June 28, 2005
Listen up, thighs.
That's right. Mama's gonna eat a Snickers, and you're gonna like it.


I watched the Notebook last night.
Do you think love like that really exists?


June 25, 2005
What every woman should know
Poppy's husband made her watch another Tom Cruise interview last night. As any woman would, she feared for her safety and mental health.

We must stop the insanity before he takes over. Women, prepare youself. Tom Cruise is bound to be on TV again soon. My advice to Poppy, and the millions of innocent others just like her:

Should you find yourself in a similar situation again, fearing that a manic Tom Cruise will a) bite you, forever rendering you susceptible to Scientology, or b) jump through your television screen with Ms. Holmes attached to his back, follow these simple tips:

1) Repeat after me: "I'm on Prozac. I'm on Prozac." Your admission of using psychotropic drugs will render you useless and unappealing to Mr. Cruise, who thinks everyone should be able to overcome clinical depression with Dexatrim.

2) Ask politely, "Can you show me your Oscar?" Confusion and denial should set in. Melting process (a la the Wicked Witch of the West) should commence within 2.4 seconds.

3) Apply Katie Holmes mask, complete with unusally small cherub teeth, to your husband's face. Hide behind him. Tom Cruise should promptly begin making out with your masked husband allowing you to flee to higher ground. Note: Remove husband from environment within two days to avoid imminent Tom Cruise marriage proposal.

4) Quickly remove the couch from your immediate vicinity. All evidence shows that he does not appear a threat in areas where he has no couch from which to preach.

5) Insert bike pump into Mr. Cruise's right ear. Inflate to 26 ppsi. Already swollen head should explode. Caution: if mouth is wide open in witch cackle stance at point of combustion, move at great speed for cover. Flying Chiclet teeth have been known to cause injury in laboratory rats and Kidman household.

Good luck.

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I've been spanked by Meme!
Or tagged? What do the kids call it today?

Anyhoo, Oregano asked some hot questions and I will answer them.

How many books do you own?
No more than 10. I move so frequently that I keep more photographs than I do books, dinner plates, bottles of wine and rolls of toilet paper.

I never purchase a book unless I might read it again within the next two years.

What was the last book you bought?
Portrait of a Killer about the Jack the Ripper murders. I must have mentioned at least once that I am absolutely obsessed with true crime. (Save the bank robberies, forgeries, etc. It has to involve deep pathology to interest me. And then I find it hard to sleep and go to work.)

What was the last book you read?
Bo-ring. Same as above.

What five books mean a lot to you?
Are you my mother? -- The first book I remember my mother reading to me.

Lord of the Flies -- The poignant pages from my young adulthood.

Fahrenheit 451 -- Because I hope it's inconceivable.

The Lovely Bones -- I can't get it entirely out of my head.

You Are Worthless -- Because I love to laugh.

Phew. Any other questions? Bring 'em.

June 19, 2005
Florence Henderson is not at home right now
I am choosing not to have children. I had someone ask the other day how it was that I knew this was the case. It made me again ask myself that very question.

I have known for some time now, the way that I imagine people know that they are meant to love those of the same gender, hate red onions, or believe in God. You can't prove it; you don't have scientific evidence that it is so; it's even hard to capture in intelligible sentences. I have always just thought it to be something that was what it was.

Until those around me questioned my choice in my early 20s, I didn't think anything was wrong with me.

Don't you want to give your parents grandchildren?
So do you think you'll just have cats?
What did your mom do to you?
Aren't you afraid of dying alone, covered in Ensure and fire ants?

Uh, no. I hadn't really thought of all that. But now that you mention it, I should probably end this conversation and go off myself. And my parents, you know, for good measure. I wouldn't want them to go out and beget any more women who might deny their natural purpose.

My parents raised me in a beautiful and nurturing way. They imparted a love for people and animals, they taught tolerance and respect and modeled the right way to live a life while you are here. My sister and I learned that all people are beautiful. And yes, I played with both plastic dolls as well as human children throughout my formative years.

Yet I am the 30-something woman, and was the 20-something woman and teenager, who will always choose not to hold a co-worker's baby when she is brought in for her first show and tell. My heart jumps at the sight of a neighbor's new puppy leash rather than the new stroller he parks outside. I am at times bursting with love to share, but I feel absolutely no instinct to share that love with a child.

I have known people who wanted to fix me. Who thought that if they could pick up some tools and an infant at the Home Depot, if they could just whip up a baby of my own, things would be different. I would instantly love this child and my life would be changed. I would be doing something that mattered. I would have achieved womanhood.

I smile. And I silently think about questioning anything that this person holds to be fundamental in her world. I think most about questioning her decision to have children in her life. What if I implied that this decision was an improper one? What if I told her that she should never have children? Would this not create frustration, stir anger and defensiveness? Is my decision necessarily a very different one?

So back to the original question: I just know it in my bones. Just as it would nearly end one woman's life to tell her she would never have children, I don't feel the news would greatly impact mine.

I am a firm believer that living a rich existence on this earth takes many forms. If I stop loving those in my world, caring and reaching out to others, and sharing what I can offer to those around me, please let me know. And if, for God's sake, should you find me alone and covered in Ensure and fire ants, please lend a hand.


June 14, 2005
It's half man, half horse
I don't know anyone who is truly happy.

Whether it's heartache, the mortgage, the wrong career, searching for a lost something that never really was, or the pang that is jealousy, everyone in my world has something. Some carry it right out in front like a trophy, unaware of how large their medal has become. More often it's insidious and makes its way into routine phone calls, conversations over coffee, and even postcards. Wish you were here. This place would be great if it wasn't so damn hot.

Happiness must exist, because we make movies and write books about it. (They do fall in love and live happily - rather than heartily - ever after, don't they?) Then again, we write books and movies about centaurs. Scratch that. Well, I know I've felt it, so happiness must exist. There.

But if happiness is a sustained state of being, then it eludes me. I've got satisfaction, awe, contentment, beauty, and love in my life. But where is the constant state of being that is captured in a giggle, in the face of that cat, in the pleasure of a bad pun, in a book that keeps you up reading well into the night?

Who is happy?

June 10, 2005
Restoring my faith in humanity
Someone hit my car this week. And I was out of town at a conference.

Black Beauty was just sitting in the street, minding her own business, when the Truck approached her. He didn't just tap her; he hit her curvy bumper at an angle that bent it upwards and destroyed its future potential. She now appears to have no teeth and I have a mangled bumper spanning my trunk and backseat. I have to push it down to see out the back window when changing lanes, and in my infinite neuroticism I fear it becoming a deadly projectile should I be involved in an accident.

Most importantly, though, the truck's owner left the scene.

But not before leaving his business card on my windshield.

Thanks to those out there who still use their opposable thumbs and think like humans.

June 3, 2005
The Boy Whisperer
I am a boy whisperer. That's right, I take on young men, the worst of the relationship worst, some nearly on the verge of being put out of their misery. I find them bucking others in their stables, refusing to remember birthdays and telling females how they really look in jeans, and then I gently mold them into men.

And boy do they blossom. They gain strength, beginning to send Hallmarks to their mothers on special occasions and turning off SportsCenter while eating dinner. They return phone calls in a matter of hours rather than days and discover the wonder of dry cleaning. And then they use their once shaky legs to walk swiftly down the aisle with the next woman they date.

One such young buck (we'll just call him Cletus to expose the innocent) contacted me recently after passing my car on the highway early one morning.(Remember this?) Congratulations on your promotion. So glad you found a new pad you like so much. I hope you are doing well. Ah yes. Young Skywalker. This is the sensitive man I once trained.

Would you like to read my blog? he asked. Always impressed with his writing, I pressed on the link that would take me to his corner of the blogger world. Just as I remembered, the writing was sharp, witty and passionate. Good for him, I thought, and returned to my corner of the blogspot world.

In cleaning my in box out yesterday, I came upon the link again, and decided to see what was new in his life. The title of the most recent entry? My Bachelor Party.

Enjoy him, young female. I spent many hours ensuring that he would run smoothly and consistently without needing to pull too hard on the reins. Enjoy your prompt anniversary cards and calls, him picking up dinner on the random Tuesday night, and his ability to identify a range of emotions beyond "stoked."

You can thank me later.


June 1, 2005
With some fava beans and a nice diet coke
G. Gordon Liddy and Pat Buchanan should be tied up Hannibal-Lechter style. Only their custom hockey masks should not have mouth slots to allow speech; instead, they should be locked in a room and forced to listen while mute to Eminem or something else equally as offensive as their ridiculous Watergate diatribes.