i hope we can still be friends, though...

I imagine from time to time, some of you experience a strong desire to ask me on a date. We've formed a really great relationship from the comfortable barriers of our computers, but now you think it's time to take things to the next level, so one day you give yourself a little pep talk, maybe jot down a few thoughts that are equal parts witty and charming on a piece of scratch paper to help you figure out what you're going to say when you finally decide to take the plunge. I completely understand, and I want you to know that I absolutely appreciate your interest.

However, before you go to all that effort, I feel I should tell you it's impossible for me to date you. Oh, rest assured, it's not because I don't like you! I would absolutely go on a date with all of you! Not at the same time though, because I'm not really into that kind of thing. No, believe me. It's not you. It's me! For one, I'm married! I know, I know! All I can say is where were you between November 1992 and November 1993? You could've had me!

The second reason I can't date you? Well, my Saturdays are pretty much booked for the foreseeable future with this:

In case you can't see what that is, it's my DirecTV on-screen guide with Saturday's premiere of the Jonas Brothers' television show set to record at 7 p.m. If you look even more closely, you'll see it's set to record for the season. Yep. That, my computer paramours, is what I, your dream girl, will be doing Saturday night. Of course, when I say 'doing' I mean 'watching,' but, well, you know... Do I expect greatness? No. Do I anticipate cringing at least 15 times during the 30 minute program? Yes. Will I marvel at the scant bit of Joe's chest hair I've noticed when commercials for the show aired this morning. No comment.

Maybe we can go out on Friday night dates. Sure, I'll still be married, but I'm usually not doing anything on Friday nights. That's if I've not scared you off completely. Did you notice that the little screen-in-screen in the above photo is from this week's episode of The Office? Combine that with the fact I think you're all so very cute and you know I actually do have some sense of good taste!

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In addition to my good taste, I'm also quite a looker. Or something like that. According to my young son, I'm apparently far younger than my 41 years could potentially lead you to believe. As my youngest son and I ventured to the bus stop this morning, he looked up at me and declared me much younger than his music teacher. "Honey, that's very sweet of you, but your music teacher can't even be 30 yet, so Mommy's a bit (a bit -ha!) older than her." I replied. "But you don't look as old as she does!" he said. "She looks a lot older than you!" I encouraged him to go on, his words a much needed compliment in light of a recent horrible haircut and an undying zit on my chin. Later in the day, I visited my son's school for a music program, and met the infamous young, but old music teacher, and damn if my kid wasn't just trying to butter me up! I do look far younger than she does! My delight was short lived, though, when, after thirty minutes spent watching some of the kids she attempts to teach every day, I realized she's clearly earned every wrinkle, and that while she may not have an undying zit, there's no way I could do what she does every day.

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When I returned home from the elementary school, my oldest son immediately ambushed me at the door and informed me I had to thoroughly wash my hands. "In case you haven't heard, there's an outbreak of the swan flu going around!" he enthused. While I've not yet heard the news today to know if this is a potentially new pandemic, I imagine symptoms of the swan flu include feeling like a fairy tale princess and/or overhearing people whispering about what an ugly little duckling you are. Based on my horrible haircut and undying zit, I'm pretty sure I have a raging case of the swan flu, and now there are three reasons why I can't date you!

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Speaking of my charming older son, he's been assigned to make a balloon-powered vehicle for science class next week. Tomorrow, he has to take a prototype to school, and yeah! He informed me of that about 15 minutes before his bedtime tonight. Normally, he works on these types of projects with Tool Man's assistance, but as luck would have it, Tool Man isn't home. This left my son and I staring at each other, deflated as his non-existent balloon-powered vehicle. "If Dad was here, he'd know what to do" he muttered. "Listen, according to your brother, I may look young, but I'm not clueless!" I replied. "Yeah, but you're not a buildy, worky type person like Dad," my son said. Clearly the kid has never seen his Dad's caulk jobs (which I'd link to, and you know I would, but that caulk is all over the place already)(literally). As you might imagine, my son's implication that I am neither buildy or worky compelled me to declare game on, and I immediately took to the Internet for ideas. Thank you, sweet baby Internet! In less than 30 minutes, we transformed drinking straws, wooden skewers (I knew one day the 2,000-plus wooden skewers I've had for the last 13 years would come in handy!), duct tape, an empty pop bottle and four pop bottle lids into this:

Not to toot my own horn too much, but I think this shows I'm not just bookish, my friends.

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It should be noted that to help build this balloon-powered vehicle (which I hope works because while I may own more than 2,000 wooden skewers, I don't have balloons in the house to test this with), I downed four large bottles of Diet Mountain Dew after 9 p.m., including one in the delicious Code Red variety. Suffice to say, I'm a wee bit hopped up. If we were in a dating relationship, this is when you'd probably be able to take advantage of me because I'm just that easy after a few drinks, and that Code Red packs a punch. But alas, no dates.

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Comment responses. Oh, they're still coming back sometime. So are the two tags I've recently been given. For now, I need to go work off some of this pop and call it another lonely day. Oh! One more reason why it's probably best we don't date. This post? SUPER RAMBLY! Proves that if we did go out, I'd be sitting across the table from you going on and on and on about myself while you pushed your dinner around with your fork, then used my brief pause to excuse yourself to the bathroom so you could sneak out on me. Well, let me do that for you instead. Seriously. I just drank triple-digit ounces of Diet Mountain Dew. I really, really, really need to go to the bathroom.

it's peanut butter jelly time! except no. no, it's not

I put up with quite a bit in my line of work. Toilet seats constantly being left up. A garage that looks more like a warehouse than a vehicle holding tank. Snoring. Grunted responses. Questionable underwear. It's tough being the only female wading through the raging tide of testosterone in my house.

But this?

This, my friends, is an outrage (and the shadows in that ominous photo also make it look terrifying)!This is what I found this morning when I decided, as I do every morning (were I a creature, my name would be Habit), that a slice of delicious, melty peanut butter toast would be the best way to start my day. But no. Not today. Because The Others who live with me left me with this! Is this the first time they've left an empty jar out to taunt me? No. No, it is not. In fact, as usual, I fell for their "Heh, heh, heh...we'll put the lid back on the jar to make her believe there's peanut butter in here. Again. If our mouths weren't clamped shut with delicious globs of extra chunky, we could hide in the corner and laugh and laugh when The One Who Is Not Like Us discovers our tom foolery!"

Sure, there are probably some of you out there who are saying there's enough of the delicious spread in that jar to scrape out and slather onto my bread, but to that I say BAH! We may be living in difficult times, people, but I shall not taunt my toast with minuscule amounts of peanut butter! Why, there's not even an errant peanut in this jar to make it worth my while.

So, what am I going to do about this? Well, for starters, I have screwed the lid back on the empty jar and placed it back in the pantry (where - shocker! - I found only the heel pieces of the only remaining loaf of bread in my house...nice...), and, like I do when I walk into a bathroom and find the toilet seat left up yet again (and again and again and again...)(almost to the point where I feel like I should just give up and buy a Go-Girl)(but no), plan to use this as another in a long line of successful teaching moments I've been employing since I said "I do," and heard "It's a boy!" and that is the 'Do not mess with me' lesson. Clearly it's working well.

I'm also going to eat the last Pop-Tart.

p.s. - True story - I buy Wal-Mart's brand of super crunchy peanut butter (choosy mothers may choose JiF, but I choose to save a buck). A couple years (or maybe it was earlier this year since I can't keep track of all this chaos in the world. What is this swine flu business, anyway?) ago when the government warned us away from certain peanut butter products due to salmonella, I laughed like a super hero and kept feeding my kids peanut butter sandwiches from my Wal-Mart jar. I kept dipping in and enjoying, too. Then, one day, when the jar was pretty much empty, my Mom forwarded an email with an updated list of recalled products and their lot numbers. Naturally, my jar of peanut butter was from a recalled lot of Wal-Mart brand peanut butter. Two days later, my kids became adverse to sunlight, began screeching rather than talking, and I'm pretty sure I heard them plotting to take over the world when I thought they were actually asleep. Somehow I was immune to it, and after multiple viewings of I Am Legend, I knew what I had to do to save the world. Except not really. I just watched the movie a lot even though I thought it sucked. Instead, I threw the jar of peanut butter away and got paranoid every time one of the boys said they had a stomachache. You're on your own with this swine flu business.

p.s.s. - This was supposed to be a Wordless Wednesday post. If you just look at the photo and don't come this far with the words, I suppose it still is, but you really miss something in the delivery if you do.

if by 'a wing and a prayer' you mean 'they're lucky they've made it this long' then you're absolutely right

If the picture you're looking at up there were hanging in an art gallery, it would be titled one of two options - either "Untitled" (for that seems to be what damn near every piece of art I've ever seen hanging in an art gallery called) or "What It's Like To Have Her As A Mom" (aka - "The Peoples' Exhibit A").

This photo is absolutely indicative of what it's like to have me as a mom. That stuff wrapped around my oldest son's leg to hold his makeshift bandage in place? Masking tape. MASKING TAPE! Why? Because I didn't have any rubber bands. Or thumbtacks. Or duct tape (which is shocking when you consider I'm married to a man and I assumed it was the legend of all men to come equipped with duct tape)(or caulk, which oddly wasn't an option for adhering this field dressing)(and thank God for that, really). And I certainly don't have medical tape. Cripes, I'm not even sure I believe medical tape is an actual thing, but my Tool Man assures me it is. Then he suggested I might put it on a shopping list along with a new tube of antibacterial gel because the Neosporin I do have? It expired five years ago. Apparently, the only reason my kids haven't lost limbs to gangrene is because my expert care, which has involved everything from kissing the boo boos to writing them a prescription for "Suck it up, already," borders on magic.

Where the gauze came from I'll never know, but some was remarkably procured to lessen the bleeding before I implemented my other options, which included, but were not limited to, severing the leg at the knee (downside - additional bleeding) or using the ginormous wad of cotton that came inside my bottle of delicious, yet seemingly ineffective Wellbutrin tablets (Wellbutrin? Listen, the key word in your name is 'well.' How's 'bout doing me a solid here soon?). Seriously, what kind of mother - especially the mother of two rag tag, firmly believe wresting to be real rasslin', 'is your shoulder dislocated or are you just trying to scare me' boys - doesn't have Band-Aids?

Raise your hands in the air like you don't care because I'll tell you what kind of mother - ME! I'm also the one who never remembered to pack wipes, snacks or sippy cups when taking my boys out into the world as babies or toddlers, and have sent them off to school in the early grips of winter without coats because, eh, at least the sun's shining.

When my boys were babies, I regularly left the house sans one of the 8,302 pacifiers that were strategically placed in each room of our mansion and had to veer miles off course to make a desperate binkie buying side trip to soothe the savage beast in the backseat who'd screamed for miles and miles in outrage at my oversight. I've shrugged my shoulders and looked perplexed, perhaps even said, "Odd, you say? Mine tastes OK," when the boys tell me their milk tastes watery, never once allowing my eyes to dart toward the kitchen faucet, letting them know I temporarily bulked up the remaining drops of milk with water so they could have cereal (FOR DINNER!) because I (once again) forgot to buy milk while dashing through the grocery store. The evidence will be harder to hide the next morning when they learn I forgot to buy bread (once again) for their morning toast and I need the night to bask in the thought they still think me perfect.

Yes, I am the Poor Planning Mother. Always have been, probably always will be, and never am I more reminded of that fact than when one of my children gets injured. This hobbled-up, masking taped up boy of mine has slammed his face into the edge of a wall with such force it made the house shake (house - zero stitches, boy - five), and has served an amuse-bouche of raw thigh to a wandering hound that found the lean flesh tasty, though perhaps a bit gamey (dog - quarantined, boy - four stitches without anesthesia and one tetanus booster). I fully anticipate one day to come home and find the boy sitting on the couch, his arm in a Ziploc (assuming I actually have any of those!)(which I rarely do)(shocker!), wishing me a fine welcome home before suggesting a trip to the doctor. I owe it to this child to be better prepared.

So the first thing on my list? Tissues. Yes, I'm a mom who never has a Kleenex or wadded up napkin at the bottom of my purse when the kids need to blow their nose or wipe away the evidence of a meal or crime (or I need to wipe away the tears that fall silently when no one is around)(seriously, Wellbutrin, this is a call to arms!), and clearly, I need to rectify that because when my boy goes to rip that masking tape off his hairy little leg, it's going to hurt and I expect there might be a few tears wiping away those quite likely can't be done with a thumb and a little bit of spit.

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I apologize for the lack of response to all your delightful, amusing, and very much appreciated comments these past couple of weeks. I often sit down with every intent to respond to them, but then I often think, "Wow. I am so tired of my own voice, so I have to think everyone else is, too," and then perhaps some dating reality show comes on VH1 or, oh, look! They're decorating cakes on Food Network Challenge! and next thing I know, it's hours later and even though I haven't used my words, I'm still exhausted by them. Please know I very much appreciate you reading and very often making me laugh with your comments, and that I'll be trying to get better about getting back to responding to them soon (Wellbutrin...here's another thing you owe me...)

i was going to title this post 'it sucked and then i cried' but apparently there's a book out there with that title, so now i'm stumped

About a month ago, my sons and I spent an afternoon at a nearby park, joining a swarm of other children and mothers also out soaking in every drop of sunshine. For nearly two hours, I chased the boys around the playground, and when they went off to play basketball, I staked claim to a shady spot to sit and read. Before long, I found myself counting the number of women pushing baby strollers containing the tiniest of infants while their toddlers played nearby.

I swear my body forcibly released two viable eggs for each baby I counted, and as each ova made its fantastic voyage, each paused just long enough to tap on my uterus and whisper "Tick, tock, mama. Tick tock." Hello, baby lust, my old friend. The only thing preventing this sea of new mothers who surrounded me from scooping up their sweet-scented bundles of bliss and running away from me like a Stephen King horror story was my sunglasses hiding my teary, baby-crazed eyes, which I had to wipe dry in order to spot my sons swimming in the middle of a sea of toddlers. At 7 and 11 years old, they towered over the others like two gangly Gullivers among the Lilliputs! These boys are my babies, and though I'm now contractually prohibited from calling them that, they are forever such. I simply can't imagine not being their mother.

Recently, Tina from Send Chocolate asked me to write a post sharing my five favorite things about being a mother. It's part of an online dialogue launched in by Catherine from Her Bad Mother for moms from around the globe to share their joy. I'm a little late to getting to this, but I still wanted to chime in. Pretend we're just a bunch of moms who brought our kids to the park on a fantastic spring day. If it makes you uncomfortable to see me weeping and perhaps suspiciously asking to hold your infant, feel free to smile at the strange girl in me, but definitely share your thoughts about your favorite thing about being a mom, too (and if you're a dad, I'm sure you're welcome here, too). Here are mine:

• Every morning, as we walk to the corner for him to catch the school bus, my youngest son reaches up and grabs my hand. He's growing out of his cuddling stage, so the few minutes of hand holding I get five days a week is the best way I can imagine starting my day. It's followed closely by our established routine of humming the theme to Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and the Imperial March from Star Wars on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I've always said this is a kid who needs a soundtrack, and he has chosen wisely.
• My kids are crazy athletic. My theory is when Tool Man and I worked our magic and the chromosomes split, some kind of crazy super hero action must have taken place inside my uterus where all the bench-warming, looking for clover in the outfield attributes we both brought to the child making game exploded and reformed into these bionic beings we spawned. Half the time, I don't know what they're doing on the court or the field, but they are skilled in ways I'll never be able to duplicate. If this is the technology, we built it, and for that, I look forward to spending a lot of Fridays and Saturdays in school gyms. Yeah team!
• The conversation is never dull. Here's a sampling of what I've been party to lately. First up, my oldest son - "Mom, what's for supper?" "Grilled chicken, rice, and some green beans." "So, when you say 'chicken,' what exactly do you mean by that?" "What?! What do you mean 'what do I mean by that?'" Later, over his pauper's rations of grilled chicken, rice and some green beans ("I'm still not sure where you're going with this chicken, Mom"), he regaled me with a scientific discourse on dandruff before launching a lengthy dialogue about that "one thing that happened a few days ago or last year, I think...you know, that thing!" Tonight, my youngest son plopped down beside me and asked, "Do Europes talk like Americans?" I was able to answer that one, but even when I can't, it's fun pretending.
• Speaking of my youngest son, he now only answers to his nickname - Rhino. He's chosen this nickname because rhinoceros are his favorite animal. Additionally, he's given the rest of us animal nicknames. His brother is Panda and Tool Man is Elephant (Rhino says it's because Elephant is the leader and that's why he's an elephant, but I told him to tell Elephant it may be because he ate too much grilled chicken, rice and some green beans the other day - and other, far tastier treats while he's traveling - and he's getting big like an elephant, but Elephant threatened to stampede). Finally, I'm now addressed as Woody, as in woodpecker. As in what?!
• My boys dig music (except for Jonas Brothers, and to that, I say boo!), and my oldest often comes to me with a list of songs he'd like added to his mp3 player. Sadly, his latest selections include the new Black Eyed Peas' song, Boom Boom Pow (I blame this on Elephant, who brought My Humps into this house and dear heaven how my boys love that song). When they hear Give You Hell on the radio, my youngest edits the track by singing "BEEP!" loudly and passionately in place of 'hell,' and I swear to you, it never gets old. But the best thing about this favorite thing? I just learned my oldest thought Yes' Owner Of A Lonely Heart was sung as loner with a sexy heart, and that cracked me up, but then I was all, "Wait! You help bleep out the 'hells' in that hell song! Do you know what sexy means?" and he just smirks and rolls his eyes at me. Yep. So not my babies anymore.

I've seen this type of post on several blogs, and it's been fun reading posts from around the globe. For my part, I'm going to tag Kat, who writes at 3 Bedroom Bungalow. Kat's a Midwest girl currently living in England, and while that's hella cool in and of itself, she's also got two adorable young daughters who I'd bet have given her some favorite things to share if she wishes. I also hope you'll share some of yours in the comments.

Just beware my uterus...

orange you glad i didn't say banana?

A tip from me to you -

Be sure to speak clearly and slowly when you phone your mother and ask her how to macerate strawberries lest you desire having her scream "WHAT?! You want to do WHAT WITH STRAWBERRIES?!" in your ear. This is especially important if you also plan to use the word balsamic at any point in your query. Additionally, enunciate if you are inclined to announce your intention to give the strawberries "a good forking." Planning accordingly cuts down considerably on the amount of time you might spend explaining yourself, and gets you to the good stuff, so to speak, faster.

You're welcome.

p.s. If anyone knows how to make whipped cream blobs look more enticing, I'd love a tip. If you just want to talk about whips, I'll smile and nod, but I'll not really be able to add much to the conversation.

p.s.s. My food play has never actually involved strawberries, and in fact may have peaked following a long weekend and a box of Cracklin' Oat Bran cereal.

i thought our love didn't suck. now i'm not so sure.

After more than 14 years of marriage, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion that my Tool Man and I know each other well. When I ask him what he'd like for dinner, I know before he even responds that his answer will be either "I don't know," or "Well, what I want, we don't have, so (wait for it...) I don't know."

See? I imagine that you and your spouse or significant other have also developed a sort of easy connection that helps keep your bond strong. Also, does it creep you out at all that I imagine you and your spouse or significant other? Even in the slightest? You, by the way, are very cute when you settle in on the couch after a hard day. Yes, you. Who else do you think I'm talking to?

Anyway, when my Tool Man calls home from the mysterious allure of The Road (not to be confused by the fantastic Cormac McCarthy book of the same title), I know the first thing he's going to say when I pick up the phone is "Hey," and that will be followed with him running down his schedule, followed by how tired he is, then some random gadget related gobbledegook, then his goodnights. He's quite the romantic. More than I can handle some nights. Like the night he carried on like that for longer than usual and I sat here, miles away, making the universal action for talking by flapping my thumb and fingers together in rapid succession, also known as The Quaking Duck sign.

I, too, am quite the romantic. Back off, friends. I'm taken. Except you. Yes, you again. You come here...

Here's another portrait of our marriage to charm you. Let me set the scene. More than a year ago, I brought home a book about a glowing teenage vampire and the angsty girl who yearned for him. There'd been some rumblings around the bookstore where I work selling children's and young adult (ahem) literature (cough) about this particular title, and people - strike that - WOMEN - of all ages were lapping it up. I figured what the heck. Maybe it was time I checked it out since, again, it's my job to promote quality literature (again...ahem). Perhaps you've heard of it? It's called Twilight. Ring any bells?

Every night, I'd crawl into my cozy bed with Twilight and Tool Man, flipping pages with my free hand after having taken his left hand in my right, because, as longtime married folk who know each other so well, that's what we do. Then I'd read. And I'd sigh. And I'd mutter things like (here's where I'm going to curse for just a bit, so brace yourselves!) "Oh, for fuck's sake," or "You have got to be shitting me," depending on the action (or lack thereof) going on between the pages. Then I'd laugh. Something quite disdainful or perhaps sinister-sounding. Essentially, what I was doing was dying a little bit inside as I worked my way through this particular book while at the same time keeping my Tool Man awake. Tool Man isn't a curser, and he found my random use of the f-word both off-putting and, well, confusing.

"Why don't you just stop reading it?" he'd ask when I'd drop the book, smack him on the shoulder with my free hand, and tell him he had to listen as I read him passages while my voiced dripped with contempt and disdain (seriously, people, typing that last sentence made me think I was channeling Twilight author Stephenie Meyer while sat at her kitchen table in Utah and pounded these books out!)

"I tried to make my smile alluring, wondering if I was laying it on too thick. He smiled back, though, looking allured," I'd read, trying to sound like an angsty teenage girl for Tool Man.

"That's pretty dumb," Tool Man would say. (side note - I'd have swapped the use of pretty for the f-word in that remark, but I can only quote Tool Man, not speak for him)

"I know, right? But wait! There's more!" I'd answer, then change my voice to what I thought an old vampire man walking around as a teenage stalker would sound like.

"Bring on the shackles — I’m your prisoner," I'd growl.

"Not sexy," Tool Man would sigh. Then he'd beg me, again, to put the book away for good, preferably not by throwing it across the room like I perhaps several times mentioned I was inclined to do. Sadly, I didn't take either of our suggestions, and I finished Twilight. I then vowed to Tool Man and the entire world that I'd not read any more books in this collection. Seriously, between the posts written here and the comments shared here and elsewhere, if you don't know my opinion of the Twilight series, you must be a brand new reader, and if so, I welcome you. If you like the Twilight books, I still welcome you. I just do so while making the kind of disapproving face my Mom made at me when she'd see me eyeballing another slice of pizza when I was a kid.

This is the truly amazing thing about the relationship Tool Man and I share. While I adore books and he rarely actually uses words that start with the letter B, let alone read books, we know each other so well that we can read each other like open books. So imagine my surprise when he came home from The Road (also not to be confused with what is apparently going to be a never released movie of the same name based on Cormac McCarthy's book) late Wednesday afternoon, dropped his duffel bags on the counter, neglected to even give me so much as a cursory peck on the cheek as a hello, and told me he was going to go watch this:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I ask you - WTF?!?!?!! I mean, it's like all of a sudden, my Tool Man has no idea who he's married to anymore!!! The use of multiple question and exclamation marks clearly indicate my dread!!!!

"I stopped at Kum & Go (sidebar - heh....) to get a pop, and they had a Redbox, so I figured I'd rent it and watch it on my laptop," Tool Man said.

DID YOU HEAR THAT!??!?!? He was going to watch this...this...movie (pooh, pooh) on his laptop. In his hotel room. Alone. While on The Road. Should I be worried? I mean, listen, when I hear people talking about these books or this movie, most of those people ARE NOT DUDES!!! Dudes who dig The Laydeez do not dig Twilight or Twilight-related minutiae, and if they say they do, it's only because they're trying to get with The Laydeez, and, lest I'm mistaken, my Tool Man doesn't need to put on Twilight airs to get with me, a well-documented All Things Twilight hating laydee.

Sigh...

Friends, since he couldn't watch his beloved Twilight on his laptop in his hotel room alone while on The Road, he watched it on our DVD player. Alone. While in our living room. Oh, sure, I tried to watch it with him. I tried. I really, really tried. I got about 15 minutes in, right up to the point where Edward storms out of the biology class he shares with the apparently alluring (and very wooden) Bella and, when failing in his attempts to switch classes so as not to be tempted by her, hisses, "Fine. I guess I'll just have to...ENDURE IT!"

Oh, no. No. No. No. I couldn't endure it. Not one minute more. If you'll allow me to roll over in bed and slap you on the shoulder to recall another of Edward's quotes from Twilight for you, "You are a terrible actress — I’d say that career path is out for you." This is only my opinion, but this movie sucks. Sucks like lame ass vegetarian vampires ("What do you mean? Vegetarian vampires? Are deer made out of tofu?" Tool Man once said when I cried lame while reading the book). The only good thing about it? Well, again, this is only my opinion, but the only good thing about it was when the end credits started and, from the other living room, I could hear Radiohead's 15 Step kick in on the soundtrack (to which I sigh and ask, "Really, Thom Yorke? Really?").

When it was over, I was tempted to ask Tool Man if he still had a penis, but then I remembered in the book, Edward saved Bella from turning into a vampire herself after an apparently lethal non-vegetarian eating vampire bit her (surely that wasn't a spoiler for anyone at this point...) by sucking the venom from her blood just up to the point where he himself could turn her, and, to be honest, I just didn't have it in me after this type of relationship betrayal to allow Tool Man to drop the double entendre on me by asking if there was anything special that may or may not involve sucking that I could do to save him from becoming one of The Laydeez.

This day has really given me pause to think about our relationship. I mean, after all this time together, a small part of me feels like it died. I mean completely died. Not in that, "Oh, haha, I'm 17, but really, I'm more than 90 years old. Being immortal is FUN!" kind of way, either. Additionally, I've been planning my revenge. Oh, mark my words like fangs to your throat. There will be revenge. I'm thinking a little of this just might do the trick:

Robert Pattinson who? Zac Efron FTW!

(btw, yes, that photo is one of Zac and I together, and I know what you're probably thinking. You're probably thinking things like "Wow! Talk about lucky!" and of "You're really holding up for a woman who lusts after celebrities who are barely darkening the door of legal age!" and I say thank you. I am feeling quite lucky, and that other thing about looking so good? Well, I take that, again, back to my Mom and the way she'd shoot me that disapproving look when I'd go for that second slice of pizza when I was a girl. Who knew it was going to help me like that, huh?! Let's hope Zac's willing to take care of me after I potentially divorce my Tool Man for this discretion in our once very happy marriage...).

'if you know what i'm singing about up here come on raise your hand'

I only wanted 2 one time see u laughing

tuesday, bloody, tuesday

As you might imagine, waking up an hour before your alarm is set to go off after less than five hours sleep is a pretty damn fine way to start your day. The only downside of the experience is struggling to fall back to sleep NOW! so you can resume the kick ass dream you were having where you and Zac Efron were the only two people presumed alive on a space colony, and if you think I'm kidding when I say this dream was, indeed, kick ass, then you are so, so, so terribly wrong.

Dig if you will the picture of my dream - Me, rocking the standard post-apocalyptic uniform of well-fitted olive green cargo pants, boots with a million and six buckles, a sheen of sweat to indicate a sexy cocktail of fear, focus and fantasticness (now a word), and a precisely sullied white tank Tshirt to show off my guns (both forearm and firearm). Think Ellen Ripley from the Alien movies (but with better hair) or Sarah Connor from Terminator 2 (but, again, with better hair)(but don't think of Michael Biehn, who costarred with both my dream alter-egos in both Aliens and Terminator). In a non-parenthetical word, I was a bad ass in my dream. Then there's Zac. He may be wearing a leather jacket of some sort. He may not have a shirt on underneath that jacket. I'm not sure, dude, because remember, we're trying to save the world from unseen evil forces. All I do know is he's got those nice little abdominal cuts that I don't know the name of but I like to call them "Hell, yes!", and he may be going on about how we need to save the world and I'm all, "I know, Zac, I'm checking our ammunition supplies!" and he's all, "No. What I mean is we need to repopulate the world. You and me. Now." Then maybe I mumble something about how I'm (finger quotes) "...old enough to be your mom if I got drunk at the Sig Ep party," (finger quotes) but he gently places his index finger across my lips to hush me, which is further indicated when he says, "Shhh. Do you feel that? That's my ammunition supplies..." Then maybe he kisses me. Whatever. Because I woke up then. More than an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off after less than five hours of sleep.

Ahem...

Anyway...

(p.s. Zac Efron is totally legal)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Tuesday was shaping up to be a good day! My dream, coupled with hearing Love and Rockets singing about how my strut makes them crazy (interesting sidebar - Zac may have said the same thing to me in my dream. Coincidence? I think not) playing on the sound system at the bookstore (which, if you have been into a B&N of late, you know is a vast - and quite shocking - switch from our normal overhead music) had me grinning from ear to ear even after the onslaught of kids and parents completely bee swarmed the children's department and, I'm not kidding you, DESTROYED IT!!!

Nothing could dampen the magic of Tuesday, my friends. Not when I had a mythical 30 percent coupon for Kohl's (trust me, those babies are like unicorns. We want to believe they exist, but until we actually see one in person, they're just a fairy tale we pass down from generation to generation) in my purse and a plan to buy some super sexy shoes (10 wide, baby. You know what they say about a chick with big feet...). Not getting excited when the radio DJ teased me by saying he was going to play Cheap Trick's I Want You To Want Me, and then busting out with the ALBUM version of it (which? what? I didn't even know there WAS an album version of this song!) instead of the Live at Budokan version and OMG, the album version sucks ass! I feel like I should be doing a can-can dance in an old time Western bar listening to that. Blech. Blech. Blech. I'd love you to love me and listen to both versions and then just try and defy me. Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you crying after hearing that album cut? Yes. Yes, I did.

Back to my perfect day....

Finally, around 2:30 p.m., it struck me that I was hella starving, and while my mind was telling me to head on home and continuing my fantastic day by fixing a delicious peanut butter sandwich (for you, Dave Ramsey. I do it for you...), I somehow found my mini rolling up to the drive-through at my local McDonald's. As I often do when I visit this particular McDonald's, I felt a little dread creeping into my system. You would, too, if you recall the 'Dreaded Furburger Incident of Ought Eight,' but the sun was shining, good moods were to be had, and I went with the flow.

My cheeseburger Happy Meal securely in hand, I rushed home, whistling a happy tune that wasn't the album cut of I Want You To Want Me, and skipped inside to have my late lunch. In a move I now find inexplicable, I decided against my usual routine of putting my (cough) delicious (double cough) meal on a real plate (because I'm a fancy pants)(with big feet), and instead plopped my paper-wrapped treat down at the kitchen table and I proceeded to begin reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (and yes, you want to read it)(want to borrow my copy?) while dining. At the start of a new chapter, I put half my sandwich down for a moment, flipped my page, looked down at my lunch, and I screamed the scream of one who would be facing a zombie attack. Why, you ask? Well, dig if you will THIS picture:

See those dark red splotches on the right side of the wrapper? Yeah. THE ONES THAT LOOK LIKE DRIED BLOOD????? That shit (oh, it was NOT shit, btw) was splattered all over my damn cheeseburger wrapper!!! It doesn't take a CSI team to overlook the obvious pool of ketchup to the left and deduce, "Yep, what we have here appears to be the spilled hemoglobin of either a human or an animal. What we're going to have to do is take some samples back to the lab and determine the donor-slash-victim, but it does certainly appear that we're dealing with blood," and it wouldn't be hard to provide them with their samples, because ladies and gentleman, that shit (again, NOT actually shit, but blood)(though I also tried to talk myself into believing it was ink, but no, it is not ink)(also? not salsa) WAS, LET ME REPEAT, SPLATTERED AND DRIED ALL OVER MY CHEESEBURGER WRAPPER!!!! I could flake that stuff off, reconstitute it with a little water, and recreate a horrific crime scene, and if my camera was better, I would break it down for you like Dexter and map out the spatter pattern for you

In an instant, my fantastic day was massacred, and honestly, hours later, I'm still nauseous. Who deserves a break today, McDonald's? Oh, you and I do. You and I are totally breaking up as a result of this. I will miss your Southwest grilled chicken salads, but at this rate, lord knows what kind of hell could be looming for me among the lettuce leaves? I think it's just best we call it a day, McDonald's. You can keep all your Happy Meal toys, just give me back the $2.75 I spent on my ruined lunch. Don't make Zac and I come gunning from you, McDonald's, because seriously, I think there's been enough bloodshed already.

p.s. - I just realized I've written back-to-back posts about fast food hamburgers, as if I've some sort of bizarre love affair with them or creepy obsession. I assure you that isn't the case. I'm obsessed about you. I don't know what color your eyes are, baby, but your hair is long and brown. Kind of like hamburger patties. Did I say I was dreaming about Zac Efron? I lied. I was dreaming about you. Is it late? I'm so tired...

just so you know, there's a chance you'll be humming a John Mellencamp tune the rest of the day...

Do you ever come around here and wish, "Wow, I wish there was more kick ass FADKOG action going on!" (before you answer, you should know I'm being held together by a pretty weak emotional link these days, so, you know, no pressure...)?

Well, I'm still down there with my little love letter (do not all love letters use the word 'orgasm'?), but today, you can also visit me at Midwest Parents, where, thanks to a very kind request from Heather at Cool Zebras, I had the opportunity to guest post. I used the opportunity to write about growing up in a small town, and raising my sons today in this same, no longer quite so small town. After spending some time here, I hope you'll head over to Midwest Parents and visit me there, too (weak emotional link, remember...).

was it good for you?

Kudos, Hardee's! I'm not sure if it was your intent when you began broadcasting your newest ad campaign featuring Top Chef host Padma Lakshmi, but I swear you may have actually caused me to orgasm when I stumbled upon it while flipping TV channels late last week.

Have you seen it? If you're into food porn, feel free to watch the above video (extended version, baby, because I know you like it like that!). If you can't watch it, or you've taken a sabbatical from TV (which, how?! do you not realize that next Sunday is the season finale of Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels?), let me break it down for you. Padma walks around an exotic open air market, fingering and touching a lot of stuff that makes me think out loud, "Do people really do that? Would I be inclined to buy spices and potentially delicious foodstuffs if I knew people far, far dirtier than I ever imagine Padma Lakshmi being had stuck their digits in it?" When she's done fondling the food, she parks herself on the stoop of a beautiful brownstone and pulls out a giant, drippy, onion ring and bacon-garnished hamburger and, I swear to you, unhinges her jaw like a snake so as to shove that first attempted bite in. What did I hear in my head when I first saw her do that? With liberties, I heard the poetic verse of one Sir Mix-A-Lot:

"My anaconda don't want none unless it comes between two buns, hon."

Which, again, I guess I should say if the goal was to make me desire a Western Bacon Thickburger and not, in fact, mourn the demise of my vibrator, I should probably rephrase that line, too. Except wait, Padma's tongue is now out and curling up like a serpent, so just a second...

Anyway, after that, there is much hiking up of skirts and unladylike of sitting, a quick and blatant cleavage shot, and tremendous amounts of tongue action and finger licking. All in all, it's like watching Cinemax in 30 seconds. Only now I'm not having to do so with the volume turned down and listening for my Mom to wake up and come out to the living room to see what I'm watching.

Considering the tag line at the end of the commercial for the sandwich (?)(her?)(you?)(me?)states it's "more than a piece of meat," the goal probably wasn't for me to experience the particular type of physical release I may or may not have. Whatever. I mean, I had to watch the damn thing three or four times before I even realized what it was Hardee's was trying to sell me. It was then that I really took notice of all the similarities Padma and I share!

Like her, I, too, have also always had a love affair with food. I didn't need to travel all over the world to feed it, of course. Not when my best friend in high school worked at the grocery store bakery and would bag me down with a dozen fried and frosted orbs on the cheap each night at closing time. I damn near guarantee you that a few times I sucked the deliciousness out of a cream-filled Long John the way Padma goes to town on what appears to be some delectable sweet sauce on that burger. I doubt anyone would have tapped on my car window while I was doing it and mentioned the word 'orgasm,' but if they weren't in bliss, I kind of was.

Also like Padma, I was reminded of being in high school and sneaking out before dinner to savor, well, a regular old bacon cheeseburger at our local Hardee's. I'd go because that's where Kent, my druggy crush, worked. Did I ever get a date with him out of all those trips? Nope. And while Padma says she left no evidence behind, my actual behind was, ironically, leaving evidence behind, so all I did manage to get out of my many youthful trips to Hardee's was a couple new pairs of jeans in a bigger size, and a few years later, when the sneaky eating and the efforts to hide the effects caught up with me (to again quote from the Book of Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Red beans and rice didn't miss her!") it also got me a year or so in treatment for an eating disorder! Woot!

I haven't been to a Hardee's in a kabillion years, or at least 20. Am I above fast food? Please. I'm the girl who has eaten Cheetos and Reece's Pieces when I've discovered them in my cleavage so, you know, I ain't the most picky link on the food chain (even though I feel it necessary to amend the above statement to say I've not found those particular food stuffs in between my stuff at the same time! I'm not an animal!). I'm just not sure this commercial is going to be the thing that gives me a hankering for a hunk of Hardee's, that's all.

However, after seeing this commercial a few times now, I do kind of feel the need to take up smoking so I can roll over and ask Hardee's if it's got a cigarette.