hey, jack. i was wondering when you'd turn up.

Jack gets his own post, because he's Jack.

Who would you switch teams for? Angelina Jolie, because she was righteous behind the wheel of her Rubicon in Tomb Raider. No, actually there would have to be a dude involved in some form. I'm just not that way, even though the Gay Poncho says different.

Where did the name "Sex Scenes At Starbucks" come from? From the time I had sex on the counter at Starbucks. The biscotti will forever turn me on.

Will you have sex with me? You can't be that desperate, Jack.

What is your favorite movie? Weekend at Bernies. When he's waterskiing and hitting the buoys - now that's good humor. Also, Pirates of the Carribean because, well, duh. Loose shirts open at the collar and beads get me bothered.

How come my urine looks like apple cider? Filtered or Unfiltered? Actually, don't answer that. Maybe you should go see someone.

If someone came up to you in a bar and asked you these same questions, how many times would you kick them in the testicles? A kickboxer, I'm not. But I can dish shit with the best of them, so I'd probably take that route. They would regret it, trust me.

Ok, off to not eat now. I can't eat today because there's only room for beer inside the slinky top I'm wearing tonight. Happy New Year!!

in an effort to be prompt without appearing desperate and failing miserably at both

First of all, Monkey, let me say I'm honored by the visit. You are a veritable Blog God in these parts, and real god in India.

And to answer you questions:
A) What is that under your couch in your living room? I try not to look. If I had to venture a guess it would be a matchbox car, a few crushed goldfish crackers, and remnants of barfed up beer.
2) The longest period fucking I ever did was ______ (min/hours/days)
I wasn't exactly watching the clock, but I'd go with that ten days in Hawaii. Also, once, long ago, I did it four times consecutively, no breaks, and lived to go again the next night. Ah, to be young and lithe again...
3) The person I'd most like to speak to, one on one, with no interruptions is ____ My husband. Boring but true.
D) Your favorite animal at the zoo is? (why?) Elephants. Have you ever really looked at them?? They are freakin' weird, and way smarter than us.
5) The greatest band of all time according to me, SS&S, is _________ Hmm. Firstly, thanks for not calling me Sex, like all the other dudes. You're obviously an upstanding, respectful monkey. Greatest Band? This is the toughest one. I can't listen to one band for that long without getting sick of them. Ok, here goes. REM. No, U2. No, REM. No, U2. Ok, Sting. Well, and Linkin Park has a great future ahead, based on their two albums... Why couldn't you have asked me which band member I'd most like to screw? That would be Michael Hutchins of INXS, hands down. Too bad he's dead. He wasn't just on my list; he was the list. And those folks at NIN would only have to sing that one line to get me in the mood.

Ah, King, another writer. Good to hear from you always,your majesty, and thank you for your admirable restraint.

How many completed novels/novelas do you have? Four completed novels during the past 19 months. I guess I could count the one I did when I was 13. It's bad, but done.
How many do you consider worthy of publishing (as they are)? Two. I just hope somebody else thinks so too.
Where are your piercings? My head. (I promised to answer, but I didn't promise to be specific. The 60% rule also applies.) I'll give you this though- there aren't any south of the border.

Krypto - I think you know how I feel about you.

Horny elves? Please don't tell me that you get off on that hentai anime tentacle rape stuff, too... See!! I knew we were soul mates!

Yea! That was fun! More questions please! I'm too lazy to come up with a post today.

i refuse to use miscellaneous musings as this post title even though that is the most apt description of this post

I can't go much longer without mentioning the tsunami (which is a cool word even if the actual event sucks). Someblogy (hey, my own colloqialism, how about that?) said 50K dead. I dunno if it's right or not, or even if the whole "earth shaken off its axis" thing is right either, but Goddamn. How does that happen without us realizing it's happening? How is there not some cosmic wave, some aura alert system (AAS) that goes off? Are we so disconnected from our world that we can't feel FIFTY THOUSAND human beings losing their lives in one go?

**

I like how Blogger treats itself like a little start-up: "We got a nice mention in Time magazine", as if Google isn't one of the most used, wealthiest search engines in the world. Shit, colloqialisms have sprung up around Google like batshit in a cave. Google-spank is the latest funny. (When someone replies to your email with the link to the proper Google search as to where you could find out the answer to your query.)

I know I'll pay for saying that. I know. Just can't help it.

**

Basketball night at the gym. Shirts and skins after lifting. Yummy.

Yeah, I know it's a double standard; they can't look and I can. But the world does revolve around me, remember?

**

Ok, people, I'm getting a complex. I know SOMEBODY out there is reading this blog. Either that, or someone is bringing up this page fifty times a day just to fuck with me. Actually, I can't even say anything to my friends anymore without them nodding like, yeah, yeah, I read that today. I get emails like: "Good for you for going to the zoo!" I realize it's the holidays and folks are tired and just don't have much to say. But I fucking live for the comments so TALK TO ME, PEOPLE!! Stroke my ego. Stroke me, baby.

On that note: I'm opening up the floor to questions and I swear to answer each one. (Not that I swear to be 100% honest. I'll be 60% honest, how's about that?) Give me your best shot.

Pleeeeeease don't embarrass me by asking no questions. This is a risk because Greg is all the way in Hong Kong, and he isn't reading, and I know he at least would ask me a question. It's also a risky time of year, but I'm desperate for some back-and-forth here. Call me lonely.

**

Also call me horny. I just read this book where these elves (thank you for the loan, BB's wife who is also BB; it was a slow start but by page 50 I couldn't put it down. Rather like my own first novel, only this one wasn't her first, and she lives in Missouri of all places... ok, and I think this would be a textbook digression but while I'm at it, do commas go inside or outside the parentheses when included in a sentence, Krypto? I'm too lazy to check S&W, and besides, I've got my own hot-assed language arts teacher consultant on-line. Someday when I figure out how to do it I will so post your pic on here and they will come a runnin', K.)

Ok, 4-square do-over.

These elves have little compunction (or shall I say cumpunction) about fucking anything that will lie still long enough. Of course they are all fabulous in bed; torturously, deliciously slow; enjoy a little pain with their sex; do specific shit that I like; and oh, did I mention they throw in magic that makes them glow when it's going well? Can you imagine? You're goin' at it and you open your eyes and you look up, or down, or in the mirror, at the flavor of the month and he/she is glowing?? Quite the stroke to the ego, huh?

Holy fuck, I'm horny. I sure as hell hope there's a sequel.

news from the zoo

Went to the zoo today and it was exhausting. Don't know why, but three hours into it we all were crabby and near collapse. PHF recovered in time to go do Carnage Canyon in Beastie (no winching or wenching, though - I think he was disappointed).

Our zoo is big and recently updated, and way cool. It used to be a little run down, but now it's all hip and shit. The first thing you see is the ginormous male lion sitting on a mound like he's king of the zoo. The guy has some elephantine huevos on him, let me tell you.

Which gets me to thinking that there were lots of different sorts of zoolet babies lately - the zoo is a veritable orgy pit, apparently.

I love the zoo. Dunno why. Captive, pacing animals, whiny kids, bad food, and usually it's hotter than bejesus out. But I still love it. It always wears me out. I don't ever, I mean ever, nap, but I often take ten minutes after going to the zoo. All the sights and sounds and smells; sensory overload! and I'm like an infant after a trip to the grocery store. (For those of you not in the know, a 45 minute grocery store trip translates into a 3 hour nap for infants. Works every time.)

The year most of us in our set turned 30 we all had little kid birthday parties. I can't recall exactly how it started, but we all did, and we passed around the same 3 and 0 birthday candles too. It was fun. Anyway, my party (well, the daytime party) was a trip to the zoo. Well, it was only 130 out that day - August 16 - mark your calendars - and funnily enough we brought sack lunches (kid's birthday, remember) and I remember my coke was not only luke warm but hot. No amount of rum can make that right. We all were sunburned for the party that night (during which two people very nearly had sex on my kitchen counter. But that's a story for another day). All the animals were listless that day, worthless really, it was all we could do not to jump into the penguin pool with them, and we all went back to my house and lay on the living room floor (there was probably about 10 of us) and took a good long nap together.

Innappropriate feelage? Dunno. I was asleep. *shrug* maybe.

Spanking? Definitely.

My second zoo story has to do with the Topeka Zoo, which actually is a pretty good zoo. It's got a top notch rainforest, which is one of my favorite parts of the zoo(when I get good and rich I'm having my own frickin' rain forest off the back of my house and I'll breakfast with the monkeys and snakes and toucans and swim nekked in the lagoon with flamingos all round.) Anyway, oddly enough, it burned. It really was a slash and burn thing - I think I recall that somebody went in there and set it - and it was so funny to say, "Jeez, did you hear about that awful rainforest fire? Brazil? No, no, Topeka."

Other than the minor touch of sadness from our little lass, who is a monkey, (with hair on her back and ears and stuff) that she couldn't go into the monkey cage and climb on the ropes with them, it was a good day.

And I took a quick nap in the car on the way home.

Feelage? PHF really isn't in to that sort of thing anymore, but we were all asleep so I can't confirm or deny. Spanking? Hmmm, maybe tonight...

ok, it's official. I'm a pirate.

Only a couple of hits off 2K. Big day. Golly, guess I should have a whiskey to celebrate. Ok. Don't have to tell me twice.

I'm writing a great story about a blog. It's almost as fun as writing here, except the voice and tenor is so different from this and my other fiction that it's challenging. Oh well, two weeks off, time to get back at it. I'm also doing synopsis's for all the books and researching agents. Something about the monitor inspired me to get back to work.

Got another hole in my head today. Pretty cool looking, I think. I only had to wait for about six months for them to get another 14k captive in. Jeez. Anyway, it sort of evens me out a bit. When I opened my bag of care stuff from the place, there was a little snowman pen inside. A wee christmas gift from the tattoo shop. Thank you, Tara and Wolf!!

Off to go work out. Got this skimpy thing to wear on New Years, and it shows all of the four pounds I put on in December. Damn, I hate having to eat right and work out and shit. Why can't I be one of those girls who eat whatever and have a metabolism like a gnat? And while I'm at it, I'm an excellent candidate to be a rich girl. I could do shallow, heartless, and priveledged. I could deal with people hanging out with me only for my money and store-bought looks. I could even like it.

Oh well.

Sorry so boring: it's a cloudy day here. We Coloradans are used to sun (something like 345 days of it here) so gray skies set me back a bit. Don't forget to hit my link to rate me! Be mean. I don't care (snivel, snort). Please don't be mean...

Have a good one and try to be nice to the people working at the Gap. It's not their fault your ass is too big for their pants. -cheers-

i want to fuck you like an animal

I apologize for the song lyrics. They appeared in a moment of weakness between my second and third cups of tea. I'm still off on this NIN Closer analysis. He sure knows how to charm the birds. Well, this bird anyway. Yummy.

It's time to start thinking of your resolutions, people. I know, it's early, but you've got to get your homework done. I've only got the one; which is to be myself.

I'm not so good at being myself. I'm an excellent role player; a chameleon of sorts. I can fit into nearly any situation - at least for a while - before people start realizing there's something off about me.

It's the sex. I'm at least as horny as the next guy (and I do mean "guy") and I don't think is all that usual for women. Well, maybe it is and they hide it better. I can lie like a Aubasson rug, but I can't hide the horny thing for long.

For me, it translates into flirting. It's nothing personal, you understand. I just flirt with whatever guy is available, anywhere: on a blog, at the mall, at my kids' schools, at a restaurant; be him twenty or fifty. Basically, I do it everywhere but the gym, because the guys there aren't so hot. They think they are, with their buldging muscles and shit; but actually, they spend an inordinate amount of time grunting and sticking their tongues to one corner of their lips in concentration and looking around to see if anybody noticed how much they just benched, which isn't so attractive. Oh, and they mostly smell bad too.

A friend told me lately, "I wish first dates were allowed in marriage." Me too, if by first dates she meant very little talking and an evening of raunchy sex with a nameless stranger. But, alas, it's not allowed. Actually, not alas. I'm actually quite satisfied...

Which perhaps explains why I am the way I am. You know there are some women who garner a lot of attention, and no one quite knows why. They aren't classically beautiful or model thin or wear the best clothes, but there's something there, some intentional or unintentional measure of sensuality that refuses to be hidden.

I've got a neighbor like that. One time I was standing outside with three guys looking at a jeep to perhaps buy, and she pulled up in her jeep and got out and leaned in the back to get her kid out and all three guys, including PHF and he isn't a lookie-lu, went very quiet for a moment.

Then one of them them sort of cleared his throat, and said something like, "I like that bumper."

And I said, "Yeah, you were looking at a bumper all right, but it wasn't on that jeep."

I'm like that, I think, though perhaps not to the degree of some. In college I used to be able to pretty much go to a bar and pick a guy and capture his attention. There was some time in my twenties that the ability faded away - I wasn't horny enough, I guess. But it's back. I garner looks, pretty often, and I'm not quite sure why. I'm short (no long luscious legs to wrap around your waist), still growing out a bad haircut, and the cup doesn't exactly runneth over. So I can only guess that it's the horny vibes.

Yeah, I know they look. I'm not pretending they don't any more, and I won't get all haughty and shit and pretend I don't like it. And they look at me whether I'm in the mood or not. Most of the time I am, but sometimes I think, Christ, I'm just taking my kid to get a prescription. Not in the mood to sway my hips for you just now. And if you haven't caught on yet, I'm not particularly fond of being watched at the gym, for the same reasons that I don't watch others. Yeah, the whole grunting, stinky thing is quite the turn-off, especially when it's me.

The one guy I rarely flirt with is PHF. I asked him once if he wanted me to flirt with him more and he looked at me sideways as if to say, "I've seen two babies pulled out of an incision in your stomach. We're a little past that, don't you think?"

But still, I scammed on him the other night at the pub, and it worked beautifully. Just like in college. I picked the guy and captured his attention for the night. We even made out on the dance floor. Bonus round: I got to go home with him.

Many Happy Returns and try to keep together at the mall.

chragic of mistmas - doesn't that sound like the name of a PS2 game?

I have to say I've been wondering if the lad still believes. I mean, I'm not very good at keeping secrets (I already mentioned buying a stocking stuffer this very morn - if PHF's eyes could shoot super x-ray beams I'd be one fried cookie about now). I mean, he's got friends in first grade, who've got friends in second and third and so on... come on, somebody's gonna blow the deal.

But the thing is, he wants to believe; and all that's required to keep it going for a few more years is a little help from the grups in his life.

My fears were unfounded. Last night when I went to check to see if he was asleep before getting out all the Santa stuff, I found his window blinds open to the skies above. Apparently, The Great (henseforth to be known as lad because I'm lazy) had been doing a bit of recon before nodding off. Man, falling asleep on a stake-out... oh well, it happens to the best of us.

The magic still resides in this house. Especially for me. I'm watching myself type this on my new IMMENSE flat screen monitor while listening to one of my new 7 cds. Other loving surprises abounded this morn, the smell of turkey is thick in the air, bows and bits of paper still litter the sitting room floor....

Now, onto New Years... I've been instructed to bring my music, favorite drink and dancin' shoes to the party we were invited to. God forbid, it doesn't take much alcohol for me to start that shit. The only thing that will stop me is the leg I'm sure to bust while learning to snowboard next week.

World's sexiest song: NIN's Closer. Damn, those lyrics gets me hot.

Happy Christmas, all.

am I hot or not?

Just posted this little doohickey, ok, well, PHF (he's the MAN!) did it, and you can hit the link over there

<--------------

"Is my blog hot or not" and you get to rate me. It's fun for the whole family!

What I want for Christmas:
You saw my list. I still don't have the tattoo, so you last minute shoppers can make my appointment at Enchanted Ink in Boulder. It'll be just a little one, I'm a cheap date.

What I'm getting for Christmas:
A two year old who has decided to give up naps for 2005.

My Christmas Present to you: Check out the Monkey! I hope I don't lose readers over this, he's way funnier than me - funniest blog I've read yet, except perhaps dear Jack, and then Greg has his moments, and Krypto is good... if the cutie-patootie would ever post! (Too busy hangin' with the ladies.) Oh, and Jason...

But Monkey is married and a dad and still horny, and you know how I like that. Gives me hope for the future. And he's a Monkey. They are damn good in bed. Long fingers, you know.

We are going to church at five. Family service. I've got to shower (even though I've had two in the past twelve hours they weren't that kind of shower).
I'd say I'd pray for you, but I'm sure I'll be too busy corralling a napless Punkinhead. It's just my own little version of hell on Christmas Eve.

At least it's warmer today. I'm wearing a short skirt - yeah, I'll be the raunchy, semi-sexy, nearly appropriately dressed mildly drunk chick chasing a two year old across the balcony at church. Yesterday was nipples, to quote PHF.

Peace.

a clarification and a misstatement

em·pa·thy ( P ) Pronunciation Key (mp-th)
n.
1. Identification with and understanding of another's situation, feelings, and motives.
2. The attribution of one's own feelings to an object.

Ok, can't let this one go. I lied back there, in the previous post. Or rather, in my drunken stupor I likely didn't realize that I do actually fear the conservatives. I don't fear the loud ones, the George Bushs and the Rush Limbaughs. They speak for themselves. No criticism needed. No, it is the ones like the guy who commented in the previous post that are scary. They are the quiet minority, the ones who are actually probably nice and decent-acting to those in their corner - and even treat the dissenters with respect while not catching on to the subtle nuances of true inclusion of all peoples. They are the ones who say, "Yeah, I got black friends." The scary thing is they think they do, but when in all-white company tell a racial joke. Even scarier: most of us are very much like this.

(That's a semi-inept example. I'll go on record as saying that I think racial jokes, or any joke that uses a stereotype can be funny on a lot of levels - because the joke is also on the teller and the listener who laughs - and I'll state it right here - I'm not above a good stereotypal joke, be it race-based or gay-based or religion-based. It's a joke, for crissake, not a speech at the UN.)

Something else he said struck me: "Fact is, none complained about feeling "excluded" or had some right trampled on." No one complained, but it doesn't mean someone wasn't upset over it. And maybe they weren't upset. The sad thing is it was likely so much a part of their experience that they barely noticed. (Kinda like how women just accept lower wages. We all know we make less. But do we do shit about it? Not really.) It doesn't take litigation, or even speaking out to prove it, and I do agree that litigation won't solve it (though it could solve the wage issue). But we; and by we, I mean everyone on the planet; have got to step outside ourselves just a little and try for a little empathy. Our future depends on it.

I'll also clarify that I don't believe that everyone can be included everywhere and always. It's gonna happen; someone's going to be pushed aside and get pissed off. Too bad so sad, happens to all of us once in awhile. Some more than others, and that's just life, as I've said before. What it's about is everyone making the effort.

PHF and I were just talking about this: we'd like our children to be worldly. This means that we make more of an effort to show them the planet's cultures than to take them to Epcot at Disney World. It means that family vacations are spent in Europe and other places besides the US (though the US is fun too). It means that we talk about religion and differences and likenesses and our own fortunate circumstances at the dinner table. These little things could save the planet if we all focus on the World, as opposed to our own little corner.

Worldly ain't throwing a Christmas party at school where one of five Christmas-based crafts is making a glittery Star of David and then calling it good. Worldly is understanding that Hannakah is not the most significant Jewish holiday, and that Easter, not Christmas, is the main Christian holiday. Worldly isn't going to Iraq and trying to force democracy upon another culture, and losing thousands of lives in the process before trying to really understand what they are all about there. Worldly isn't 18 year old Muslim kids blowing themselves up, or Iraqi insurgents killing people who are just trying to better their own country. They're all just from another corner, that's all. That corner may have a different name than ours, and it may have a different climate and clothes and language, but it's just as ignorant as our little Christian corner.

And worldly sure as hell isn't saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Happy Christmas." Worldly is taking the time to figure out who it is you're speaking with, what they believe and celebrate, and bestowing the proper acknowledgement. Not many people in this world bother with that sort of effort. Not the guy who left the comment. Not the Iraqi insurgents. Not the Christian right, or the pagans, or all that many of us, frankly. Not even me. At least we're all together as a world in our ignorance and selfishness.

why oh why do I surf blogs?

For a good laugh. Ok, not really, but if you're in the mood to get irritated. This guy is why people think conservatives are such assholes; because guess what! They are!

I went out and surfed. I know, I know... it's a waste of time and only serves to irritate, but by the post below you know I got time on my hands. I had a list, but this one takes the cake. Too funny. This is why I don't really fear the conservatives. They're kinda dumb, frankly, as evidenced by this guy.

I unfortunately spammed him with a repeat of comments since his commentbox or, more likely, Blogger, was all fucked up. I tried to delete some of them, but I have no idea what happened since going back to his site was less than fruitful. I'm sure I pissed him off one way or another. In case it was deleted, this is what I meant to say:

Hmm, I wonder what my son's Muslim classmates would think of the Nativity in front of school. Feelings of offence? Probably not. Feelings of exclusion? Perhaps. I think school, regardless of what institution runs it, should be the one place that makes ALL students feel included and welcomed. I'm a card carrying Christian, but I'll say with assurance that we ain't so great at that sort of thing.
But wait! We can put Buddha and that Hindu Monkey God guy out there, too. And the Virgin Mary for the Catholics, and Jesus on the cross with a pool of red paint at the bottom. And don't forget to make him dark skinned, since he was middle-eastern. No whitey Jesus for us. Historical correctness is important in front of a school... During Ramadan the kids can go without lunch. And we'll have to think of something for the athiests... maybe an unmarked grave?
Ok, sitting there and shutting up now.
Happy Christmas anyway.

To make up for this guy's ineptness at being a caring, decent human being, I'll speak of a couple who seem to have a noggin of sense:
One had decent poetry. (Gasp!)

Arms flailing wildly, sorry lost the link. She mentioned Browning. This girl has a future.

Ok. The shower has started. Got to go.

simple pleasures

This is the kind of shit you get to do when everyone is bought for, everything is mailed, and you still have a week-and-a-half off at home. I'll try not to be too sentimental, but no promises.

Watching the thermometer drop in the car to 2 degrees, and not getting out until it stops dropping. Actually reading blogs, and actually posting. Sledding with your kids, even though the snow isn't that great. (Those of you without children, you need to understand that the endevour of just getting ready to go sledding with kids often takes longer than the actual sledding.)

Working out everyday with PHF, even though he's not a good influence because half-way through he always goes, "Shit, I'm tired. I'm done." Laying on my tummy on the hamstring machine and mentioning to PHF that I always think, "Ok, I'm laying here. Someone come and rub my back between sets now." And him actually doing it. That man is not of this world, I tell you. Sometimes he's annoying, but sometimes... hmmm.

Watching Seven Years in Tibet, even though we've seen it before, and PHF tolerating my saying (only twice an hour), "Holy shit that Brad Pitt was hot when he was younger." Leisurely sex. Playing video games with my six year old. Playing toys with my two year old. Not getting too annoyed when she argues/hits/ screams/doesn't nap/refuses to dress, because we don't have anywhere in particular to be anyway. Whiskey and hot tea for much of the day after three pm.

Going out to dinner at the Dark Horse, going through about ten bucks in quarters, taking serious advantage of happy hour, and getting to play air hockey (the best bar game EVER invented) with almost everyone in your party. Going swimming and giving the new remote control submarine a try in the pool. Learning to snowboard (ok, next week, then.) Planning on going to church, and then actually going. Driving around looking at Christmas lights. Watching Star Wars (and trying not to say the lines out loud, but not succeeding).

Letting the kids stay up late. Biscuits and sausage for breakfast. Shopping for that one extra present, but not finding it and not caring because there's enough crap under the tree already. Wearing sweats that make my ass look fat and baggy but not caring because I'm at home for the day. Sitting around by the fire and Christmas Tree looking at magazines and catalogs. Discussing my son's latest novel. Christmas music. Five minute long hug and giggle sessions with Punkinhead.

Laying our clean, unfolded clothes in a heap on the bed and instead of throwing them on the floor at bedtime, folding them and putting them away. (Editor's note: The author is encouraged to add that the author's family should not expect this to be a regular occurence.) Explaining Christmas, and why we don't celebrate Hannakah, and which friends are Muslim and what that means; and taking the time to make sure The Great gets it. Drinks with friends. Chick flicks. More slow sex. Donuts and beer for lunch. Christmas day in jammies.

You get the picture. Writing? Not much. Ideas? Plenty. But I'm on vacation, after all.

Happy Christmas, and if you don't partake, then happy Saturday. Sit around and relax. After all, the Broncs are playing and the stores are closed.

it's in the mail

I know I'm a wishy washy sort of person, resistant to expressing my direct opinion in case I offend, but I'm going out on limb here. It's totally out of character, so brace yourself.

Christmas letters suck the big wang.

I know, yours is super, and everyone begs for it every year. Riiight. Clue: they are lying. And not to be nice, either. They are laughing at you behind your back.

Issue number 1: Didn't pay attention in English class? It shows.

Issue number 2: You think you're more clever than the rest of us. I even get one each year that is a poem. You guys know how I feel about poetry. Any latent talent among the general population for writing poetry died in the early 1800s, and that's a fact. Clue: rhyming doesn't make it clever poetry.

Issue number 3: Your life is boring, and much like mine. You aren't living an original life, no more than I am, so save the descriptions of how four year old Johnny made the only goal (by accident, you neglected to add) on his soccer team. How facinating that fifteen year old Camile is looking forward to getting her driver's licence. My GOD, she's completely DIFFERENT from every other fifteen year old in the US.

Issue number 4: You can afford a vacation. Thanks for making the rest of us feel like shit. Don't even get me started on the vacations. We got no less than FIVE (count 'em - FIVE!) letters saying how they came to Colorado for a wonderful vacation, replete with fuzzy photos. Did any of them stop by to say "hi?" Nope. Did my friend straight off the boat from Iraq, who I've not seen in lo these fifteen years, write and say she would, call and arrange a time, and then actually sit in my kitchen and converse for two hours? Yup. Guess who made the better impression.

That said, what do I like? The photo cards. Cute kids (usually someone has a booger, but I don't care) in a photo, and you get to see how big they're getting and who (poor thing!) got their mom's thighs, and what they little faces look like these days. Do I have to read anything? Nope. Do I save them? Every one.

We did a photo card. Huh? Yeah, yeah, it'll get there. It's in the mail.

Unrelated? Since when is "fag" a cuss word? They keep blanking it out on the radio. Did I miss something?

pretzels, smetzels

I'll preface this by saying that I realized the common length of these lists is ten, but I likely won't be able to think of that many; so if I can't, deal.

Why pretzels are like people:

1. The saltier the better.
2. The more twisted, the more interesting they are.
3. They go damn good with beer.
4. Most are broken; but if it looks like a pretzel and tastes like a pretzel, it's a pretzel.
6. They taste better covered in chocolate.
7. They always look more appealing in bars.
8. The ones from Germany think they are better than everyone else.
9. They think they all look alike, but actually, they don't.

And, the tenth reason why pretzels are like people:
10. The best name for a Dachshund is Pretzel, for at least three reasons. (Ok, I know, this one isn't how pretzels are like people. See above.)

sexy santa dancers...ooh la la

What the hell are "sexy santa dancers"? I heard this on a commercial for a nightclub in Denver. I guess the advertising worked, because now I wanna go see them. I've been to this club before and they have topless dancers in the VIP room. Yeah, they were hot and everything, but pretty soon you forget they are even there.

Sexy santa dancers.

I'm guessing...a red velvet thong with white fur trim. And maybe a hat. But are Santa hats sexy? Guys?

god help me, I sound like a mother or something...

So there was this chick at the mall today. She was clearly losing it with her two cute kids who were only playing together. Well, I guess the older one was teasing the younger one a bit, but after all, what are younger siblings for?

Then she did something I couldn’t believe. It was straight out of a fucking movie. She grabbed the older one by the arm and said, “So help me God, if you mess with your sister again I’m going to put you in your room for the rest of the day. And that’s after a spanking that, trust me, you will never forget.”

The kid seemed pretty unimpressed. But then, my son is a tough one to spook.

four floozies and a loser

I feel rather like shit today. Nice way to start, but there you are. I think I'm still hungover from Saturday, plus I'm hoarse, plus the infernal wind kept us up all fucking night. Not just a breeze, you-folks-who-aren't-from-CO, but upwards to 70 mph gusts. We lost fully grown trees in the neighborhood. My neighbor's patio furniture tumbled two yards down. Of course it was trash day, so you can imagine the results. The trash guy had a sense of humor though, he asked PHF if he could just help out on the other side of the street. Folks lost fences, and worse! the satelite tv was flaky all day, too. It's finally quit.

But tell me about Saturday night, you think, or at least move on past the bitching. Ok. Er, drunk. Very drunk. Shots early in the evening. Mixing drinks. Not enough food to soak it all up. The fun part was going to see the Indulgers. They are so great always, and they were in fine form on Saturday. Four couples went, cabbed it downtown, and us girls all had Floozie Coozies (a FC is a animal striped beer cozy with fur on it. Very chic.) so everybody kept stopping us and going, "You're one of the girls with those coozies, huh?" It only happened about fifteen times. Great conversation starter, really; about as smooth as chalky fudge. But no, lots of flirting, lots of merch around. Pretty good time. The best part was when I was surfing the crowd and my eye stopped - hot dude standing there - and it was PHF. Love it when that happens. And he is pretty hot.

But a question comes to mind: where are all the clever people? They were at home writing on their blogs, I guess, because they sure as hell weren't at the bar. What a bunch of dolts. This guy kept hitting on my friend, and every so often we'd go, "Dude. Her husband is here tonight. As in, he's about ten feet away and he's watching you. It ain't gonna happen." Dumbass. All four of us kept getting stopped to talk. Late in the night, we got seriously hit on (like, he asked to come home with us - wtf??) by a 22 year old, which makes us old ladies all flattered and shit. But he was just so stupid it was painful. I mean, D-U-M, Dumb. I could never be drunk enough to not be embarrassed for him. This guy didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Trying to talk to him was like trying to have a conversation with an old Wobbly who's gone funny in the head. He mistakenly relied on his looks ("Well, there's your first mistake...") to get a ride home and sent his friends on without him. Loser. Fortunately, PHF rescued us. Unfortunately, we had to walk a few blocks to find a cab because none would come, and me in just a lace shirt, too. I think PHF loaned me his jacket, but I'm not real clear on that part of the evening. I'll go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt. That tends to pay off for me.

How drunk were you really, you think, to recall being hit on at 2 am while waiting for a cab? Ok, PHF and I made out on the dance floor (yup, not only drunk enough to dance, but drunk enough to french on the floor). All in all, the whole night reminded me that I really like to window shop, but I'm glad I'm through with puttin' money down. I mean, cultivate the art of conversation, at least. Christ.

Ok. Whiskey and bed.

Whiskey? you say. Really?

Yup, I'm a get back up on the horse kind of girl. Cheers.

mirror, mirror, on the wall

Does anybody else wake up every morning with a flat, lithe, teenageresque tummy, only to find that the mere act of walking into the kitchen causes it to pop back out again like an early morning hard-on?

Ok, sorry, gross analogy. I suck at those, I freely admit it, but I need practice because it’s the in thing. All the cool, hip cats are doing the analogy these days.

Anyway, this sucks for me because I’m wearing a very revealing top out tonight, so I can’t eat anything all day and I have to go burn about a thousand calories at the gym to make up for all my not-eating. Pledge: While making chocolate pie I am so “not” going to lick the bowl! (Ha, mistyped bowl is blow. There’s some significance in that, don’t know what.)

Going out with the people I am going out with tonight (Jebus, that was clumsy, but you get the point) is always dangerous. We tend to get in a bit of trouble; of the digestion-variety after imbibing perhaps too great a quantity and variety of alcohol. Especially at our annual Christmas parties. Like the time I drank too much white wine too fast and spent the better part of the evening barfing in my friends’ bathroom. At least she was due to get it remodeled soon, and at least I made it in there. (Editor's note: The author did it on purpose because she wanted to get out of playing Pictionary, which she sucks at; despite being a past, actually paid artist – didn’t know that, did ya?)

Then there was the time that my friend was on diet drugs, and drank of course, and then got heart palpations all woozy and just about bloody passed out at the fancy Christmas Dinner table.

Hmmm, I wonder what it will be tonight.

We are doing a house to house thing and then going to the pub to see the Indulgers play; different food and drinks at each house and then some whiskey and Bass at the Pub... yeah, somebody’s blowin’ chow tonight. No doubt about it. I only can pray to the Beer Gods that it ain't me.

One time a couple of summers ago we were out and we’d hit the town in a big way, barhopping and not one of us legal to even look at car keys. We ended up where everyone ends up: the Catacombs. The smoking room is huge there (Boulder has “smoking rooms” because Boulder is a “clean air” town.) and everyone there is always trashed and drinking warm beer and smoking and trying not to barf. (Editors note: Once the author very nearly barfed in one of the Catacomb bathrooms, but she managed to keep it down... only to look up and find that it was the men's room.)

Anyway, on this jaunt the guys made the bad and particularly repercussive decision to play quarters. We are always playing Quarters. I know, it dates us, and sometimes we even play Chandeliers, but by the time we decide to play a drinking game it’s too late in the evening to learn some new, hi-falootin’, fancy-schmancy drinking game. The ole standby works fine by us; and gets us shitfaced in the bargain. That’s because PHF is awesome at quarters and ruthless at spreading the wealth. If someone is sitting back, trying not to be noticed, then he’ll choose that kid ten times in a row. This night I knew he was goin’ for broke because he was smoking, and I’ve only seen him do that a couple of times. -- Goddamn that man is sexy when he smokes.

Anyway, this particular game was played with rum and coke, heavy on the bad rum, and PHF was golden that night. He couldn’t be stopped. Speed Racer, whose birthday it happened to be, was the target of course. I guess he was p-r-e-t-t-y crabby on the way home.

I have only a vague recollection of what the Catacombs looks like, having seen it through the fog of smoke, the haze of drunkenness and also since it’s always packed to the gills after midnight. But I do know it has a bar (I’ve bellied up to it), and some good quarter playing tables, and it has mirrors all round. The Night We Played Quarters With Rum and Coke I was so pissing drunk that I looked around at the crowd, saw some chick standing there (she was wavering a bit and her eyes were all droopy), and I thought to myself, Self, well at least you’re not that drunk.

Only I was. Because I was looking at my reflection.

friday night club

To preface this story there’s something you need to know. I drink alcohol.

Bwaahahahhahahahaha! Yeah (hiccup) I know you knew that. No, actually there’s something you need to know, for real.

I drink lots of alcohol.

Stop it! I’m gonna pee!!!!

Ok, ok, so me and about 23 of my closest friends (half of whom are seven and younger) have this thing we do nearly every Friday night. We’ve been getting together for awhile now, like about 4 years or something. Only it used to be during the day. It was... um, ok well, it was playgroup actually. The kids (first six and gradually their numbers increased to 12) played during the day. Our playgroup was supposed to be a little 2 hour ditty during the day, drink coffee, chat... be all down with the stay-at-home mom thing and shit. But the length of playgroup kept expanding, until it lasted nearly all day and we did lunch. (By all day, I mean until naptime, the start of which is when a mommy’s day actually begins.)

Then, lo, the children grew, as children will. And they commenced with preschool and ballet lessons and tumbling and soccer and basketball and then (gulp) real school, and lo we were unable to find a time to meet during the day. So we became beholden to meet upon the eve, and it was Friday eve, and the eve was good. And the husbands came. And the husbands drank beer and the wives drank beer and the children played and all ate pizza and all was good.

And one Friday some wives didn’t want to meet, but the husbands whined and moaned, and so we met. And we still get together, at least two couples, likely more in the neighborhood of at least four couples, and so far no one’s been caught driving home drunk though Lord knows we do. But we all live within a ½ mile of each other, so it works.

Some excluded people are jealous, apparently. But we’re really just the losers who have nothing better to do (god knows if I did, I’d shake this crowd like a bad regift) so we get together and drink and have the same conversations over and over. We don’t generally invite anyone else because 8-12 kids are plenty and they get along so well that we don’t have to do much. The kids know that if they bug us, especially after about the fourth beer, somebody had better be bleeding. It’s not happened yet, but we joke about having to find the soberest adult and sending the injured kid to the emergency room with him, or more likely her. (Editor's note: the author neglected to include that she herself would never be included in the soberest adult, or-even-vaguely-able-to-hold-a-coherent-conversation, category.)

It’s been going on for about 2 years now and we still meet most Fridays. Because we’re all still losers with nothing else to do. Tomorrow night is our Christmas Party, no kids; and, when kidless, things tend to get really wild. We’re going out in Boulder in cabs. If we take cabs, that generally means that is the only wise decision we make all night. Should be a blast, but those kidless nights are another story entirely.

So that’s the background.

One time it was at my house and Fire Faerie came over. We hadn’t talked all week, which is pretty common, and I said, “Hey, how was your week?” And she said, “Pretty wild, actually. I had jury duty at a rape case.” She looked worn so I plied alcohol upon us and sat down to listen.

Well, the people involved were eerily like us, sans kids for them and drugs for us. A group, about our age, that gets together every weekend (I think it was Saturday for them, if I recall.) The case gets down to a wife, who got drunk and went to bed, her best friend, who got drunk and passed out on the bed next to her, (fairly regular occurrence, apparently) and the husband, who came in and proceeded to do the sloppy nasty to the best friend while laying on the same frickin' bed as the wife. I say “to” because he actually was convicted.

And FF couldn’t talk to anyone about it all week because there was a gag order. So she talked and talked and talked and everyone else came in and she told us all the gory details and we all decided that yeah, the jury was right in convicting and FF was glad we weren’t that wild, like “sleeping” together and shit. We did have a lot of fun with the whole drug and “stash” thing. Because much of the trial was caught up in where this guy stashed his “stash” and you of course recall the old SNL skit where the guy is trying to sell stuff in a shop, and some customer would be saying, “That is the most beautiful little inlaid box from India,” and John Belushi or whoever it was would go, “Yeah, and you can keep your stash in it.”

We all went through a round of self-congratulating for retaining at least a measure of morality (as if it isn’t the presence of children who keep us on the straight and narrow – reference above mention of going out without kids) when I said, “On that note, you all have got to come up to the bedroom and watch this Simpson’s episode that I recorded up there. It’s hilarious.”

My bedroom tv is quite another post entirely; I couldn’t begin to do justice to its vast glory here, but suffice it to say, it’s a 30 inch Sony LCD mounted on the wall and it’s better than sex or art and I’ve got Tivo on it so that’s where the “Shit” episode of the Simpsons was recorded.

Anyway, we all trooped upstairs, at least eight of us, and lay down on the bed together and watched the Simpsons. And we all tried to feel up FF, but she wasn’t having any of that and she keep one foot on the floor at all times. Poor thing. She probably doesn’t remember any of the episode, and so next time it comes on I’ll record it again and send her up there by herself - well, with a Cosmo and a giant two-headed dildo. After all, there is a bed and she never lets one of those go to waste. Fire Faerie plays all innocent and shit, but the chick is wild, let me tell you, and that is Truth.

Bwahahahahaha!

fuuuudge. Only I didn't say fudge.

Ok, herein I shall try to recreate the fucking masterpiece of a post that Blog-fucking-ger just ate. If it sucks, blame the whiskey.

Wait, let me go get some.

Goddamn it. Sigh. Here goes:

Punkinhead is saying shit a lot lately. That's because I say it a lot. Shit, I mean. She copies to me due to a phenomenon (get me – got it right the first time) that is called... ok, I don’t remember what it’s called. But I’m her mama and she copies me. And I say shit a lot right now. Because it’s the holidays and shit.

Did anyone ever see the South Park where they said “shit” and counted how many times on a little ticker in the corner> I’ll be goddamned, that was some funny shit.

Ok, one more Punkinhead story, then I’ll cease and desist before my hot twenty-something guy readers get their semi-pornographic fantasy image of me ruined. Anyway, so my friend just got back from Iraq (yeah – I’m the shit. I got a friend who just got back from Iraq) and she came to see me. Well, after several gallons of hot tea she needed to, ahem, use the facilities. So she went in and came back out and said nothing besides a delicate, “I think Punkinhead’s diaper is on the floor in there.”

Well, we’ve had a shitload of diapers in this house lo these many (six) years. And I’ve never seen what was in ‘em. Ok, of course I have. But I’ve never seen what was between the “comfort dry-weave” that goes next to the baby’s ass and the outside, cottony-soft cover that goes next to my hand when it’s under said ass.

Until today.

I don’t know what she did in there (“GO AWAY! ME DO IT!!”) but she shredded the fucking thing like a mouse went after it (it did look oddly like gerbil bedding) and left it all over the expensive slate floor.

My friend didn’t seem too perturbed though. After all, she’s been going in porta-potties. For a year. And, she shared with men. *Shudder* While we’re on the subject, even though she was a civilian contractor, she deserves a Purple Heart or something for sharing a porta-potty with men for a year. ‘Cause guys, you are just disgusting. Rich ain’t measured in dollars. Rich is measured by separate shitholes for spouses. Really. Ok, rant over.

But you’ll be relieved (tee hee – relieved. Get it?) to know that at least she got to share with only American men (as if that’s any consolation) because an interesting fact about the Iraqis: they don’t wipe. Yeah, that's right. They rinse. With bottled water. So there are bottles everywhere around their potties and the stalls are all wet inside and you don’t know what the wet actually is... eeeeuuuuugghhh

I haven’t seen this girl since college – ahem, a few years ago. We were in the same sorority. (Yeah, sorority. Pillow fights in our underwear, the whole bit. And then we made out together and fantasized about you, Krypto.) (It’s a good thing you have a sense of humor because I am so not done with you yet.)

So, to reference the title, I made fudge tonight. Yeah, I’m Martha Fucking Stewart. Except without the old lady body, and the laundry duty, and the parole officer.

Two shitty facts about fudge: 1. Sometimes it’s manna from heaven. You don’t know what the fuck you did, but it is smooth skin, baby. You could trade it for its weight in gold bricks and get a raw deal. 2. And then the next batch sucks. It’s like chalk that smells vaguely like chocolate but has no real flavor.

(This batch is awesome, by the way. I'll be goddamned for the second time tonight.)

The rub is that you never find out until you cut it up and serve it to someone. And even if it's shit, you can’t throw it away. Because it’s fudge.

People go to prison for less.

And that was my day. Aren’t you glad you asked?

it's official

I am the worst soccer mom in the neighborhood, if not the whole state.

Yesterday, the Great complained of a sore throat, was whiny and cried when I yelled at him for not coming to dinner on time - this is significant because the kid could be yelled at by a marine and he'd say something snotty like say, "But, Mr Mariiiine, I'm watching my power ranger shoooowww." He also usually is at the table and is asking for seconds before I get to sit down.

This morning he said it was ok, he seemed ok, went to school ok, and I commmenced upon shopping with Punkinhead ALL DAY. But did I ever once feel his forehead? No.

About 1 pm, just about the time the Great was laying limply in the nurse's office at school, cheeks flaming, crying because they couldn't find Mommy, I noticed my cell phone was dead.

Fortunately my neighbor brought him home and put him to bed. He's asleep and alll sweaty and hotter than hell.

Poor baby.

And no, I wasn't Christmas shopping at the mall, really. I was just wandering and buying some stuff for me. Next time your old mum lays a massive guilt trip, just remember - she's got lots of guilt to go around. She's only trying to share the wealth.

Bad Mommy. Bad, bad mommy.

*sigh* I'm not even in the mood for M&Ms.

my life at christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
A large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the third day of Chrismas my true love sent to me:
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of the The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
An eight hour miniseries
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Nine toys I cannot find
An eight hour miniseries
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Ten kids at a birthday party
Nine toys I cannot find
An eight hour miniseries
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Eleven inch base at Winter Park
Ten kids at a birthday party
Nine toys I cannot find
An eight hour miniseries
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series finished
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:
Twelve more years to save for university, twe-lve more years to save for universi-teee... twelve more years to save for uni-vers-ity.

Eleven inch base at Winter Park
Ten kids at a birthday party
Nine toys I cannot find
An eight hour miniseries
Seven more gifts to buy
Six more years of The War on Terror
Five Dead Marines
Fourth book of the series done
Three notes of rejection
Two barfing children
and a large glass of Bushmills, neeeat.

bleh

Nighty-night. I don't feel so good.

I'm pretty sure it was the pesto.

m&m&m&m&m&m&m&m

My diet sucks. No really. Some people think that because I'm in relatively decent shape I eat good (Yeah, yeah, Krypto. I know, well is the proper usage, but you're such a cutie-patootie that I'm no longer going to take you seriously).

(Editor's note: By "relatively" the author actually means, "I look.. eh, ok, despite my diet; which lacks any sort of nutrients at all, except for the meager bit found in the shitty lager otherwise known as Coors Light; but despite that I'm not a huge fucking cow and it's only because I go work out every day while ineffectively fending off pathetic come-ons from smelly douchebags.")

They think I eat vegetables and crap. I do eat good stuff. Sometimes. Ok, not really. Actually, never. It's pretty much beer and crackers for me. Right now my favorite is the snowflake-shaped Ritz. Why-oh-why are they better? Why, Santa Claus? Oh, and candy. And whiskey if I'm feeling peaked. Fooldja, heh.

Like, for instance, tonight I won't be hungry for dinner because I've eaten a quarter of a bag of holiday colored M&Ms.

A quarter of a bag, you're thinking. Big deal. I've been to the plant in Hackettstown and mainlined them off the conveyor belt. And to you, I bow down and say YOU ARE THE MAN!

And, Oooh, you're also thinking, finally some Sex on SSAS. No, that's S&M, weirdo. And, on a side note, hate to break it to all you Don Juans out there, M&Ms are waaaay better than sex.

Are too.

Are too!

Go away.

Dunno why I keep nibbling except they are here, (calling out to me in tiny red and green Christmas voices: Eat me, eat me! Chocolate makes your life better. You'll sell your book. You won't get fat. Come on, just a couple and the pain will go away...) and that the red and green ones taste better than all the other kinds. I'm going to keep eating them too. I'm going to eat some more here while I write this, and then go make cookies with them, and eat some of those, and then maybe take the other bag (Yeah, I got two bags. Better than sex, remember?) to bed with me in case PHF is in the mood.

No, not in the mood for sex. I'm talkin' about M&Ms. For crissake, pay attention!

Did you ever just poured a mouthful in and eat them all at once? No? You're missing out. Like with all good things, that whole moderation concept is total crap. M&Ms are pretty good one by one, and if you are one of those that think that slow calories don't count as much, then by all means, continue. A Christmas wish for you: may you never see a photograph of yourself from behind.

But someday (probably when you're drunk) pour a mouthful (I don't mean like five of them. I mean, buy a bag at the Target check out and pour the whole goddamned thing into your mouth.) and crunch 'em down.

I can smell them right now. MMMMMmmmm. Ironic, eh? Mmmm and M&M... Ooh, I get it. Tee hee, those clever Mars folks.

Hmm, I wonder how they'll be soaked in Bushmills?

speaking of 7-11

I have decided to keep a little better track of our wars. I've been very lax, and there are thousands of folks over there dying, getting injured, or being just plain uncomfortable so that Bush can be one of the "mentioned presidents" in high school history classes fifty years from now.

I heard this morning that over 9000 soldiers have been injured in Iraq. I poked around and couldn't find a current death toll... And, as we all know, everyone lost interest in Afghanastan as soon as Iraq came on the scene: it's the sexy, action-packed, sensationalistic new war on the block.

7-11 is selling these army-green bracelets. They're like the Lance Armstrong ones, only they are more expensive and not as cool-looking. Part of the proceeds go to the USO. They provide items of comfort and entertainment/recreation services to soldiers overseas.

Ok, on that happy note, Cheers and Happy Weekending.

jack's back

Go read a masterpiece of a post by one of my buddies, Jack. He can't spell, but don't hold it against him.

I should be editing right now, except that I'm on this sudafed/whiskey mix and I don't want to have to undo all the changes I made tomorrow. Actually there will be no time tomorrow because, thank God Almighty or Mother Earth or Zeus (does anybody worship him anymore?) or whoever you think is running things around here... I'm goin' to the lake!

Yea.

I only take my laptop up there and there's no connection, which means rough-draftin', which I call straight writin' (the hardest, best part of writing) and hopefully I'll get started on my blog story idea. It's a cool idea. I'd tell ya, but I'd have to kill ya. And that's the only clue I'm givin'. At leas' I won't be distracted by all my peeps.

I believe the whiskey may be affecting my pronunciation.

Jebus, I had a point for entering Blogland, where everything happens in slomo... oh yeah.

Vadergrrl's got a new sex quiz and it's a doozy.

My scores - FYI, low scores are wilder...:
My comments in italics

Self-Lovin' 51.7%(not bad for doing the same guy since 19)
Explored the pleasures of the flesh

Shamelessness 69%
It takes a couple of drinks

Sex Drive 42.1% (This doesn't seem right.)
I got needs, baby.

Straightness 3.6%
Knows the other body type like a map

Gayness 82.1% (Gay poncho, anyone?)
Repressed, are we?

Fucking Sick 82.3%
Refreshingly normal (Translate: boring.)

I added a couple of scores of my own:
Fetishes I hadn't heard of/thought of: 11.
Stuff that is just gross: 24

Yeah, those are my scores. Yeah, I was honest. I'm boring. I'm married. Except it doesn't feel boring...

And just because I'm on a Krypto teasing craze right now, I TRIPLE DOG DARE him to take it and post the results. In fact, I dare all of ya! You can get the link off Vadergrrl's site - see above, and don't bring it up with kids in the room.

how to pick up a girl: whether you want to keep her or not is up to you

Damn it's early. I'm not sleeping, because I'm sick. It's against my religion to leave my bed before 5, even when I've been awake since about 3. It's the first night in about three that I didn't have some Bushmills before bed and I slept like crazy on those nights. I'm thinkin' I'll go back to the Bushmills tonight.

Damn it's early.

Read something last night that got me to thinking. Where? Oh, nowhere special. (coughcoughkrypto). Sorry it's too early for gdfhtml.

He is wondering why he can't get a girl; whether for a one night stand or a regular thing, I don't know - it's been long enough now that maybe he's past caring. I saw his pic last night and I don't get it either, frankly.

This isn't really aimed at him per say, but like I said, it got me to thinking. I'm not so much a flirt as a Looker, and when I go out to bars I get to observe this dance pretty regularly as a non-participant. I figure guys are out looking for one of two things: sex or a relationship, pretty much like the girls are. That whole "guys are out for one thing" concept is bullshit, because I've known too many guys who aren't just in it for the sex. Not that there aren't plenty who are, and there are plenty of girls in that camp too. I'm just saying that everybody on both sides are looking to hook up, whether for a night or a lifetime. I always figured a night was lucky; a lifetime is providence. Can't force it.

So over the course of the last two hours while laying in bed and sniffling and sneezing and coughing I came up with a few helpful hints and examples to achieve whatever it is you're looking for. I've played both fields - sex vs relationship, I mean - and so I speak from some experience.
Krypto went into this whole "cool" analysis, what is cool, etc. It's confidence with a measure of could-care-less (he used a whole lot of big words, but it's too early in the day for that shit). But I think I can elaborate on some rules of the game that make you cool without being an asshole, and on the market without being needy. And the rules are pretty much the same, no matter what you're after.


1. Show me your shallow side
I know, I know, there's more to you than just a pretty face. But guess what? I'm a single chick who's drunk and in a bar and I'm mostly interested in one thing. Ok, two. First, your face - are you cute? Lookin' good. Now, turn around, let's see that ass...

2. Show me some more of your shallow side
Look. And then look again. Then look around, talk to your friends and then look again. You know the game. Sure you like long walks in moonlight, and you secretly write poetry, and you love to cuddle. Save it for your dog. You're on the market. Act like it.

And while I'm on the topic, do your scoping and then settle on a possibility or two or three. Nothing made me give up quicker than a guy who just scoped the whole room over and over. He's not even committing to staring at one girl, how am I going to get him to commit to an evening of raucous sex between nameless strangers?

3. Yup. More shallow
You can push the envelope a little bit with the whole cool thing, in fact, you should. It's a matter of crossing the line carefully and just sometimes. Break off a stare to talk to some other girl. Sit down and take up more than your fair share of space. Laugh too loudly. Live a little. Don't be so nice all the time. Everybody likes a touch of danger.

4. Be the life of the party
Fun draws the eye.

So don't stand around by the wall, drink in hand, not talking to your friends and only looking at the merchandise. That's boring. Laugh, have fun. You're in a bar. If your friends don't talk and have fun, then you got bigger problems than not getting laid.

I've been in these groups countless times - you know the one. The wild group that's having a blast. Mixed gender or not, two or ten people, it doesn't matter. Everyone wants to be you, or at least with you.

Once I went out to the bar at the lake with PHF and uh, let's call him Speed Racer. Well, we'd had a hell of a fun day. We'd been snowmobiling, and it was one of those perfect days: 30 degrees, no wind, sun shining and about two feet of powder. Awesome, in a word. We were exhausted and staggering with hunger, but we went to two bars that night and met people at both bars. I looked about as bad as I ever do - my hair had been under a helmet all day and I'm not one of those ponytail girls, so I had a bandana over my head. I'm pretty sure we smelled bad too, like gas and sweat. But we sat at the bar with our guides and drank and ate and laughed and talked to more people. Then we went out for round two in town, and met a ton of other people. And all of us were married, pretty well shit-faced drunk, and not one of us put much effort into our appearance that night. We were the group though; the one everyone wanted to be in.

5. Play your ace.
The way I figure it, everybody's got a few brash moments coming to them. You know, when you say or do something bold and it pays off. Ok, some people get more than others, but that's just life.

Some people just sit on their aces and never play them. It does take some practice. You can try something like this: find the cutest girl in the bar. Just as you're leaving, walk over to her and say: "You're the cutest girl in here. Too bad I've got to leave. Have a good night, I guess." And then make like a tree. That part's really important. So what if you never see her again? That's the point. It's good practice, you spread a little random kindness, and there's nothing for her boyfriend to get pissed off about. You complimented her and left.

A word to the wise though: get between your mark and the door. My friend and I went to the lake bar once (everything good happens there) and we saw a couple of guys who were different. After playing "One of these things is not like the others," to determine that they weren't gay, we came up with the idea of having the girl bartender take them beers and tell them they were the cutest guys in the place. We were leaving, but not quick enough. The bartender beat us to the punch and the guys caught us on the way out the door. It was ok though, they were fun to talk to. And we were right about the different part. They were European.

6. Know the enemy.
Research. Watch your mark. Is she interested at all? Guys are so oblivious sometimes. (Ok, all of the time.)

Catch a freakin' clue. I've been approached so many times by guys before there was so much as a glance between us or before they noticed I wasn't on the market. I've even been picked up on with my husband around. Losers. God forbid should they take a gander at my left hand and see the ice there.

Someone told me (a psych major - go figure) that research has proved that guys seek out married chicks. Buuuullshit. They don't even frickin' notice. Usually when I tell them I'm married they stare at me with that second or two of mouth hang-time, and then make their excuses. Actually, that's not true. I've only had one guy walk away in a manner approaching rude, and it was dumbfounding, to say the least. Once they find out I'm married, most of the guys want me to help them scope out available chicks.

7. Orchestrate, Manipulate, and then sell, sell, sell
I don't know how to say this except by example. When I was a freshman in college, I went to this bar in town all the time. The cutest, coolest guy there and I exchanged repeated meaningful glances. Well, I heard through the grapevine he was a junior (legal to drink and everything) and me as a measly freshman wouldn't approach him. What in hell would I say?? (By the way, I suck at small talk. Someone mentioned to me recently that they saw me "work a table." I laughed. I don't know what I was doing, but it wasn't intended.) He never approached me, though he looked, and I looked and he looked... and so it went for about six months.

Yeah. I pretty much gave up on hooking up with him, ever. But still, every time we saw each other we played Looky-loo. God, he was cute. Finally one night, emboldened by a just a bit of beer (actually a whole hell of a lot - I could drink many guys under the table when I was 18) I noticed he was making to leave. So I went outside and hung out around the front of the bar for awhile, smoking and waiting. He saw me sitting there, and since he was alone and I was alone, he came over. All the pressure was off, and we chatted for awhile. Then he asked me if he could kiss me, and I probably said something snotty like, "Well, after six months isn't it about time?" and he did, and then after fending off our well-meaning friends, we had a very magical one-night-stand (one word: shower. Need I say more?), a great breakfast the next day, and we never spoke again except to say hi sometimes.

That shows a little manipulation/orchestration on my part, also playing an ace, and he played one too by coming over to talk, and we had put in our fair share of research before. By the time we hooked up we both knew pretty well what we were in for. And it paid off. A few times, as I recall.

i forgot to add...

About the lame stomach come-on at the gym, I forgot to say that when he saw what's under my shirt, besides learning that I was pissed off, he also learned why I don't go bare-midriff at the gym.

What's under there?

It's one of the great mysteries of life.

The cold meds have kicked in, I finished a book today, and I'm feeling sassy. I'm guessing it will last all of 20 minutes.

end of the road, jack

Don't know who else to tell, so I'll announce it here:

I'm done.

Finito.

I finished the rough draft of the fourth book of the series today.

It's been a wild ride, to say the least; and I've got miles of revising to do, but it's good to be done.

But what's even better is now I get to work on some new projects! Yeah! New folks to meet. New adventures to find out about! New secrets to unravel! I've even got interesting short story about a blog.

Just thought you might like to know.

fun with thesaurus.com

1 entry found for mucus.
Entry: slime
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: muck
Synonyms: fungus, glop, goo, gunk, mire, mucus, mud, ooze, scum, slub, sludge, waste

I'm sick.

I'm a veritable fountain of snot. Picture a mountain river during spring melt; my upper lip causing eddies and swirls before I can get to the kleenex box. We're not talking mere steady percolation here. We're talking a cascading sluice of... Ok, too much. Sorry. But it makes one wonder, how much snot is produced during the average cold? Perhaps it's dependant upon factors, such as: how large the person, how large the face that accomodates the sinus cavities, and how big the schnoz.

Except I can debunk these theories immediately, because in her lifetime Punkinhead has already produced more snot than the population of the state of Kansas, and she's still-a-goin'. And her nose is way teensy. And cute. Even when it's snotty.

She does this thing where she climbs up into my chair behind me and hugs my back and tells me "Me love you too." Why "too?" Dunno. Guess it goes without saying...

But anyway, she kissed me the other day, and I said "EEEUUUUWWW YUK. You're all slobbery."

Only it wasn't slobber.

So I knew it was coming. Being sick isn't all bad. I feel bad enough to blow off stuff like working out and cooking and laundry. But I've only been too sick once to write, and then I read and read and read... Finished the first book of Tad Williams Otherland series, and that's nothing to sneeze at. (Heh, good one, eh?)

Anyway, so I can usually write. Once when I was sick with this thing that just really caused vertigo more than anything, I sat in a chair in the front room and produced about a third of The True Ternion. That was some serious prolificacy. Yeah, it's a word. Looked it up and everything. (I can't have Mr. Dictionary (aka; Krypto) catching me in another blunder. Yeah, I'm bitter...) Never mind that it all got thrown out later, because it was shit.

I was sick, after all.

interesting... if you like this shit

If you hate grammar (and apparently using your language correctly), just hit next blog and go find yourself some poorly expressed teenage rebellion to read about. I happen to love it with a compulsion that warrants therapy.

Two posts ago, Krypto made a slight correction to my punctuation (and a bigger one - I suck). Between you and me, I still didn't believe him, since he's only an undersexed high school English teacher. What the hell could he know, right? But since I use parentheses with wanton abandon, I thought I'd consult Strunk and White, just to make sure I was right.

I am. (Kind of.)

And he is too.

The rule is: A sentence containing an expression in parentheses is punctuated outside the last mark of parentheses (such as this usage right here). So he was right about that.

But I got confused over thinking that this alternative is the rule - and I quote from S&W The Elements of Style:
(When a wholly detached expression or sentence is parenthesized, the final stop comes before the last mark of parenthesis.)

Facinating, eh?

Yeah, well it can't be all lame come-ons at the gym and cute anecdotes about my kids.

and in other news from the gym

Can't believe I forgot to tell this before, but today after I did about 4000 abs - ok, 170 - some guy (a new guy I've never seen before... weird.) came up to me and asked me why I don't wear stuff that shows off my stomach like that chick over there (another lesser-known gym slut.) Then, of course he had to repeat it because I had my earphones in.

I was speechless. I could have said anything from "Fuck off, fucker." to "Tee hee, that's so flattering. Too bad I'm married." But I lifted up my shirt to show him my stomach. He didn't say anything else and walked off. I guess Sherlock figured out that I was pissed off.

I need a bodyguard.

newsflash: real life interferes with blog

IknowIknowIknow, I've been lax. I have been writing up a storm: the real writing for which I have no current fan base; as opposed to this fake writing for which I have a minor fan base. Shit, who am I kidding? Why be so modest? I'm a minor Web celebrity, right? A regular acidman.

Riiiight.

While I'm on the subject, will someone pleeeeease go to my website and look at it? The hits have all but dried up and I'm starting to get a complex because my blog hits are growing exponentially. So go here and see what I really do. You can leave me some cryptic comment and completely destroy my sense of self-worth. It'll be fun.

I've recieved a few raised eyebrows over my blog lately. Kinda funny considering the disclaimer I've repeatedly made about it being 60/40 real/fiction. And it's not that offensive, is it? At least I'm not in Costa Rica hiring hookers. Really, let's face it, all blogs have got to be in large part fiction. No way does all the shit happen that you read about. (sorry for the prep at the end, but get over yourself)

Reality sucks and is boring. Reality is what the previous post's blogs have in common. Reality is crying kids and picking up dog poop in the back yard, doing your kid's homework for him, arguing with your spouse over something even though you know you are wrong, but still arguing anyway, and overeating and road rage. It ain't pretty. It ain't all Christmas lights and cheerful, "No, you take the last sweater. I'll find something else for my mother-in-law who is impossible to buy for." No way in hell is it all roses and teddy bears and "wistful ramblings of a tortured soul." Blogs are lies. At least the good ones are.

But back to my excuse making: I have also been decorating for Christmas, which at my house is a serious, days-long endeavor that requires much beer and patience; especially when recieving "help" from Punkinhead (her way of helping is, "Here, let me just get this present out of the way for ya by opening it. I'll even throw away the wrapping paper.") (Damn, I'm good. Somehow I managed to get a colon and semi-colon and parentheses in one sentence, and I think it's actually gramatically ok - Krypto?)

Again, back to Christmas - we put up 8 Crispy Trees (Punkinhead calls the trees Crispy Trees - it's totally cute, admit it) and that doesn't include the one we have to get for the lake. They range in size from 18 inches to 9 feet, and range in alive-ness from entirely-plastic-and-cheap-metal, to once-alive-now-only-a-log-in-the-middle-of-some-plastic-branches, to soon-to-be-mulch. What with the red and green tableclothes and the candles in the windows and the greenery and a Santa on every bare stretch of side table, it's a regular Currier and Ives scene around here. The Great expressed his appreciation for the "different holiday, different tablecloth" effort. Six year olds are weird that way, I guess

I quit really appreciating Christmas about the time I got enough money to just go out and get what I want (ok, not everything, but my wants are few anyway.) Not only do I have to make lists for the kids (not that many options left since between the two of them they have all the toys currently on the market) I've got to do the decorating, make 1000 cookies, buy presents for EVERYONE in the Western Hemisphere, and, oh yeah, try to keep writing so that well doesn't dry up. All with a happy little holiday smile on my face.

Not to get all Scroogelicious, but I'm not in the mood. I guess I need a good dose of Linus to get me there.

That said, in the spirit of the season, I'm posting my Christmas list for all to see:
1 A tattoo. Think I want to do it now. Something subtle and in the ankle region.
2 Many, many CDs. Can't recall them all because PHF took the list.
3 Jeans. Yeah, real life intruding on fiction again. How to make that racy and sensationalistic? Ummm, tight ones? Yeah, really tight ones. Low cut, too.
4 Mini-Cooper. Don't know why. They are so not me. But I want one anyway.
5 New computer moniter - huge and flat. Oh, what the hell, it's Christmas - let's go plasma.
6 A dog - one that is cool and hangs out in my yard and never barks or rolls in poop or runs off.
7 Someone to walk the dog. Preferably an easy-on-the-eyes, hunky 22 year old guy nanny who also likes to do laundry.
8 Supercharger, 8 inch lift, 33's on my jeep. Oh darn it, there I go getting my list mixed up with PHF's again. It's like we're soul mates or something.
9 New roof rack and tire mount and lights and step ups for my jeep. For real.
10 Zippo lighter. I want to be like in the movies. Not that I smoke. Much.
11 One more piercing. I'll let you all give me suggestions as to where it should go.

Talk amongst yourselves to divvy up the giving.

i feel an evil, sleepy grin coming on...

I know I know I know I should be working. But I get 2 1/2 hours at Starbucks tomorrow uninterupted with tea and punkin bread and Ipod... so I'll work then.

As for tonight: I'm blog surfing.

Post titles/content reported in order of appearance:

Granny Sex. Old Lesbian Sluts!
Pass

The next one commited three cardinal sins: Such and Such's blog (who can remember the dorkus's name?) a picture (fuuuugly) and a favorable reference to country music.
Pass.

P.r.i.n.c.e.s.s I.n F.a.i.r.y.l.a.n.d
Pass.

Explorer User Prompt to see blog, something along the lines of: "Define Love and I might let you in."
Pass.

http://IloveChrist.blogspot.com (no link, if you read me you won't want to go.)
This is a church youth group's blog. While I'm sure they are noble in deed and intent, the church really has no business letting these impressionable teenagers muck around in our sin-filled, gory, rated R-X Internet. Jebus, next they'll make us replace simple swear words with G**damn F***ing HTML!
Pass.

Post consisting of "Bored."
While a clever deviation from the oft used "I'm bored"...
Pass.

A stay at home mom who states explicitly that her son is the most important thing in the world to her. I think the URL even consisted of some variation of this statement.
Several issues with this:
1.What's your husband- meat on a stick?
2. A son is not a "thing."
3. And well, no shit, Sherlock. I think I could have figured that one out on my own. But thanks for making it reeeeal clear for me.
Issues with the blog at large: her post was about her tummy troubles (yeah, bathroom trips were mentioned - eeeuuuuwwww!) and her son got into the markers while she had the squirts. Gee, a two year old writing on the walls with markers while mommy is otherwise engaged. Original idea, that. Never happened to any of the rest of us 6,008,674,657,657 parents in the world. Her links were to her other blogs: one on "Kitchens" and one on "Gardening."
This is the sort of woman who gives the rest of us moms a bad name. WE ARE NOT BORING! We aren't! Really!! And we are damn good in bed and you'd be lucky to have us. (Ok, well, I can't speak for everyone else, of course.)
Pass.

"Meditations on a Young Man's Life."
I get all the meditations of this sort that I need from Greg, Krypto, Jack, the other Jack, and Jason.
The one and only post title was "Mediocrity."
Says it all, don't it?
Pass.

And finally I leave you with this gem: Teddy bear pic, music, so many boxes I couldn't find a post (I'm sure it was something on boring, undone homework), and random capital letters in the text.

Buh-bye. What part didn't you get? The buh? Or the bye?

minor annoyance #25647768893993087

After the last post I have to prove that I really am shallow and heartless and mostly concerned with my looks and how much beer I can put down in one sitting. Sheesh, I almost put poetry on there. My. Poetry. What could be worse? (Sorry Greggie. No offense. Yours was really very good. I'm sure you will be a shining star on the rap scene in no time. Especially with your good looks.)

I have a small problem at the gym. I go over and say "hey" to my trainer when he's around (and try to look cool because I know a trainer, and that's the shit at the gym). He usually bitches about being tired and whatnot (the guy leads a b.u.s.y. life. No shit, take yours and triple it. Only he doesn't have kids so it can't be that fuckin' busy, so I don't know what I'm talking about.) I bitch about the new program he just gave me (it is kicking my ass bigtime) and how my hand is still asleep. Yeah, I got this thing. My hand has been numb for seven years. Massive nerve damage by now, I guess. Can't really do art anymore. Mousing aggravates it. No biggie, you wouldn't know it to look at me. But I digress...

So the last few times he's been sitting there talking to this other, older guy who works out there. He actually is fit for a Grey Hair, but even if I had gone as long as Krypto has, I wouldn't be interested. Just not my type. And he's one of those. Ladies, you know what I mean. I call 'em Prowlers, but whatever. He's a looky-loo, a gawker. Not that I'm not flattered, but:

1. I am soooo taken. Good sex, even.
2. I got two kids, for crissake.
3. Can I just go and work out and (subtly) check out the local real estate without some old guy checkin' me out all the time? I mean, I've been going there for a year with no reciprocation. It ain't gonna happen.

Once he approached me and asked me about the car on my shirt, which I only bought because the print matched my shorts, I never actually read it, but it said "Bad Ass Derby," and he asked me where this "Bad Ass Derby" happened.

"Huh?" Stupid sounding but I was in the middle of a set.

"Your shirt."

"Oh." I looked down. "I got it at Old Navy." For crissake, you old fuck. Leave me the hell alone! I was making a pretense at playing nice so I kept that last bit to myself. Then, no doubt feeling guilty for my evil thoughts,I offered, "I'm more into four-wheel drives."

He didn't really know what to say about that, except his son who was with him (yeah, and he's at least upper 20s) asked me what I drove and I said it was that big-ass Rubicon out in the parking lot and he said, "Huh. Cool." He obviously hadn't seen Beastie before, from such a lackluster response.

Then I had to move on to some other weights, so that was the extent of our conversations; except for maybe a "You usin' that machine?" from time to time. I'm not there to make friends. I got friends. I'm at the gym to get that caved-in teenager stomach we all dream about.

So now he's always talking to my trainer (ok, by always I mean twice) and for some reason I just pretend he's not there. I don't know what else to do. He might be a nice guy. He's probably a grandfather (giggle - low blow for a Prowler). I don't want to talk to him. But I don't want to offend him either. And don't suggest I just say "hi." I suck at smalltalk. Short conversations don't work for me. I'm a novelist, for fuck's sake. I don't economize with words. I mean, just look at the size of this post. I wouldn't even begin to know how to shorten it; to be consise about the issue. That last line says it all: semi-colons are my best friend because then you get to say it twice in the same fucking sentence!

The other thing I noticed is this chick. There's one at every gym. Ok, maybe not, but there's one at our gym. The cute chick who screws everything that's not tied down (and maybe some what are.) She makes the rounds, that's for sure. She even did BSH for awhile, which is why he quit coming, but now he's apparently over it because he's back. Sometimes. (I need to study him - he's the character for the next book. If there is a next book because I have to finish this one first and it is the book from hell that will not end!!!!!!) Her latest is the short (by "short" I mean eye to eye with me and I am 5' 1/4") ex-marine trainer guy. She is hanging out with him and lookin' buff. Not, perhaps, in a good way.

Tell me guys, when a girl looks like she can kick your ass from here to next Tuesday, is that sexy? At least she has the boobers. I am leery of doing too much chest work because no matter what anyone says, doing lots of chest exercises does not make your tits bigger. It actually just makes them look like itty bitty titties hangin' off a a man-chest.

I'll leave you with that lovely image to sleep on.

PS: Special note to the showtunes couple, you know who you are. That dress is perfect for Vegas. Sorry we're going to miss it. We have a party and if it's not fun my friends are going to get so tired of me saying, "Fuck, I could have been in Vegas, but I stayed home for this."

now bend over and cough...

Acidman's Airport Commentary


Wake me up when September ends
Here come the rain again
falling from the stars
Green Day


My husband had to take his sweater off, and everything had to go into a bag, and shit to walk through the detector this morning at DIA. He called me to bitch about it. The guys says that everything bulky has to come off. Everytime he flies it gets worse, and of course as a Long-Hair, he typically gets better scrutiny. Time was, Long Hair meant that you were a pacifist. And you certainly don't get much whiter than PHF (I don't go in for that PC crap. We all know who hijacked those planes. Not that whities aren't capable of that sort of destruction, especially the white -oops, I mean Right-wingers. Reference: Iraq.) While not exactly a pacifist, I'm pretty sure PHF thinks Iraq is a total disaster. Not that he says much about it.

Ah well, such is life these days, right? Better than another 9/11. I think the real issue is whether these stringent rules are making any difference. We don't get too many reports on how many terrorists they've caught, do we?

On that Tuesday, 11 September, the day the buildings came down, my mom was due to fly in from KC to Denver to spend a week or so with us. I was naked in my bathroom, one foot in the shower, when the phone rang.

It was Mom.
"I'll be late. Or, I probably won't come today."
"Why?"
"There's a line of people wanting to use the phone, honey. I've got to go. Just turn on the tv."

Mom didn't want to talk about it, couldn't explain it, understandably. This was between the hits on the buildings. At the time I just thought she was being annoyingly coy. But I turned on the tv, as she said. Just in time to see the immediate aftermath of the second hit. Or maybe I saw the plane hit. I honestly don't recall. The day is a blur.

My son unfortunately saw quite a bit of footage that morning, before I came out from my shock coma long enough to put on some cartoons downstairs for him. Not quick enough to stop the play though: for weeks his toy airplanes flew into his Little People barn.

Nearly simultaneously, my neighbor and I hung flags, hers stripe downward with the stars to the proper side for mourning (though for the life of me I can't recall which side that is) and mine with a black ribbon hanging from the top, another proper display of mourning. We looked it up on the net. There was a reverence, an importance to do it exactly right.

What I recall afterward is the deafening silence. Silence when the second tower fell. I think my own heart stopped beating for a few moments. Silence on the phone lines; tied up with people checking on loved ones. But especially silence in the skies. I live near a well-trafficked, community airport, and as everything was grounded the nights were silent. Except for the Air Force patrols. Those guys would wake me, those low flying fighter jets, flying from Colorado Springs all up and down the Front Range. The first time I heard it I was scared. Then it became comforting.

Never having seen the towers, I tried to put it within my own context. What if I woke up and the Flatirons were gone?

We tried to take the kids to our local airport a couple of weeks later for a scheduled tour, but unless you were scheduled to fly, you weren't allowed anywhere near the place. I was disappointed, no more than that. Disgusted. Wasn't that letting the terrorists win? What threat were a bunch of toddlers and moms? But you've got to treat everyone the same. Right. Even the Long Hairs.

Mom just tried to get her kids' blessings ("Someone dare me to go.") to go to Israel. She's always wanted to go do all the tours, and tickets are cheap right now. (Gee, I wonder why.) But of course we strongly disuaded her.

Now I'm not so sure. Like the airport tour, doesn't that let the terrorists win? Maybe she should go, risks be damned. She said once, "I'll be traveling. If my bus gets bombed, I'll die with a smile on my face." Travelling is her favorite thing to do. But the problem is, lots of folks don't die. They lose limbs or their faces, or they just shiver uncontrollably every time a door slams. I guess at her age she can do whatever the hell she wants to. She did after 9/11. She got on the next available flight, I think it was on that Friday, and came on out. Funny thing, she was in line behind a Muslim woman in full regalia; the robes, veil, all of it. And she had three paper bags full of crap with her. The security people, of course, took it all apart to look at it, holding up the line a good quarter hour. Mom made some cryptic comment to the guy behind her, something like, "Come on. I mean, she had to know that they'd go through all of it."

But then, wouldn't that be giving in to the terrorists, too?