It Wouldn't Be My Story if it Were a Short Story...

My day started with a bang. Unfortunately, not the kind of bang that seems to be at the forefront of my mind as of late. Instead it was a car banging into my car as I drove my children to school.

I was waiting to make a left turn through a median and I was in between two cars. We were pretty noticeable. I mean we were noticeable if you actually looked in your fucking rear view mirror before you backed out of your driveway. If you didn't bother to do that, then it's true that you couldn't see us.

So, this guy backs into my car. It sounds and feels like there's going to be a lot of damage. Jack and Jill are a little freaked out, but I reassure them that everything is okay as I pull off the street into someone's driveway. As we pull into the driveway, Jack asks if he can get out and look at the damage and at the same time worries that his door will fall off even though the car was hit in the right, front quadrant. I tell him that his door is fine since the point of impact was at least six feet away from his door. He sighs in relief.

We all climb out of the car and I marvel at the lack of damage. It's not so bad having a plastic car (aka a Saturn). The bumper will have to be replaced and possibly the side panel, but it's nothing horrific. Until it's fixed, I won't be driving around in a jalopy.

The man who hit me comes over to look at the car and inspects the damage.

"Es nothing," he says.

"No, Sir, it's something."

"No," he says. "Es nothing."

I ask, "Do you have insurance?"

He nods then tells me in broken English and hand signals that it's my fault that he hit me because I didn't honk.

"You no go beep beep!" He pounds on his imaginary horn.

"I did honk!"

"No soon enough," he says, shaking his head furiously.

I laughed. I looked at the man, and I laughed. I laughed because I was pissed and I was incredulous.

"So, it's my fault that you backed out of your driveway without looking and ran into my car and it's because I DIDN'T HONK SOON ENOUGH? Kids, get back in the car!"

He starts speaking to me in Spanish. While I took many years of Spanish in high school and college, it's been a long time since I stepped foot into a Spanish class. Nor have I been able to use it in a practical setting very often since attending the classes. So far, the only benefit I've found from taking so many years of Spanish is that I know how to order a beer and I know how to ask where the bathroom (that's the washroom if you're Canadian) is located when I'm in Spanish-speaking countries. (I must admit they've both come in quite handy.) Seeing as it's been about eight years since I've had the opportunity to have la cerveza en el bano en Mexico, you can imagine that I must have stared at him blankly.

He's pointing at my car and then pointing at the side of his truck at a huge dent on the front, left side of it. He hit me with the rear bumper of his truck. I couldn't figure out what point he was trying to make by gesticulating wildly between the two vehicles and their unrelated damage. I became a bit nervous that he was trying to turn it around on me since no one stopped to witness the wreck. (Of course they didn't! They might have been late to work or their child[ren] late for school!) So, I called the mechanic at my work to have him translate and convince the guy to give me his insurance information so that I could get on with the miserable day.

While I was explaining the situation to my friend, the man's wife came out of the house and he started telling her (rapidly) what had happened. She goes inside and returns with the insurance card and a pen and paper. I thank her profusely. As I'm writing down the information, she tells me that he had been in a wreck this past Friday when someone ran into him (hence the dent in the side of his truck) and that someone had hit her car on Sunday in the grocery store parking lot. She points out that damage as well.

"We're not going worry about the damage, though. It's no big deal. They're just cars. We won't file with their insurance. It's the nice thing to do."

Dude. Was she trying to lay a guilt trip on me? It sure seemed like she was trying to lay a guilt trip on me. This is why we have insurance, right? For situations like this? For when we mar someone else's property and they want it restored as close to its original condition as possible? I couldn't imagine asking someone to just forget about any damage I caused their car after backing into them because of a careless mistake.

"Ma'am," I said. "I pay almost $400 a month for this car. I'd like it to look like it's worth it."

And then I punched her. (No, not really. But you knew that. I don't even squash bugs. I capture them and put them outside. I'm Snow Fucking White.)

Instead, I got into the car and dropped my kids off at school late, went to work late, and set about getting caught up from my unexpected, but much needed vacation day yesterday. After I'd made some progress, I decided to call the insurance company. But first I went and asked my co-workers whether I should call their insurance agent or call my own first. They told me that I needed to file a police report.

A. Police. Report.

It was then that I realized that I was basically screwed. I'm a wanted woman, yo. And not just by the young, sweet, naive 20-something boys. (Not by them either, but it sounded good.) I am wanted for an unpaid traffic ticket though -- a traffic ticket that I suffered through defensive driving and for which they say they never received proof. And now I have a warrant, which costs a lot of money to get removed.

So, I can't call the police. They'll take my ass to jail. I don't wanna go to jail just because some guy backed out of his driveway and into my car. I don't want to be somebody's bitch.

Maybe it'll give my car character for it to look a little scruffed up. Better the car than me.

Literacy Rocks!

Ha! This was good for a chuckle or five:

Breakup Letter, Dramatic Reading

(Sound required.)

Drunken Babbling

I started writing the following entry last night and fell asleep in the middle of it. (We prefer the term "fell asleep" over "passed out.") I'm not entirely sure what point I was trying to make, but since I put out the effort to write it, I think it deserves to be seen.

I don't know if you guys know this or not, but I'm fucking funny. No, really, it's true.

So, I'm finding in my single escapades that there are guys out there that are attracted to the funny just like I'M attracted to the funny. Some people require alcohol to open their legs, but I'll almost always open them the first time you make me laugh. I know that most guys are willing to stick their special tool into any orifice (and I'm really aware of this), but if you have an orifice AND you're funny, then men really want to lend you a hand with their special tool.

As much as I like the special tool (and I'm almost never met a special tool I didn't like), I'm not willing to let just anyone work on me. We covered the reasons in the last post, so I won't reiterate them, but I think it deserves saying that my funniness doesn't necessarily merit the use of your special tool.

Last night, I spent the majority of the evening dodging this sweet, young boy (who was actually 31, but he seemed so much younger) because at some point I'd made him laugh. From that point on, I owned him.

Why is it that we're not interested in what's readily available to us? Must we, as the human race, always look for a challenge knocking all easy conquests to the ground?

One of my main complaints about the dating scene is that there are so many games involved -- no one feels okay about telling the truth, me included. It's hard to put yourself out there only to meet rejection. In actuality, I never put myself out there unless I'm assured of success. I have the utmost respect for guys (and girls) that go out on a limb and face rejection time and time again.

But rejection isn't the subject of this post. Or maybe it is, I don't even remember anymore since I'm quite toasty.

And then I "fell asleep." I think what I was trying to say is that I'm funny and I like special tools. That's just a guess, though.

My liver hates me.

Ahhh...

I'm not having sex tonight (though I definitely could've), but I had a GREAT time at the Halloween party. Seriously, it was one of the best times I've had in forever. I think it reminded me that getting out of the house every so often is a good thing. Sometimes, the single life ain't so bad.

God bless weekends.

I Check ID Now

The first two* men that I slept with after my separation shared a birthday -- October 27th. I didn't know that at the time, of course, because I don't generally ask someone's birthday before doing the mattress mambo with them, but it wasn't terribly surprising since I've always found myself insanely attracted to Scorpios.

I don't know that I really believe in Astrology and what it purports, but I don't think it's entirely coincidental that I'm drawn to men born in late October. My first love was born on Halloween and I still get a little weak in the knees whenever I'm around him. I think he will always have that power over me.

As for the two guys who share a birthday, I'm no longer involved with either one of them. The first now having a serious girlfriend (and having one at the time as well, but forgetting to mention it. A minor oversight.) and the second one is currently on, and will remain on, my shit list. But I wasn't looking for a future with either of them, so neither really caused me much, if any, heartache. (Okay, maybe the first guy caused some heartache, but I'm stronger for it.)

But they were very much alike (along with my first love) in the fact that they're very self-centered and narcissistic. They're all very intelligent. They're all very witty. And, really, they're all assholes. But they kept me on my toes. They never made it easy to care for them, nor did they make it easy to leave them. They're intriguing. And they're baaaaad for me.

But still I want to pay tribute to the Scorpios in my life: Happy Birthday, Assholes.

*That makes it sound like it was the first two in a long line of men. While sleeping with a slew of men theoretically sounds appealing, I'm not really willing to put my health and my safety at risk to sample the wares. So, no, I haven't slept with a long line of men -- just a short line of them.

Mind Droppings

Since nothing immediately popped (I originally typed 'pooped' which might be more appropriate) into my head when I sat down to write tonight, I turned to my trusty Wonder Woman journal.

I'm very sad to say that of the ten ideas listed, I've since written about two of them, and I don't remember what I wanted to write about five of them. (Note to self: Be more specific. Writing 'regrets' without listing said regrets doesn't really help. We could be talking about anything here!) The other three? Booooooring.

So, I've decided to talk about Jamie's sex life instead. No, no, I'm kidding. By the way, if you aren't reading the comments, you should. Jamie's ON FIRE this week!

How about this? I have lots of two to three (or more if we're being realistic. This is me that we're talking about here.) sentence blurbs running through my head, so I'll type those instead.

I miss Cindy! Why can't they create a way to travel to Canada in three hours or less for FREE? How unfair is it that one of my very closest friends lives 2,457 km from me? Also, isn't it cool (yet annoying) that Google Maps automatically assumed that I would want the distance in kilometers if I were driving from her city, Canada to my city, Texas? (I put in Canada first because I like it there so much more than Texas. No offense to the Texas lovers.) Like I know how to convert kilometers in to miles. Pfft. You're just trying to get me to use your service to look up the answer, Google. I'm not falling for it. Whatever the distance is in miles, it's too damn far away.

In 57 minutes, it will be Friday. All hail Friday! I have a fun-filled weekend planned and I'm very excited about it. I had originally planned to go to ATX this weekend, but then I came to my senses. I'm karaoke-ing on Friday. Saturday day is a day of rest. Saturday night is a HUMONGOUS Halloween party. Sunday is lunch with a friend that will consist of copious amounts of guacamole and, if need be, margaritas. Sunday afternoon, I'm watching football with my fantasy football league. Sunday night, I will collapse.

Brrr. My apartment is freaking cold.

Speaking of Halloween parties, the last Halloween party I attended netted me almost two years of mediocre sex. I'm hopeful that this one might yield me at least one night of mind-blowing (not literally, please) sex. If not, I suppose I will continue to trudge along and, at minimum, I'll have a great night with my friends. But wouldn't it be cool if I did have some fantastic, toe-curling sex? (That was rhetorical. We all know the answer is YES.)

When I move my blog to my somewhat-newly purchased domain, I'm going to rename myself. I've decided that I will be Jane and my ex-husband will be Dick (as it's only fitting). The kids shall remain Jack and Jill. This, of course, won't happen for many, many months because I'm a technical moron and don't have a clue how to do what I need to do.

Did I tell you that I watched Word Wars with AnonyT? I STAYED AWAKE FOR THE ENTIRE MOVIE! This, my friends, is amazing! I'm not sure if it was that the subject matter was so riveting or if AnonyT stopped drugging me, but it was a pleasant change. I was very into the movie after reading Word Freak, and I felt as if the subjects (characters? documentees?) were old friends.

I still haven't joined a Scrabble club to get rated, but I need to do it soon so I can play in the tournament in ATX. I've been given a bit of a reprieve though since I'd mistakenly thought it was the first weekend in November and it's actually the first weekend of December.

I've now run out of things to say.

Good night!

Updated to add: I still don't know if I won the lottery because I have no idea where I put my ticket and I don't want to give up that last vestige of hope by looking to see if anyone won at all. BUT! I just sort of won the lottery because I found a cupcake in fridge that I'd forgotten that I had. Mmmmmmmmm.

Theme: Sex , Color: You Surprised

I think it's possible that I might win the lottery tonight. One, I bought a ticket, which is key (or so I hear). Two, I didn't hit a single red light on the way home from Sarah's house. That's lucky, baby. I'll remember you when I'm rich.

I made a detour on the way home when I spotted a Barnes and Noble. I had not been able to get to a book store since the whole prostitution chat and I decided that a detour was necessary even if it meant messing up my green light luck. (It didn't. I really didn't hit a red light at all. It's a good ten mile stretch, so I think that's freaking amazing. I hate stoplights and will take the most roundabout way to a destination to avoid them.)

After glancing through their meager selection, I settled on It's Not the Stork!: A Book About Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families, and Friends. I was also looking to pick up Everything You Never Wanted Your Kids to Know about Sex but Were Afraid They'd Ask: The Secrets to Surviving Your Child's Sexual Development from Birth to the Teens, if only because you can tell by the title that it was written by someone like me who doesn't like to waste words, but it was out of stock. Thankfully the closing announcement came on just as I was about to succumb to the fiction section. I have a stack of books to read that seem to multiply while I'm sleeping. There is absolutely no reason for me to purchase any more books.

On an entirely different note (well, not really since we were discussing books about sex), I haven't had sex in nearly two months and I'm still alive to talk about it. (I know! I was surprised as well!) Until this past week, my sudden celibacy/abstinence/lack of opportunities hadn't really bothered me. In fact, it had been rather nice. I found that I was spending more time with friends and that was a good thing. But there's comes a point when your friends just can't fulfill all of your needs, nor do you really want them to.

I'm in a bind, though, because I don't want to jump in the sack with anyone I've been with in the past, nor am I particularly keen on searching for a replacement. I had sort of hoped that a man would just show up on my doorstep one day and be the perfect fit -- readily available, but gives me space, excellent in bed, blind, independent, and understanding that a commitment isn't in our cards. Amazingly, that hasn't happened yet!

I did walk out of my door the other day and lay my eyes upon a quite handsome man. He smiled when he saw me and asked if I was the one giving away the couches -- the water-stained, chocolate-smeared, dirt-smudged couches. I answered affirmatively and smiled back at him. He explained that he'd just moved into the neighborhood less than two blocks away and that he would like to take the couches. (He intended to have them cleaned.) He didn't have a way to get them for a couple of hours and asked if I could hold them for him. My neighbor (from the front house) happened to be outside barbecuing by my front door (because that's so much more logical than doing it IN HIS BACKFUCKINGYARD) and I asked if we could store the couches in his garage since mine is stuffed to the gills with who knows what. He agreed that would be okay and he and his friend proceeded to watch me and the cute man move the couches. As we're moving the couches, I'm flirting shamelessly with him. We exchange names and say that we'll presumably see each other later when he retrieves the couches (since my neighbor obviously wouldn't be helping him move them).

After he drove off, I got into the car to run to the store (which was why I came outside in the first place). I glanced up at myself in the rearview mirror and did a double-take at the image before me. My right eye and its surrounding area was smeared with mascara. I looked utterly ridiculous. He obviously was smiling at me in an 'Awww. She must be special' kind of way rather than in an 'I find you attractive as well' kind of way. I'd just woken up from a nap when I made my way out the door that fine afternoon, but apparently didn't find my way past a mirror before setting forth into the world.

Something tells me that my newest neighbor isn't going to be the guy that just shows up on my doorstep to fulfill my fantasies.

Thank goodness for batteries.

Proof That All Men Aren't Evil

I was overwhelmed by other people's generosity last week -- my boss and my father, two of the most important men in my life.

My father spoiled me with two things this week: New phones and new couches.

Anyone who has talked to me on my home over the past two years knows that there are only certain areas of my living space where my HOME phones would actually get reception. They were free phones from when I signed up for my phone service. And they did not like living at my house. They pitched a fit and spewed static over the lines from almost their first day here.

My father finally reached a point where he couldn't take it anymore. It was bad enough that my cell phone doesn't work in the house (thus necessitating a home phone at all), but to not be able to hear me on my home phone either? It was just too much. He also hated that he couldn't call and leave me a message. Instead my phone would ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring and ring, etc.

So, he called me on Thursday out of the blue and told me that he'd bought new phones for me. Not one handset, not two, but three! With a speakerphone! And an answering machine! And the ability to have more than one phone in the house on the line at the same time (though I haven't seen any benefit in that as my children try to listen to every conversation anyone is having on the phone now. Thankfully, you get a warning beep when someone picks up another phone.) They're wonderful. I can now walk outside or to the corner of my living room and still be able to talk on the phone.

He also bought me new couches. I think it was out of fear that I was going to rip my hair out trying to figure out a way to keep my old couches clean because of my monkeys kids. Every time I walked into my apartment and saw the couches, I felt defeated. Why bother cleaning the rest of the house? The first thing you see when you walk in the door are my water-stained, chocolate-smeared, dirt-smudged sofas. An opinion of my cleanliness must be formed upon looking at them (and it can't be a good opinion), so I might as well live up to it and let the rest of the house fall into disrepair.

I've been reborn! My couches rock! See for yourself:



If the kids spill water on them, I can wipe it up! If the kids smear chocolate on them, I can wipe it off! If they get dirt on them, I can ... You get the picture. They're wipe-able! On top of it, they are incredibly comfortable! The only downside thus far, is that the kids fight over the recliner (peeking it's head out in the corner of the picture). We now have a set amount of time each one can spend on it until the newness wears off.

I'm so, so lucky.

As for my boss ...

Two of my tires were in bad shape (and none of them were in great shape) -- one being nearly bald of tread and the other losing air rapidly thus needing me to air it up on a twice-daily basis. My boss overheard that I was looking to buy used tires to put on until I could afford new tires, and insisted on buying me all new tires because I do a lot of driving for work (which I love) and because I drive with my kids. So, I went from worrying about how I was going to replace at least two tires to having all new tires. I was speechless and overcome with gratitude at his generosity. (And this is just one thing in a long string of things they have done for me.) It was such a huge relief.

Tomorrow is his birthday. He will turn 49. Last year, we weren't allowed to mention his birthday in hopes that if no one noticed that he'd turned 48, then perhaps he would be okay. You see, every man in his family that has passed away (his father, grandfather, two uncles) all passed away when they were 48-years-old. He was terrified that it was his fate as well. It's been a long, worrisome year even though he's in excellent shape.

For his birthday, we (his employees) have all decided to let him know what he means to us with our words be they verbal or written. Because I'm a much better written speaker than verbal speaker, I wrote him a letter. This is what I wrote:

IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY! YOUR 49TH! WHAT A GREAT DAY!

Although you had me momentarily scared with your frenzied bout of sneezing on the eve of your birthday, I was never really worried that you wouldn't make it through the year. You're here on this Earth for a reason, and you still have a lot of greatness left to share with the people around you and the people you've yet to meet.

Before I went to work at The Job Factory*, I had been a stay-at-home mother for seven years. Going back to work was quite a shock. It was confidence building, but it was also rather demoralizing in that I was surprised at what a dog-eat-dog world we really live in and work in each day. It was every man and woman for themselves and the tactics were sometimes downright dirty.

I've always been proud of the fact that I'm trustful of people and believe them to be good unless it's proven otherwise. Some would call that naivety, but I like to think it's a good character trait. As I worked at my last job and dealt with my co-workers in the office and our many clients, I started becoming a bit jaded and a bit cynical. It was a terrible feeling. On top of it all, I was going through a divorce which wasn't really helping me keep my cheerful view of the world around me.

I know that you and [your wife] were put into my life to stop me from becoming the cynic I didn't want to become. I am truly blessed to have you in my life. You've shown me that there still are good, honest people in the world and I'm lucky enough to work for two of them -- two of the best. You genuinely care about people and you let them know that by your actions and your words. That is such a rare quality in today's tumultuous world.

You were joking around the other day about being a mean old man, but at the same time being too much of a softy. You're quite obviously not the former, but I think you're probably right sometimes in the case of the latter. Is that a bad thing, though? I don't think so. I think it shows that you want to believe the best in people as well and I think it's an admirable quality. (And not just because it happens to be one of my qualities. :-)) It would be terrible to let those few people that are completely self-absorbed shape the way you look at the world. Stay the great man that you are.

So, even though you might not have wanted a big celebration for your birthday, all of your employees who feel like part of your family want to let you know just how incredibly important you are to each and every one of us. How you've made us feel important and cared for in a world where that doesn't happen enough. And, most importantly, how blessed each one of us is to have you in our lives.

Thank you for being you.

I hope he knows that I'm going to be working for him the rest of my life.

*Not the real name of the company because I'm not stupid.

I Have Sex for the Endorphins, Don't You?

Because I wanted to get pictures of the signs in the daylight (and because I'm a dumbass), I drove by the sign-bearing house this afternoon with Jill while Jack was in a class. Just as I'm aiming my camera phone at the sign, Jill reminds me that I said that we would talk about prostitution. (If you're coming into the discussion late, my daughter and I were discussing her future career options.)

"Okay. Let's see. Hmm. Well, do you know what sex is, Jill?"

"No. Well, not really. I don't think so."

If Jill were to have to endure the same thing I did when I had the sex talk, it would have been at this point in the conversation that I would have asked her to tell me everything she knows about sex.

Luckily for Jill, I was scarred for life from my sex talk so I didn't put her through that torture. If you've heard this story before, feel free to skip to the end to read the thrilling conclusion of THE SEX TALK.

When I was nine-years-old, I was watching Saturday Night Fever on television. I haven't seen it since, but I imagine that the movie was heavily edited for television. Whatever the case, there's a scene in the movie where John Travolta is in the backseat of the car with that chick that was gaga over him and they were making out. Just as things seem to be heating up, he pulls out a plastic wrapper and starts fumbling with it. I stupidly asked my stepmother what he was doing.

She decided that it was time that we had "the talk." By that point, I'd already learned all about sex from an older girl that lived near my mother (who I visited on the weekends). So, I piped up and said, "I already know about sex. I just want to know what he had in his pocket." I mean, c'mon, I'm watching a movie here!

Instead of telling me it was a condom and its use, she made me tell her everything I had heard about sex. Through tears and red, burning cheeks, I stammered out my knowledge over what seemed like the next couple of hours. In reality, it was probably more like 30 minutes (because the movie was still playing on TV), but it seemed interminably long. In the end, she confirmed that I did indeed have the correct information and then she finally told me about the condom. It was a traumatic experience, and my nine-year-old self vowed right then that I would never put my own children through that.

I knew that we would need to have the talk soon, and I was probably waiting for an opportunity like this to arise. I didn't want to give the kids too much information too soon, but I also didn't want them to be running around with false information either. The older girl told me about sex after I told her that one of my 4th grade classmates was pregnant. She seemed doubtful, but I was adamant that it was true. The "pregnant" girl's mother had told her you get pregnant if you kiss a boy and she had kissed a boy! The older girl quickly set me straight with what was (thankfully) correct knowledge and I was on my way -- on my way to horrible embarrassment at the hands of my evil stepmother.

So, back to Jill ...

"Well, sex is what two people who are in love do to have babies. Women have eggs and men have sperm. The sperm comes from the man's penis. So, the man inserts his penis into the woman's vagina so that the sperm can fertilize the egg."

I notice that Jill has a horrified look on her face.

"Prostitutes want babies?"

"Um, no. Prostitutes are different. You see ..."

I pause for a moment and kick myself (again) for not running through the thousands of different scenarios for this conversation. I also kick myself for not actually reading up on how to talk to your child about sex and PROSTITUTES. Then I silently curse the asshole who put the sign up in the first place thus making an already difficult conversation nearly unbearable.

"Sex feels good as well providing you with a baby. So, sometimes people just want to have sex because it feels good and, in some cases, they go to someone and pay for it."

"Why would anyone want to do that?!"

By this point, I'm wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me. It would be so much easier to die a violent death than to have to finish this conversation. I now know that sex talks and me equal trauma. I'm also worried that my daughter will need counseling because of this conversation alone.

"You know how it feels good if someone rubs your back or brushes your hair or gives you a hug? Your body is covered with nerve endings that can make you feel good if they are touched and endorphins are released as well."

Did I really just go to endorphins? With my eight-year-old?

"Endorwhats?"

"Endorphins are ..." and I launch into this long explanation about endorphins and their role in the body. (I'll spare you because I like you.) Jill's eyes are starting to glaze over, so I wrap it up.

"Any questions?"

"No," she said. "Wait, just one."

I tense.

"May I ride my bike?"

"Yes. Yes, you may."

Guess who's making a trip to the bookstore tomorrow in order to purchase a book to repair the damage that I caused this afternoon?

Why I Love Mornings

I was driving Jack and Jill to school this morning and, as usual, we were singing along to Radio Disney. We had taken a different route to school than normal because I realized once we were on the road that my tire was almost flat and I needed to get some air - STAT!

An aside: When I stopped at the gas station to get air, some jackass had parked his car right in front of the air thingy and I had to wait nearly ten minutes for him to get his sorry ass back to his car so I could get some air. This made my kids late to school. It also would have made me late for work, but Jack made sure that I was even later because he had forgotten to get a permission slip signed for a school-wide field trip. In the end, I was 45 minutes late to work. No one even noticed. Man, I love my job.

So, we're at a light that we're not normally at bopping along to some Hannah Montana song ... I hear Jill talking, but I'm not really paying attention to what she's saying. (Dude. Hannah Montana was on!) I hear her say something about drugs and my ears perk up. Not at the thought of drugs, but because my eight-year-old daughter is talking about drugs.

Then she says, "Mommy, what is prostitution?"

If I'd had anything in my mouth I would have spat the contents at my window.

Instead, I said, "What? What did you say?"

"What is prostitution? It's on that sign over there."

I look over to where she's pointing and see this house surrounded by signs and I find the offending sign.



"Oh, um ... It's when someone sells their body for money."

"They sell their body?! Like their arm?"

"Well, not exactly. It means that someone has sex with someone for money."

At this point I realize that I was just disqualified from winning the mother of the year award. What the hell was I thinking when I said that prostitution is when someone sells their body for money and that meant that they have sex with them? Did my brain malfunction for a minute there? Couldn't I have come up with something, anything other than it having to do with sex? Did I really want to have the sex talk over a 30 second time span and then send them off to school with all sorts of crazy visuals running through their head?

"I know that we haven't talked about what sex is yet, but we need to talk about it soon anyway. In the meantime, just know that prostitution is illegal and that's why the people in the house put up the sign."

"Okay," said Jill.

And she let the subject drop. Thank freaking goodness. Of course, she probably told everybody in her class about prostitution and I'll be fielding phone calls soon. But whatever. I didn't have to have the sex talk on the way to school.

The homeowner had an opinion or a warning about a lot of things. This one was my personal favorite:



You know, 'cause sometimes you just have to be reminded.

Edited to add: At home, I can actually see the pictures, but I can't see them at work. The first one says, "No Prostitution, No Drugs, No Crime" and the second one says, "Don't defecate in the shrubs"

Food, Beer, Milk, Lottery, Gas, and Wooing

I've actually been using my Wonder Woman journal to jot down ideas. S. can attest to that as she glanced over them while I was hanging out with her this weekend. Some of them she could immediately discern what I was going to write about, but a couple of them perplexed her. One of those was the idea that simply read "Citgo."

I started working at my job about a year and a half ago. What a wonderful year and a half it has been! I could go on and on about the love I have for my job. While this story is about "love," it's not about my love.

Soon after I started my job, I noticed that the Citgo station close to my work had consistently lower gas prices than its competitors -- sometimes as much as ten cents per gallon lower. So, because I'm a smart girl on a tight budget, I started consistently going there. As is often the case with convenience stores, the man running the store is also the owner of the store. He took a liking to me from my very first visit.

At first, I thought he was flirty with everyone, but I soon realized that wasn't the case. His face would light up when I entered the store, and he would tell everyone in the store how happy he was that I was there and ask them to take a look at what a kind, beautiful woman looks like. I would smile and blush and feel uncomfortable at the attention.

After a couple of months, he decided to ask me out. I told him that I wasn't interested in dating as I'd just come out of a long marriage and was newly divorced. He told me he could wait. I cheerfully replied, "Be prepared to wait forever!" He kissed my hand.

But he also seemed to take the hint and toned down his attempted wooing. He would still occasionally compliment me and would always smile, but nothing that made me feel like I needed to start getting gas elsewhere.

Lately, though, he must feel like I've had enough time to get past the divorce because he's back to full-on-flirty mode.

"Put me in your pocket and take me with you!"

"Oh, shucks. No pockets today. Next time!"

(It's a pain to always have to remember to wear pants and shirts with no pockets on days when I might have to buy gas. Or to have to pay six cents more a gallon across the street. 'Cause you can bet your ass he's gonna try to climb into the first pocket he sees on me.)

He's back to telling everyone in the store how wonderful I am and saying, "This is the girl I am always talking about. Isn't she lovely? One day, I will convince her to go out with me." I smile and remind him that I don't plan on dating ever again.

If he really, truly creeped me out and/or worried me, I would move to another gas station and fork out the extra 82 cents for peace of mind. While I think he truly has interest in me, I also think it's just a bit of fun for him.

And as for me? Doesn't everyone need an ego boost every once in awhile?

Fall Has Fallen

It's an absolutely gorgeous night. It's about 70 degrees with minimal humidity. It's the kind of night that makes you like being outside even if being outdoors isn't something you normally do. Hanging with nature really isn't my thing. I'd much rather be holed up in an air-conditioned room with a book. Or somewhere (inside) visiting with friends. Fresh air is overrated.

Nights like tonight that make me rethink my stance on avoiding all things outside. Obviously not enough that I'm outside enjoying it since I'm typing here, but I considered sitting outside and reading. That's something I only do when I am coaxed outside by my daughter so that she can ride her bicycle. So, the fact that I considered it means it's really nice outside.

But nights like tonight also cause me to shiver because I know they mean that winter* is coming soon, and with winter generally comes depression. I feel pretty good this year though. Last year, in October, I had a lot of things to deal with: surgery, a stalker, and an ignorant decision on my part to start weaning myself off of my anti-depressant as if last year was going to be different from all of the other years since Jill's birth.

This year, I feel really good. I'm so much stronger emotionally. Even though I'm still dealing with ridiculous situations, I'm managing to stand my ground and to not let the situations get me down. I'm hopeful that this is a sign that I'll make it through this winter without having to hibernate. I'll also remember that even though I'm feeling good (and I'm PMSing right now! Still feeling good!), it isn't the time to start trying to get off of the happy pills. I've already learned that lesson (about four times).

*Winter here consists of maybe one day below freezing. It's really Daylight Savings Time and the longer nights that kick my ass.

Let's Start Over

(I wrote this entry over three days. Very slowly. On the third day, I found my voice. Sort of.)

The hints to update my blog that started out being subtle like "Is your keyboard broken?" or "Is your internet down?" or "Is everything okay?" have turned to "When are you going to update your damn blog?"

I've been having major writer's block. I seriously cannot think of a single thing to write about. It's disconcerting. Occasionally, I'll have an idea flutter through my head, but I'm never quick enough to catch it.

I know at least part of the issue is my choosing not to discuss my children here. Because they are such an incredible and consuming part of my life, it's very difficult not to talk about them -- at least in passing. So, I'm going to talk about my kids. Their names will be Jack and Jill.

(There. I already feel lighter.)

Now ... on with blogging.

Last week, I came home to a package. My spirits rose enormously when I saw that the package was for me and not my father (whose mailbox at home, incidentally, is in a much more secure place than mine. I'm always amazed that my packages don't just walk away.). The package was from my friend, Hilary.

Jill was with me (while Jack was at a class) and we rushed upstairs to open it. We opened the box and the first thing we saw were these:



(My favorite guy is the second from the right. His name is Seth and he's from Tennessee. Jack has declared Steve from Georgia [the fine specimen on the far left] to be Jill's boyfriend and he has earned a spot next to Jill's picture on the fridge.)

Jill was intrigued as to why anyone would want such silly magnets, but wanted to dig deeper into the box and check out the other loot. I'm sure her line of thinking was that she could possibly find something that she could lay her little hands on as her own.

We dug deeper and came across some other awesome goodies one of which was a journal. A Wonder Woman journal whose cover changes as you move it. (For the life of me, I can't think of what that's called.) I think Wonder Woman just might be the key to unblocking the writer's block.

When those ideas flutter through my head, I'll jot them down in my journal. That way when I end up in front of a computer, I can pull out my Wonder Woman journal and become inspired. Either that or I'll stare at the pages with incomprehension wondering what I meant when I wrote, "Tomatoes, sex, and Mitt Romney."

Either way, I'm hopeful that Wonder Woman will save the day blog and we'll be rolling again. And if that doesn't do it, I can always blog about the conversations Jill has with the naked men in oven mitts.

Thank you so much, Hilary!