd not heard, that he'd not be wearing his pajamas the next day. Track pants over rocker pajama pants, his pajama shirt, skull blazing across his little chest, topping him off.

"If it makes you happy, I'll do this," he said, purely to make me happy, because his spiteful sounding voice made me grin, and that's really all that matters. That I'm happy. In my own pajamas, I gave him a hug, assured him he could change into regular clothes the instant he got home at the end of the day, even though I would perhaps still be in my own pajamas, and sent him on his way.

Then I plopped on the couch, tucked my matching "Bad Kitty" slippers under myself, and dreamt of the perfect bra and world domination. In that order. Get ready, America. It's coming.

'it's not gonna make me wanna have sex, is it?'

Good morning, lovelies. I planned to write a post last night that was equal parts thought provoking and outrageously hilarious (which is most often my writing M.O., but very rarely the outcome), but my plans were thwarted by the Tool Man's triumphant return to the shed. I was, as any tool crazy woman would be, pretty excited by his arrival, because for about an hour before he pulled his lovin' truck into the driveway, he'd been calling me and being all chit chatty about cocks.

(I know, right?! It's been a very long time since I used that kind of talk around these parts, and even then, it was mostly having to do with my tremendous phallic arms, so if I made you gasp in horror and make that "tsk, tsk," sound, I say, "Seriously, Mom, how'd you find my blog, anyway?")

Back to the story. For like an hour, I thought I was getting the sexy talk. "You wanna see this cocks, dont'cha?" "I'm bringing cocks home! Be ready!" (this one scared me), and "You've been wanting this cocks."

Amen, Tool Man. Just get home.

Shortly after the final telephone call, the man walks in the house, drops his bags, yells "Who wants cocks!?" and I (momentarily scared again at the plural), ran through the house all, "The kids are at my Mom's! Get your pants off! Woo hoo!"

Then I landed in front of him, and found he was brandishing the Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story in his clenched fist. "In my dreams you're blowing me...kisses!" he said.

It has recently been suggested to me that, when the Tool Man and I are together again, I totally unleash the "f word" on him, and really get him going, tell him exactly what it is I need him to do. It should be noted that, more often than not, I can get him going by heading up the kitchen and stirring up something delicious for supper.

Because I do that naked.

No I don't.

Not always.

That mostly gets done at breakfast.

Anyway.

So, using the "F word." Standing before my husband, thrilled at his return home for however long, I took a deep breath, steeled my back, spread my arms and let loose.

"YES! I totally want to watch a film with you, baby!!"

And so, for the next two hours, I paid a lot of attention to Cox.

The unrated version. Because we're freakin' hardcore animals.

And we were. Later.

(Don't "tsk, tsk" me, woman! Seriously, how did you find my blog?)

boys will be boys

When I gave birth to my first son, I thought my husband would burst knowing his family name would carry on (because we're suburban royalty and he'll be heir to our massive four-figure savings account). When our next boy debuted nearly five years later, my husband leapt onto the hide-a-bed in the hospital room and beat his chest like a mighty warrior. The man is, to say the least, proud to have sons, and our boys are very boyish. The house is littered with action figures, talk of sports dominate, and when I came home with pink t shirts for them last summer, there was a collective shaking of their heads to indicate that no way in hell would they wear them.

There is a distinct 'boy smell' around the place. Except when the Tool Man is gone and it's just me and the boys.

Last night, my youngest was humming a song to avoid eating his dinner. Within moments, he was staging a full scale concert. His song of choice? The Pussycat Dolls' Don't Cha. It was with incredible range and vocal prowess that he belted out the "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me" chorus. I couldn't help myself. Halfway through, I was singing along. My oldest son soon joined the band, and, our spaghetti abandoned, we were dancing around the kitchen. Oh sure, they credit a viewing of Alvin and the Chipmunks with their fondness for this song, but I couldn't help but point out that they put a lot of feeling behind the 'girlfriend' chorus.

Then I couldn't wait to videotape them and send the clip off to their dad, who's traveling this week. "Don't cha wish your sons were girls sometime?" was my subject line. In classic "man mode," my husband didn't say much about that when he called later. Instead, he reminded me wrestling was on the Sci Fi channel later, and I should record it for them.

However, tonight, when I share today's story with him, I expect he'll mutter something. This morning, while under the guise of brushing their teeth so they could go to school, my oldest son poked his head over the banister and, with great fanfare, introduced me to my "new, improved youngest son!"

Moments later, my six year old, his shirt stuffed with balloons to create what I can only say was a mighty impressive rack, marched down the stairs, ran around the living room a couple of times like uncaged madness, paused briefly in front of me to shake his bony little ass, and then burst upstairs, where he morphed back into a boy. When they came downstairs, I asked the boys what it was they were showing off.

"It made him look fat!" my oldest said.

"Yeah. Fat." chimed the youngest.

"Huh. Because I was thinking you were showing off your boobs," I replied. "We should take a picture for your dad."

(Who I'm certain will peer into the future and wonder if he'll be on CNN one day talking about his pregnant son)

I expected them to protest vehemently that no, no we shouldn't immortalize that momentary mammary lapse for dear old dad. Instead, they tucked around the corner, where I heard them whispering (like girls) as they discussed the merits of the idea. Then they'd peek around the corner at me and giggle (like girls). Just as I was thinking that maybe I'd get those pink t shirts out for them this season, my 10 year old emerged from the corner and burst into a fit of laughter.

"You said 'boobs!'" he said, then fell to the floor laughing in a boob muttering heap. To cap off the moment, my youngest laughed so hard he made himself belch.

All boys, they are. All boys.

No wonder their dad is so proud.

an ode to sex in the form of haiku

The choice seemed easy:
Me or Blade: Trinity (yawn)
Wait! Ryan Reynolds!

Two hours later
Bad ass vampires had me hot!
Um...are you snoring?

I once thought vampires
were a myth to fuel movies
alas, sex...you're close.

what are words for?

Thursday afternoon, I took my stellar customer service skills on the road, and helped operate a booth for my bookstore at an off-site conference.

During a particularly busy point in the afternoon, as my cohort and I tallied sales with the most rudimentary of tools - pencils, paper, and the keen ability to calculate sales tax in my head (I laugh in your face, technology, with your fancy bells and immediate ability to tell me the proper change to give a customer. No one likes a show off. Pfft!), I helped several people with their books while also keeping an ear tuned into a shopper I'd soon be helping. In her hand was a children's book titled Miss Alaineus.

Miss Alaineus. Take a few moments and say it to yourself.

OK. Ready?

So I'm making change from a $20 on a $13.47 purchase (Quick! What is it? If you said $6.53 really fast, yeah for you!) and listening to the woman as she tried to tell her friend the title.

"Miss-a-linus?"

"Miss-a-lane-us?"

"Miss-a-lean-yous?"

"It's sounds just like 'miscellaneous,'" I said as she approached me to pay for the book.

"Miscellaneous. Miscellaneous. OH! Miss Alaineus! I get it now! You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?" she asked with a laugh. Handing her the carbon copy of her credit card receipt (totally old school!), I assured the woman her secret was safe with me, but in my head, was thanking her for the blog fodder to fuel my riddled brain.

Why is this cute little story blog fodder?

The woman is a teacher, and I was selling her Miss Alaineus at a booth the store had set up at a reading and literacy conference.

i can feel it coming in the air tonight

To the inventors of medicine, I would like to extend my greatest thanks. Your healing powers, the ones I am now starting to bask in after sucking up the co-pay to see a doctor and pleading for potions that would make me feel better, are beginning to take hold, and the light I see at the end of this long illness no longer involves my grandparents waving me over to the great beyond with promises of quarters and M&M's.

I love you, medicine inventors. I'd kiss you, but I'm probably still a carrier. So, just close your eyes and imagine Please don't touch me in places reserved for the down there doctor, though. I love you, but I'm not going all the way with you. Unless you approach me after I've downed my afternoon codeine cocktail. Then we'll have to see how things play out. Just ask my husband. I'm pretty sure my virulent love germs are what gave my Tool Man the vapors two days ago, thus marking the opening ceremonies of the "Ohhh, my body aches and I've got a fever-lympics" at my house. Games include tissue tossing, bucket hurdles, and endurance whining. The torch isn't snuffed until the last person pukes on it.

Thank you all for the get well wishes and Ferris quotes. I actually missed the majority of the television broadcast Monday because I was able to get a morning doctor's appointment. Here's a tip to getting those. Call as soon as the office opens. Begin crying as soon as you get a live voice. Yes, I can be there at 9 a.m.! Thank you, gracious lady who serves at the gateway between me and the doctor. Thank you.

Eventually I'll have a real post that doesn't involve me whining or talking about eggs. I can't promise that I'll not be quoting from movies I love, though, so don't expect miracles. I am the girl who cranked more than 30 comments out of a post about Dennis DeYoung, after all.

In the meantime, I'd like to extend my thanks to the person who found my blog via a search for "farting contests and cool moms." My kids will be packed and waiting on the front steps, bloated and ready to impress, within 20 minutes of getting home from school today. I'll toss in the Tool Man at no additional charge. I look forward to clearing the air, and allowing our non-existent dog to rest easy, not having to shoulder so much blame.

Additionally, thank you to the person whose multiple Google searches for "Bigfoot stalking near homes" keeps them coming back to me. Like I need that stress! It's bad enough I fear Bigfoot, but now I have to fear when the hairy beast shows up, he's going to be bringing a friend. I'm under enough stress right now as it is.

Except it will all be better soon. Just like me, because right now, it's time for my medicine. I've been thinking things over as I write this, and I think I will, in fact, go all the way with the inventor of codeine. Would someone please do a Google search and find out who that is so I can let them know? Fingers crossed it's not Bigfoot. Fingers and toes crossed it's not a farting Bigfoot.