sometimes it's just easier to make brownies out of a box

'high maintenance' can be divided into two camps; the 'i need a coach purse for my birthday/valentines'/christmas/halloween/pancake day' kind (which was the reassuring "good god, not me" mantra in the early stages of any relationship), versus the; 'i don't need expensive things, i'm simple/easygoing/thrifty/don't believe your credit card bill should reflect your commitment, instead i want you to pay attention to the tiny nuances of my personality and make something or do something that resonates with that so i will become more giddy than girl-with-brown-on-beige-accessory'.

aka; a lot of work.

and so my request for the first anniversary, was to go camping. and take the mountain bikes. and kayak. with both dogs.

why the hell anyone would want to leave their own, already paid for, climate controlled environment with all of the key amenities, for an over-priced permanently 70/21 degree room- even if it has a five star restaurant/bar/jacuzzi, when there are whole patches of dirt, zip up windows and metal toilets that require shoes to commute to at 3 in the morning is beyond me.



the 'totally-not-high-maintenance' control issues kicked in, in preparation for a weekend in the woods. thank god for amazon.com and 'how to camp with your canine' books, coleman's selection of clip on, magnetic tent lights, the arbitrary 'tree trolley' for wayward and disobedient pooches, and a made-out-of-ballistic-material 'modular hauler' to organize, by colour code, the campsite electrics, french press, canine accoutrements, and assortment of bungee cords. preparation and anticipation, as with most things in the life of an obsessive-compulsive, is key. i even called ahead to make sure that the camp site was "dog friendly".



we were effectively 'tailgating'-- overnight. it must be a cultural thing, but this was a new york city tenement of camp sites, minus the protest. as a child of the 80's, pitching a tent in the middle east meant there were no neighbours except the ones your parents brought for 'booze backup'. camping in dog friendly northern maine is all about sharing 100 square feet of dirt with homesteaders and their monogrammed bird baths.

nothing says 'happy nuptuals' like swamp ass and bourbon

it's true what "they" say; it will all pass in a blur and you won't get to eat much of anything. and so the haphazardly orchestrated romantic-comedy-musical which was my kentucky wedding, became just that. i now see pictures posted on facebook that i don't even remember being taken, and i don't think i ever saw one green chili wonton appetizer, let alone got to finish the same glass of wine- which could also be related to the ceremony/reception fugue.



obviously 'the days leading up to' involved much last minute stress including whether or not to buy gin, rum and vodka at costco, or go the whole hog and get gin, rum, vodka, and bourbon for the rehearsal/reunion garden party/dinner. hands were wrung with frustration (countless rounds of hand wringing).



not to mention the 'shit-i-have-less-than-four-days-to-get-this-new-dress-altered' issue. thankfully, between much of the aforementioned alcohol and my new found fairy godmother who was working her sewing machine off in the heart of st. mathews, all was (mostly) amicably resolved.



fortunately, there was sufficient down time so that "the boys" (plus a few select spouses) were able to head down to the buffalo trace distillery, en masse, to get roasted on beverages infused in oak barrels (the other alternative being the creation museum up near cincinnati). this freed up time for the bride to engage in the usual girly things like going to make-up shops and working on (awkward) tan lines for "the dress".



finally, the BIG DAY arrived and the "staging area" was intentionally stocked with friends, fizzy alcohol and guacamole to help with last minute editing of the vows. until my brother, a perpetual victim of my noxious predilection for garlic, walked into a room reeking of onions and promptly left in disgust.



despite stringent efforts to avoid anything girly, i committed my own personal emotional foul; leaking- which is not the same as "crying". shortly after mooning my frilly pink knickers to a former co-worker, i saw another office mate who had flown in from new mexico the night before. wow...people...had...taken...time...and...money...to...make...the...effort...to...
see...me...dress...up...and...say...a...bunch...of...stuff...to...someone...that...they...
had...more...than...likely...never...met...up...to...this...point...and...even...though...
we...would...probably...only...have...a...total...of...7...minutes...of...actual...face...
to...face...time...they...came...anyway. this very thing was part of the whole 'courthouse versus wedding' decision. because people will always find a way to make it to a wedding (or funeral)- as long as there is "open bar" written on the invitation. and as such, we both got to see familiar faces from 12-15 years ago. so, while i did win the 'less expensive outfit' contest, he cleaned house on the 'who's going to cry first' challenge.



and all of those little things that i fixated on, in an effort to try and make things less "weddingy", ergo "boring" and cliche worked, eliciting the appropriate and therefore self-gratifying responses; an ebullient officiant (and former mattress store manager); invitations showcasing two sets of big glasses and a ramen noodle perm; europe's "final countdown" on sax as i was escorted down the aisle by both mum and dad, and the fun luggage tag favours- triggering hoarding behaviour amongst some attendees.



then there were the saucy cocktail napkins, sign in jigsaw puzzle depicting the marital black toenail cutting, a first dance to "ring of fire", and of course cake. the only criteria being that it had to either cramp up the ovaries upon visual contact (not gender specific), or result in a full on face plant.



finally, i have been astounded by all of the talented and creative people who made things happen. and while there was no 'bridal party' there were many worthy of a baby blue taffeta number with bows and puffed sleeves.



(photography courtesy of burt reynolds).

even if you say you aren't that kind of girl; you are

- i'm going to run to the office supply place, do you need anything?

...

- some wine?

- i don't think they sell that in the paperclip aisle.

[sigh]

- maybe cheesecake then? or ice-cream?

20 minutes later.

- I'm making the turn where i can either go home or stop and get ice-cream/wine/cheescake, do you want me to stop?

- .....i don't know....

- make the decision!

- ok. no! i don't need it, i don't want to get fat.

5 minutes later, walking through the door.

- did you get...anything....?

- no. you said you didn't want anything.

- i didn't MEAN it!

- well. i'm going to return these movies. are you sure you don't want something?

- ...i don't know..?

15 minutes later

- i'm at the supermarket, do you want anything?

- no. well, yes. but no. i don't NEED anything.

- and you're not going to ask me why i don't have it when i get home?

- well...yes. i just don't want to get fat. i don't need it.

- ok, then.

- siiiiiiiiigh.

- so you want me to get you something?

- no. i want you to make the decision, so i don't have to and then i can just blame you.


- SIGH.

- so... are you going to get something?

- no. not unless you say the words and tell me what you want.

- well...why don't you just get a treat for the dogs instead...

- ok.

- sigh.

[5 minutes later, a photo text of the frozen dessert aisle arrives]

- you are such a jerk!

- i'm getting ready to leave...last chance.

- no!

10 minutes later, walking through the door.

- did you get me anything?

...


- YES!!!!!!

saying your vows

repeat after me:

[vigorously elbowing]

"stop snoring!"

"stop elbowing me!"

"well, stop snoring. i can't sleep"

"now i'm not sleeping!"

"but you were!"

"just go to sleep!"

"i can't sleep if you're snoring!"

"if you're sleeping you wont hear me snore!"

"well, just roll over onto your side. when you lay on your back you tend to snore more"

"stop talking, i'm trying to sleep"

"well, stop snoring, i'm trying to get to sleep"

[rolls over]

"now i can't go to sleep...do you think you could turn your alarm clock to face the other way, the light from the numbers is keeping me awake?"

"just close your eyes, then it will be dark"

"it's not the same, i can still see the light and it's keeping me awake"


[mutual sighs]




repeat nightly.

diner pour quatre

"i invited the oral surgeon and his wife over for dinner next friday."

apparently you have confused my compulsive behaviour about keeping meat in the meat drawer, instead of thrown on top of the bag of arugala and a cheesecake, for someone who appliques apple pies and is fluent in ironing. and these are not the kind of people who come over for a "build your own pizza from this fine selection of ingredients i have procured and we'll just work our way through a kiddie pool of cheap wine" night.

"well, it's a good thing you are so well versed with the gas grill and it's various accessories".

except the good doctor doesn't eat red meat, and his missus is a vegetarian (obviously not an animal rights one, as evidenced by the floor length fur she wore out to dinner in march), and we do not own a "dining room table". *

unfortunately whole foods has yet to develop a line of ezee sundried shitake steaks nestled on an artisan bed of flambeed orzo infused with a rustic pine cone pesto. the default "order the steamed lobster and clams carry out for four" is not going to work as they are "mainers", and my own one trick foo-foo pony does not meet the previously referenced dietary criteria.

i can only hope that one of them has a '6 month old crack head labrador puppy' allergy.


* "dining room table" being the litmus of achieving 'now we have somewhere to put a large silk table runner and centre piece to really reinforce how little we will use this overpriced pile of kindling' adulthood.

polygamy is the answer to a more fulfilling relationship

all newly married, heterosexual women should be issued a wife, along with their 50th anniversary boxed edition monopoly from the target wedding registry. that whole "first year of marriage is the hardest" could then fade into the past along with the giant swatch watch from your pre-adolescent bedroom wall.

most women (as long as they are not my former polysubstance abusing pothead roomate) will appreciate the effort, as evidenced by little offerings from hallmark with specific descriptors for each individual thoughtful act of de-fuzzing the dryer lint trap, throwing out the last dribble of milk instead of putting it back in the fridge, or chucking random cultures and ethnicities of dark wash jeans/over priced for the amount of fabric white camisole/sweat encrusted bike shorts into one load of laundry set to 'broil'.

barring the obvious sterotypes relating to yawning toilet seats and tv remotes locked to fox news, your government issued wife will eradicate any reservations about sending the significant other off to the supermarket, where, despite daily use of fat free vanilla creamer in a blue bottle, he will stlll manage to come home with a yellow bottle of full fat caramel.

the home bathroom will never smell like a public loo again. flimsy, metal dry cleaning hangers will not overrun the wardrobe of the nicer, wooden ones from ikea. supervision of the miniature four (and eventual two) legged residents will no longer be a concern for forgetful or attention deficient partners that drop all manner of choking hazards for their young charges to encounter.

would it be greedy to register for two as a his and hers set- "his" being the wart covered troll wife with halitosis and chronic alopecia.

a (kentucky) jew-hova wedding story

iraqi jews, reformed jews, buddhists, a gay baptist in a committed relationship, engaged babymomma's, single babydaddies, twice married's, mohawked punks, coiffed glamour goddesses, neuroscientists, mechanics, artists, fixie bike delivery boys, divorced MILF's, trustafarian's, 6 figure income with grandkids, irregular paycheques with no 401k , tattoos and bling, designer suits, hawain shirts, rock musicians and flautists, closet republicans, uber liberal lefties-- and; social workers (we didn't start the fire).

the guest list was the united colours of benetton tidily arranged on fold out chairs, watching a perimenopausal rabbi, sporting a livestrong bracelet, sing in hebrew under the chuppah (a jewish "easy-up"), that the groom had finished building that morning (as well as custom made yarmulkes, hot off the sewing machine, for the entire wedding party).

where else could the bride be bitten by a pig earlier in the day, and be married against the backdrop of dromedaries, zebra's and dairy cows.

seek, and someone else will find (for you)

matchmaking; it's like playing god, cupid or joan rivers.

i have had one "success story" involving a hike, roller coasters and two people with a likeminded appreciation of bodily functions. however, i think i may have just scored another one via text, for a girlfriend 3 time zones away. see below for an example of my sales "technique."

"displaced seattle liberal, about to invest in her first mountain bike, working on a master's in social work, and is subsequently looking for a new project (or person) to take care of. allergic to wheat and cats".

"tall, athletic, low maintenance, outdoorsy female; she will never expect you to buy her a coach purse or tampons".

"tall, leggy blonde who runs. just purchased a high end mountain bike, another one with a master's degree in social work (yeah, yeah, these are the people who will look after you when you've lost sphincter control), skin like porcelain china."

"short, somewhat effeminate, persian refugee. enjoys ballet, opera, and is desperate to be mothered. god awful dress sense, so a great choice for a girl who likes makeover challenges".

of course i can always blame (or thank) my mother for my current status.

i love carbohydrates

the way to someone's heart is through their stomach, although i think a straight shot through the chest with a butcher knife might be a more effective use of time. today i was informed that men are like waffles, and women are like spaghetti.

waffles: organized, ordered, separated, clearly defined, compartmentalized.

spaghetti: disorganized, touches everything and itself, chaotic.

one of my favourite memories as a child, was when my dad taught me to throw spaghetti at the wall to see if it was done.

i think the gluten-a-phobes are seriously missing out.

the honeymoon is over

i was forwarded what seemed an initially depressing article that would reinforce any residual apprehensions i have not shed about the "C" word. however, there is hope.

"marriage: it's only going to get worse" http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20080205/sc_livescience/marriageitsonlygoingtogetworse;_ylt=AskTdKv9Gu8w.UArCXvUt4Ks0NUE (yeah, i cant figure out how to do that whole "enclosure link" thing) i have already moved past any embarassment at taking a poo with the bathroom door open, so i'm certainly on my way to being a manipulated "statistic" for the purpose of this article.

i am practiced in the fine art of picking; cuticles, scabs (mine and others), baby blankets, paint off coffee shop tables, and other people's quirks and idiosyncracies- an advanced degree with a specialization in how other's conduct their separation of darks/lights/smalls and how they load a dishwasher (big no-no are the non-rinsers).

it would appear that couples who stay together longer become more and more irritated with each other.

(insert witty closing comment here).

"it's mega maid; she's gone from suck to blow" (or empathy & affirmation)

i am not a big fan of mirrors and their annoyingly blatant reflections, however i recently had an opportunity to experience what it would be like to date myself-- thankfully, i can appreciate excessive amounts of garlic.

i have been known to exhibit the emotional availability of an ironing board, while pushing the rejection and abandonnment buttons in other people. however, a mere sneeze activates my own. which is why i do not usually run or chase "after"- too risky, and i speak as the person who wont throw blue jeans in with "the whites", or cut in before her "youre sitting so far back in the plane you'll be assuming the fetal position in the nose cone" group is called at the departure gate.

it is hard to continuously put oneself out there emotionally, physically, and verbally when it feels like a black hole is vacuum super sucking all of these things, and the direction is only one way (away) (or my way). the hoover has been retired; it is time to stand, wait and reflect back (and wait).

still not a big fan of mirrors, but they're a lot more fun to look into after you've had a long over due make-over.

roll over! roll over!

the quandary of how to choose sides that don't involve the house salad, a corn muffin or baked potato appears to be rather arbitrary. this is turf war; bed and box spring style, where size mattereth not. it is less about the real estate and more about location, location, location.

my research question was specific to the post coital, nocturnal layout, or who slept on which side of the bed. the sample group comprised of a married couple, co-habitters living in sin, and a newly single co-habitter. additional information was collected regarding the nature of disputed land and who really won the coveted spot "nearest to the toilet".

the findings were fairly broad and motivated by both physical and emotional extremes. the token husband reported that his wife insists he sleep nearest to the door. the assumption being that if an intruder were to break in, he would provide a "human shield" and absorb any potential stabbings. interesting rationale.

late night bedtime butchering aside, territories are typically argued over based on their proximity to, and ground clearance for, the inevitable bladder run. i personally tend to be compulsion driven, and have historically "slept on the left", whether it's at the holiday inn, in a tent, or a bunk bed (for the record, i sleep on the top, in case there is a fire i will have more of a chance). however, due to changing floor plans over the years, i have since been out-voted by other's incontinence. revenge is mine though. any of my unscheduled nightime toilet visits usually involves scaling a snoring, farting, heaped hurdle ("ooh sorry, did i wake you?") to get to the other side. of course if my nocturnal eneruresis becomes too much of a problem i can always invest in some night time pull ups.

parallel process

definition: a process in which two or more sequences of activities are going on simultaneously.

no, this is not in reference to the uncanny ability of a group of females, who co-exist in the same space for even a short period (ha!) of time, to synchronize the states of 'irritable' and 'needy'. although i would argue that any male who comes into contact with a regularly ovulating female, will also experience similar shifts in mood and an impoverished sense of self.

it would appear that there are some universal themes that are constant, however i only become aware of them (rather like suddenly noticing the roads are filled with other L-plated novice drivers when learning how to reverse park and master the art of a 3 point turn) if it mirrors my own experience. this evening, i listened to a 'degree of separation friend' who is experiencing relationship stress; his frustration sounded all too familiar, as he had apparently been dating my emotional "twin". nothing like empathizing with someone in pain and concurrently examining your own inventory. bloody karma; so much for geography and running away.

thank god for "universality". definition: the character or state of being universal; existence or prevalence everywhere.

it's nice to know that other people are anxious/angry, changing jobs/significant others, rubbing/picking at baby blankets/shell sweatpants, letting go, and tantrumming along with you.

ex and the city

in a week that has been nothing but full-on drama, pounding in wave after relentless wave of hurt feelings and unmitigated hysteria, it was inevitable that an exclamation point would punctuate friday's grand finale, as evidenced by the manic texting, furtive phone calls, and not so subtle hiding behind trees and other random strangers.

louisville has an art gallery trolley hop once a month, where the streets empty out of smelly homeless schizophrenics with 40 oz's and are replaced with french manicured young professionals clutching designer purses and plastic cups of free boxed wine, all while standing at the corner of market street looking like flocks of starbucks courtesans. (i was there too).

my accomplice du jour (would that be a 'wingwoman'?) was "the gap girl". under the dictionary definition of "she who has her shit together" you will find this girl's name. sometimes i like to spend time with her in the hopes that some of the "shit togetherness" will rub off on me- i am obviously still waiting (or not putting in enough hours). "gap girl" confirmed that she too had been feeling the secondary effects of a full moon, having spent the week fending off an amorous ex who had resurfaced. upon arrival at the cross-section of "hip" and "trendy" i made "i know you, but i cant quite place you" eye contact with 'creepy, older, hippy dude', until i realized this was my housesitting friend's former paramour of 7 years, who in true soap opera coincidence was meeting us with her new hubby momentarily ('heads up' calls placed: 1). we proceeded a couple of galleries down the street when i saw a former grad school classmate's ex (fortunately she is now living in seattle), with what appeared to be his new boyfriend in tow (this confirmed previous suspicions, especially given he lives in "the big pink house").

'heads up' calls received: 1. another friend, let's call her "old navy girl" (mostly has shit together, but not enough to make me panic), had also been dealing with "ex stress" this past week and needed to purge, unfortunately mid purge, "random stranger with poor boundaries and depleted social skills" felt the need to interrupt my conversation to fire a monologue of oh-so-ho-ho-ho-original british nouns at me; "bloke", "tea and crumpets", "the queen", "cucumber sandwiches", and "the beatles" (what, no monty python?). he was issued with an equally british "bugger off" and i resumed my phone call. meanwhile, "gap girl" had been cornered by a different ex's SUPER BUBBLY/FRIENDLY/UNMEDICATED new girlfriend (oh hell, she's 24, she's supposed to sound like a care bear on crack), who would not shut up; "my father is on drugs", or go away; "i just HAD to come over and say hi to the pretty girl".

yes; i will be going to next month's episode, er, trolley hop.

degrees of separation

"a cookout and cornhole" was the condensed version of the invitation for the gathering i attended last night. sadly it was not nearly as 'rated for a mature audience' as it sounded. mature is probably the antithesis, in fact.

as is tradition at any gathering in louisville, initial introductions involve a lengthy process to establish how many degrees of separation you are connected to this new stranger by. it turns out (and this will obviously only be of interest and relevance to me, the rest of you really couldnt give a shit) that the hostess's former roomate's son, is now married to my ex's, ex (who is also darth vader's brother's auntie's former physical therapist's pre-school teacher), but his (the ex) sister's husband's nephew was also in attendance. she (ex's ex) did not attend due to family obligations, however, he (ex's ex's husband) and i shared an interesting moment of conversation before we became engrossed in a rather competitive game of cornhole.

1:30am- as the party petered out, the majority (of which i was not one) ruled in favour of walking to a nearby dive bar * to laugh at the locals doing karaoke. as the designated driver i could have exercized my veto power, but truth be known i had hoped conceding to the bar would mean i could get out of driving everyone's ass 45 minutes to boz-fest (live music, drinking, debauchery and camping in a field), out in la grange, ky. that would put this grandma in her pyjamas around 4am; not cool. karaoke in germantown was every bit as blue collar as i expected it to be. tattoos, mullets, missing teeth, engorged and turgid beer bellies (on the men too), and the mandatory '3 pack a day' gravelly soloist belting out leann rhimes.

3:30am- (old navy pyjamas with a scent of "ash tray") the only time i ever see these numbers displayed on my watch are when i am sitting upright in my economy class seat (clutching the arm rests) concentrating on keeping the plane up in the air for 6 hours across the atlantic.



* this is one of the only bars in louisville that plans to ignore the upcoming smoking ban and suck up the fines. i, obviously have no future plans of frequenting this particular establishment in the immediate or remote future.

will you be my back up; in sickness, health and urinary incontinence?

at the risk of sounding too 'sex and the city', all proper theatrical productions have an understudy in case of unexpected outbreaks of mono, crabs or a pimple. my personal comedy (ok, drama), involves a selection of such understudies, sans the over ventilated, toothy, julia roberts perma-grin.

appropriate criteria for the "if neither one of us are married 5 years from RIGHT NOW, then let's plan on shoving cake in each other's mouths and faces" are typically dictated by the ones with uteruses dessicating to the size of a sunmaid raisin.

understudies tend to be somewhat asexual, where the 'hotness' quotient is superceded by sperm with super powered flagellums. toe curling is not a priority when you are selecting from the 'i cant read the top letter at the opticians so i can overlook your hooked nose' donor list. understudies are fraternal. finally, all those horny guy friends who are "just like [my] brother" get their opportunity. they are bestowed the privelege of seeing the 'one week out of the month knickers'; all month. these are the guys for whom you will leave (already leave) the bathroom door yawning when constipated for more accessible requests of last months 'people' magazine, or when the sphincter is so dilated that another roll of TP is of immediate medical necessity.

essentially, the long term personal ad requires someone who would be willing to wipe my bum when im 84.

what's in a name? pt. 2

a friend told me her checkout chick at kroger was wearing a nametag that said "sha'darryl". this is a whole new exciting genre of names. the possibilities are suddenly overwhelming, but so much easier in the just add water and a 'half scoop of mum' folded in with 'half a scoop of babydaddy'. maggie could have been "jo'nise" if joseph and denise chickey had thought a little harder, or a little less. if she and her boyfriend eric procreated they could use the unisex monkiker "meric". my parents could have been so much more original with "zuri" (back before tomkat made his alleged college sports team inspiration famous) with zbys and ruri. sadly when people ask you what your name means, or you try and look it up in a baby book, or even to find it on a pencil/mug/t-shirt/snowglobe at a cheap tatty tourist shop it will not be there. just today i was browsing the miniature personalized ky vanity license plates, and while you can find matthew, mark, luke, john and chase, i could not find a peter.

pitiful.

i'm ready!?

it's easy to know when youre not ready, however transitioning into being "ready" is rather like navigating the moratorium state from adolescent to adult. for some this period can become long and protracted, or is revisited later in mid-life when buying a porsche seems like a splendid idea.

readiness is part intuition, part conscious decision, making it easier for self and others to question, analyze, doubt, rinse and repeat. as children, we feel the uncomfortable tummy grumbles and cry, whine and request food (a behaviour i diligently continue to practice into my 30's). we play hide and seek, counting "ready or not, here i come". graduating from nappies to the potty and then toilet there is the cry of "i'm readeeeeeeee!" to the lucky parent on 'wiping duty' to come and positively reinforce, coo, aaaah and complete the task.

not feeling "ready" can certainly be a way to avoid making a comittment, however decisions as an adult are less physically messy, unless the aforementioned adult has graduated to incontinence knickers. perhaps this is the reason that the progression from pencil, to ink pen with the magic eraser function at school was so exciting. there was always the option to erase the ink; nothing was quite indelible. the smudgeproof and waterproof sharpie then begins to feel like the writing implement of adulthood.

the fact is, a thick stick of charcoal on a big piece of white paper sometimes creates marks you planned, and sometimes not; the implicit "risk" and reward of creativity. often there is an unrecognizable mess, but this generally evolves into 'form' over the next few pages, or sketchbooks. i am beginning to get into my thick head that this is the point at which letting go and having a little faith that, in spite of the messes made, feeling "ready", and deciding "ready", are superceded by favouring neither. i dont know many parents who hovered over the 'early years elimination' with an egg timer harassing an "im finished".

fart by friday

farts; my pet subject, as with all things scatalogical. boys (well, my brother) fart at the drop of a...lower small intestine, girls appear to have a harder time with it all, it's just not ladylike.

as a female, there is something terribly "free-ing" about farting in front of another human who you do not share the same last name with. it usually happens by accident, intentional flatulence, at least that "first time" tends to be somewhat embaressing. i made a concsious decision to get my first time out of the way, granted it took a significant period of sharing the same sleeping quarters in order to make this happen. farts cannot be micromanaged, insofar as you have no control over volume, scent or duration. my "first time" reverberated and echoed a la grand canyon. i was mortified, but also keen to see the reaction of my pillow mate. unfortunately my grand plan backfired, yes there was a shocked expression, but it was accented with a hint of knowing smug in response to my embaressment; i was swiftly dutch ovened in my own creation.

my challenge to the ladies (melinderrr) is to fart in front of your special loved one by friday. it is time to take your relationship to the next level.

free will

a wise woman recently explained to me her views on the human condition of free will. she has acquired a puppy; a fluffy, bouncy, chew everything except toys, and 'pee all over you when he sees you with excitement' puppy. she went on to tell me that she was moving a large, fluffy stuffed animal in one of the bedrooms and thought how much easier it would be if she could have been satisifed with a stuffed animal, how much less work and trouble it would have been.

stuffed animals do not roll over and bare their tummies for a scratch, they do not go tearing around the back garden after squirrels, and they do not throw themselves onto your lap and nuzzle into you. she said how much easier if her husband could behave how she wanted him to, but then she would be married to a "stuffed animal".

despite higher levels of domestic disarray, loving someone or something with free will implies a concsious choice and comittment. there is something to be said for that kind of reciprocity.