'if there be any truer measure of a man...'

The assignment - Measure, in centimeters, something you love and draw a picture of it.

"Oh! I know what I'll measure!" cheers the 7 year old boy, ripping the red plastic ruler from the junk drawer and running upstairs.

"Take your time and measure very carefully!" reminds the always helpful Mom, imagining her son taking precise calculations for a scale model drawing of a Star Wars action figure or Lego car.

"I've got it!" cheers the 7 year old boy once again, bounding down the stairs, prepared to draw.

"OK, I'm done!" cheers (again)(for he is always cheery) the 7 year old boy. "Mom! Look what I measured! Can you guess what it is?"

The Mom, turning from her pot of perfect spaghetti sauce, takes one glance at her son's worksheet and thinks, "Yeah! Blog fodder!! Oh, thank you, thank you, sweet Gods of Homework!" She then smiles at her son and says, "Hey there, love! Looks like you found something pretty interesting to draw! I think we should call Dad in here and see if he can guess what it is, too!"

"Wait!" cries the 7 year old boy. "Before we do, I need to fix it. It's too small! I need to make it bigger!"

"That's what they all say," says the Mom as she watches the boy slash through the orb that had once been a zero and editing his work to insert a 2 in its place.

"Hey there, boy!" greets the Dad. "What did you measu....Oh, hahahaha. Um, HEY! WHAT IS THAT!?"

"I will give you clues!" says the helpful 7 year old boy. "See if you can guess what it is as I write down the letters!"

The 7 year old boy writes. P...E...

"Oh! Hmmm...." ponders the Dad. "Hey, son? Is this homework you'll actually be turning into your teacher?"

"HAHAHA!!" laughs the Mom, pausing briefly from her fit of laughter to remind the Dad that the 7 year old boy's teacher is named Mrs. Wood.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" laugh the Mom and the Dad.

The 7 year old boy writes some more. "Have you guessed yet?" he asks while putting the finishing touches on a softly sloping lowercase N...

"Well, I have some ideas," say the Mom and the Dad in unison, pausing briefly to marvel at how in sync they are that they said the same thing at the same time, thus causing them to ignore the 7 year old boy for a few seconds and commence in some fist bumping and the Mom saying, "Now you have to buy me a Coke!" and the Dad saying, "What?" and the Mom saying, "Are you kidding me?" and the Dad saying, "I don't know what you're talking about!" and the Mom asking, "You seriously don't know the rules of jinx? Next you're probably going to tell me the words 'slug bug' mean nothing to you, either" and the 7 year old boy to finally interrupt by crying out, "Hey! I'm talkin' here!"

Anyway...

The Mom and the Dad turned back to the 7 year old, prepared to tell the child how clever they thought he was, but that it might not be a good idea to combine his math homework with what was looking hauntingly like a biology lesson when they noticed he'd stopped writing.

"Can you guess what it is?" quizzes the 7 year old boy.

"Yeah! It's a pen!" cry the Mom and the Dad, relief and glee washing over their faces.

Homework complete, the 7 year old boy jumps down from his bar stool and puts his ruler AND his pen away without the Mom needing to remind him. Such a good boy, that 7 year old boy!

Left alone to marvel at how smart their son is, the Mom and the Dad marvel at how smart their son is. Then the Mom turns to the Dad, smiles, and suggests he brace himself for the remarks that are to follow.

"Are you ready?" the Mom asks the Dad, who shrugs, knowing that no matter what he says, the Mom NEEDS to get what follows out of her system.

"I guess what they say is true. The pen IS mightier than the sword!" she cheers. "Get it? Get it? The pen IS? The PEN IS? The PENIS?!"

Realizing she may be pushing her luck for she already presented a classic, the Mom went for another. "I guess that other thing they say is also true. It's not the size of your pen that matters, it's what you write with it that really counts!"

"Are you done now?" inquires the Dad.

"Close," responds the Mom. "But first, maybe you should give me your autograph. You'll need a pen for that. Wink, wink."

"Be sure to call me back here when dinner's ready," sighs the Dad.

"I'll make a note of it!" says the Mom. "I'll need something to write that down with. Hey! Is that a pen in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

The Mom then went on and on with the veiled penis jokes ("I could go on all night! I haven't even touched on the ink portion of the comedy!") because that's just the kind of person she is. The Boy went on to get smiley face sticker on his homework courtesy of Mrs. Wood. And the Dad? The Dad still owes the Mom a Coke, though he may have written her an I.O.U. Heh...

a post about nothing? oh, you shouldn't have!

Hi! Remember me? Apparently this thing is what's referred to as (finger quotes) a blog (finger quotes) and even more apparently, a blog requires words. Huh. Novel idea. Except, no, this isn't a novel because dammit, all the good novel ideas are taken!

Oh, not really. I just don't have any of my own.

Anyway, I was actually going to write a post...before I remembered I didn't have any ideas...and then I heard a strange sound outside my house earlier this morning. "Great. Just great. Sounds like my irrational fear of Bigfoot is finally coming to fruition," I muttered as I walked to the front door to check for any large, lumbering hairy beasts standing there snarling or preparing to fling dung.

Because apparently that's what I do when faced with impending doom. Walk right straight up to it and face it like a man. That surprises me, really, because in my mind - the mind that tells me to check the windows and doors eight kabillion times before going to bed at night when it's just me and the kids, the mind that has long suggested I play dead when presented with a selection of strange nighttime noises - I'm no man (though, really, after looking at those prom photos from last week, I'd completely understand if some of you might have been confused).

However, do you know who IS a man?

My Tool Man! Like a warrior in the battle for your drilling dollars, my Tool Man has made his triumphant return home after two weeks on the road in locales as mysterious as Minnesota and exotic as Omaha. I've read stories of these magical lands, so I consider myself lucky he's come home to me.

So today, rather than write a post (wait? what is this?), I'm going to use my magical mind powers (which are not those of a man) and work on convincing my Tool Man to take me to see the new Terminator movie.

Because yes. Going to a movie IS EXACTLY what I want to do with my husband who has been gone for two weeks!

(hope you all enjoy your holiday weekend...and if any of you end up seeing Terminator, be a dear and don't tell me how it ends, OK? we at the Castle That Tools Built often have other matinee ideas and may not make it today afterall)

p.s. - No dung was flung in the creation of this post, but in true romance fashion, Tool Man dropped his bags, greeted me with a hearty 'hey,' and then breezed past me to rush upstairs, where his thrown in this castle awaits. The fires of our hearts, my but do they ever burn so very bright...

i wish i was in tijuana

I was making dinner tonight when, over the crackling of the cellophane bag wherein were housed the delicious ciabatta bread rolls (oh, they SAID you was high class, but here we thought it was just a lie...) I planned to use to make my special recipe roast beef sandwiches (which are neither special nor exclusively mine), when my youngest son climbed aboard his bar stool at the counter and spied the plate from which I was pulling the beefy ingredients from.

"What's that?" the young man inquired, his voice tinged with the kind of cautious blend of fear and curiosity often found among those in the early frames of horror movies or who typically eat only peanut butter sandwiches on bread far less fancy and dense every day of their lives.

"This?" I responded, holding up a thin slice of perfect roast beef, allowing it to wave gently in the air. "This, my son, is roast beef."

"What part of the chicken does roast beef come from?" he asked.

"Really?" I said.

"What?" he responded.

"Roast beef does not come from a chicken, sweetheart," I replied.

Not willing to be defeated, the young man tried again. "OK, then, what part of the pig does it come from?"

"Oh, my," I sighed.

"You're what?" he replied.

"This roast beef is also not from a pig," I answered.

"I'm stumped, then," my son said, hanging his head just low enough for me to notice that OMG, someone had obviously been playing with the scissors because there's a giant chunk of hair missing from his frontal lobe, but that's apparently a story for a different day because I've yet to get a strait answer out of him. So far all possible (yet entirely illogical) scenarios come out as jagged as the current state of his bangs.

"The answers you seek are in the name, my son," I said. "Listen carefully - roast BEEF."

Silence ensued. Gears screeched to a halt thanks to the ragged follicular road blocks upon his forehead. "What animal is beef?" he finally asked.

Ah, life in the suburbs...

********************

Because dinner was fancy pants roast beef sandwiches, I decided to bring out the assorted accoutrements. A little Grey Poupon, anyone? And when I say a little, I mean just a little, OK, because who do you think I am, anyway? Jenny from the block?

(do you smell that? that's the smell of a really dated pop culture reference! ripe!)

By now, my oldest son had joined us at the kitchen counter, his equally suspicious eyes darting around at these New York City (tired pop culture reference number two!) sandwiches I was preparing before landing upon the squeeze bottle of Gray Poupon.

"Mom, do you know your Gary Poops On has white wine in it?" he asked

"GARY POOPS ON!!!! GARY POOPS ON!!!! GARY POOPS ON!!!!" cried the younger accomplice. "GARY POOPS ON YOUR SANDWICH!!!!"

"I wish..." I sighed. "I really, really wish..."

(did I mention that there's this man who, from time to time, passes through my house, and for whatever reason I wash his socks and underwear, though for the life of me, I don't know why because this strange man, who, if he is who he says he is, pulled a gigantic FAIL on Mother's Day, which is shocking coming off the heels of an earlier birthday disaster the likes of which notations are made in history books that read "...and if we as a society fail to learn from events such as this, we are doomed to repeat them," needs to make it up in the husband department pronto, so yeah, I'm tired and this is rambly. What of it?)

(that sounded harsh, didn't it? sorry. it's not you, it's me. I see we meet again, PMS. word up, single parents! yada, yada, yada. insert all the usual cliches here)

(my wish was also regarding the wine part of that above conversation. I originally hoped I wouldn't have to clarify that, but after reading this again, I felt like perhaps I should)

Moral of the story, Gary Poops On will now be how I forever and always refer to Grey Poupon mustard. You probably will, too. Don't blame me. Blame the kid with the weird haircut over there who apparently doesn't know what a cow is.

********************

The ingredients for my fancy pants dinner sandwiches came after a rousing run through the grocery store after work. All was good until I'd been home a couple hours and I felt my head growing increasingly fuzzy, and my lungs began spewing forth sneeze after sneeze after sneeze.

"Perfect," I sighed, then sneezed. And sneezed again. "This is JUST perfect."

"What's perfect?" my oldest son asked.

"I must have walked through a germ cloud while at the grocery store this afternoon," I said. "I think someone dripping with germs had the cart before me, and now I'm not feeling well. I hope I don't wake up with a cold tomorrow."

"Did you actually SEE the germ cloud?" he asked.

"Have you paid attention AT ALL in your science classes?" I countered.

Then I sneezed again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Then, when I was done, I lifted my right fist to the sky and shook it. With my voice tinged with drama and flair, I looked at my son, shook my fist at the sky again, and growled dramatically, "As God is my witness, THIS! THIS is why I do not like to go grocery shopping!"

Shaking his head slightly, my son sighed, and, before hopping down from his bar stool to dash outdoors to play again, said, "NOW you can understand how I feel about Mexico."

I know. I don't get it, either. But Australia? I feel I should warn you. I saw the kid eyeing a map recently and if I were you, Oz, I'd be a little worried.

what about prom, blane? no. what about prom? no. WHAT ABOUT PROM!

Sometimes the universe hands you a really amazing gift you can't imagine not sharing with others. My gift came when I sat down to watch this week's episode of 18 Kids and Counting (like you don't), and Josh Duggar turned to wife Anna's prenatal nurse, who'd just asked morning-sickness ravaged Anna if she was taking her prenatal vitamins, and said, "Anna's a master swallower!" I swear to you, Seth punched me so hard on the arm I spilled the lowfat microwave popcorn we were sharing and then we fell to our knees to thank the sweet, sweet Lord for that line.

That, friends, is an example of a gift that demands sharing, so I'm saddened The Internet hasn't yet provided me that particular clip anywhere. WTH, Internet?! What's a gift that doesn't warrant sharing? Oh, a little something called My Prom Photos. However, in what I can only assume is what's known as peer pressure (which I can only imagine, having seen enough ABC Afterschool Specials about the perils of speed and teen pregnancy - though not at the same time - to know not to succumb in high school), this post...sigh...this post contains images that may not be suitable for any of you, but I'm sharing them because Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated had the fantastic idea we do this. The part of me that remembers hiding in the bathroom during P.E. to avoid being picked last for volleyball imagines these two already very beautiful women, and everyone else who melted at their wiles and posted their photos, will have gorgeous, completely unembarrassing prom pictures on their blogs, and then here's me, wondering why John Travolta's laughing at me and The Greatest American Hero's passed out at my feet.

So, lucky you!

You know what makes this even more awesome? I've been blogging for nearly three years and very few of you know what I actually look like, so for that first glimpse, why not show you how lame ass I looked at 17? I expect those of you who do know what I look like to immediately flood the comments telling everyone what a stone cold fox I am.

So aw(ful)esome!

Sigh....

I know what you're probably thinking right now. You're thinking, "Hey, didn't she just allude to the fact she WASN'T a stone cold fox in 1985?? Who the hell does she think she's kidding? Because baby, somebody should call the zookeeper and tell them it appears a tigress has escaped." Stop it. You're embarrassing me! Here's what I think you should be thinking when you see this photo from my junior year: "Hey, did you say these were photos of YOU going to the prom? Yeah? Then how come you look like a 41 year old woman instead of a 17 year old girl?!"
I know, right?! Seriously, I must be taking magical Benjamin Button supplements because I seriously look younger today than I did in my teens and and 20s. I suppose that's what no longer giving a rat's ass about what the popular girls think of you does to a person. Or maybe it was nixing the whole perm thing and losing the frosted purple lipstick, which, if you click on that photo to make it bigger (but OMG, why would you want to), you'd see I was wearing. Sexy's just another word for scary.

My dress was a stunning pale purple frock of the finest imported polyester ordered direct from the fashion house of JC Penney's. The straps, kissed by the ruffled lips of angels, doubled as a seductive enchantress by draping casually off the shoulder if one desired to be daring and dangerous. As you can imagine, such a move was employed during slow dances to Careless Whisper, Heaven or I Miss You. Do I have a photo of it like that? No, and for that, I apologize. However, if it's skin you want (and based on the emails I so often get from the random paramours wishing to see, and I quote, "my boobies!"), then it's skin I shall give you!

Oh, yeah, baby! The smirk says, "For the love of God, can we stop taking photos now?" but the leg says, "Mmm, Legss Sheer Comfort control top pantyhose in realistic Suntan!" I believe it was Roxette who said it best when they sang, "Tasty like a raindrop. She's got the look!" It's especially crazy that they said it three years before that song even came out. Inspiration, perhaps? I don't even want to presume to imagine. By the way, I still have that garter should anyone wish to hang it from the rear view mirror of their pickup truck.

You're probably wondering if a MILFy looking 17 year old like me had a date for the junior prom (which was themed "When You Wish Upon A Star" - LAME). Oh, yes, my friends. I absolutely had a date, and if you think I was hot, check out the sizzlin' hunk of high school hotness who took me there in my Dad's bitchin' midlife crisis Camero! Tommy lived one house down from mine (convenient!) and we spent every night together (rawr!)(except not really)(as you'll soon find out) playing basketball in my driveway, working at Target after school, or taking turns going for drives in our Dodge Darts - yes, we had the same cars! That, I believe, is the definition of destiny. Tommy was the first boy to see my shoulders AND my boobs, and I fully intended to have his last name one day.

Oh, fate, you cruel mistress...

Do you remember the spring dance episode of Beverly Hills 90210 when Dylan gently deflowers Brenda in the hotel room they retired to after skipping out of the festivities (hardcore BH-Niner fans can click the link and watch the entire episode!)? Yeah, well, is that the outline of a Skoal can in your tuxedo pocket, Tommy, or are you just happy to see me? My adorable and sweet high school boyfriend, who just happened to conveniently live one house down and was not only the first boy to see my boobs but ACTUALLY TOUCH THEM, had other plans for us to mark this Very Special Episode of our lives. But look closer at that photo (if you must). Do you see that look on my naive little face? That look is why I like to call this photo "Like A Virgin" (alternate title - "Yearning for Zion"). Remember what I said about peer pressure? Well, I'd also read enough Judy Blume books to know there were consequences to teen sex! Despite his best efforts and his strong lips, my nun-like resolve (good lord, but I was a loser) prevailed, which proved to be most wise and lucky on my part. Soon after we broke up early in our senior year, Tommy began dating a classmate and impregnated her with his Sperm O' Magic, gifting her with what would ultimately be the first of FIVE children he'd have with her before either of them were 25 that he never actually helped raise because he'd get her knocked up while home on every military leave he had.

I last saw Tommy nine years ago. Damn if that magic man still wasn't hot. Love's a bitch, Duck. Love's a bitch.

Speaking of damn, this post is getting damn long and I haven't even shared my senior prom with you. Actually, I hated my senior prom so much I have very few photos or mementos from that evening. Probably a little something to do with the fact that I appeared to be rocking a minor chick mullet, my dress fit poorly, and look like I ate my date - who was neither my cousin nor lived out of state and/or in France during the school year - instead of the delicious Village Inn meal he took me to prior to taking me to the dance and proceeding to stand against the wall with his buddies the entire night. So you know what? I think I'm going to sit out that one and let you go dance with some of the others who are sharing their prom photos today. Please visit The Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated for their posts and the links to others they'll share throughout the weekend.

But first, while I can understand why you might be ashamed to go out with me, that you might be terrified your rich friends won't approve, don't leave me hanging here thinking I'm the girl who was, is, and will always be nada (oh, Pretty In Pink, I say I love you and too much...). Leave me a comment. Maybe ask me to dance, and don't fear my incredibly pale arms and dark legs!

and the one that mother gives you...apparently doesn't get eaten at all

According to my crude system of charts, pulleys, and small stones, Easter was nearly five weeks ago, and yet this rat bastard remains in my pantry to mock me! What kind of person leaves a small brick of solid milk chocolate in my house?

My seven year old, gravy-hating masochist, that's who! In the immortal words of Full House's Stephanie Tanner, how rude! Every day, that kid comes home from school and stalks the kitchen for a snack, and in some crazed reaction designed to steer him away from things like carrot sticks or apple slices, I beg him to eat the chocolate. Eat it. EAT IT!!

"Oh, pish posh, mother. I cannot eat this silken bunny confection for I do not wish it to ruin my already bird-like appetite! In fact, I think I shall forgo a snack altogether and instead allow the gentle hum of my roaring stomach comfort me until such time as you place a lovingly prepared plate of food before me that I will promptly mock and/or declare disdain for. In the meantime, let us box this treat up and ship it to a famine-stricken area where children will take kindly to it. Why don't you hop on that thing you call 'The Internet' and locate such a place. Until then, I shall be in the living room, watching last week's episode of WWE Friday Night Smackdown you so graciously recorded for me," he (sometimes) replies. In a proper British accent.

And so it mocks me, this little rabbit, as it lords over it's assorted minions of pastel-wrapped Hershey kisses and speckled malted milk eggs. Oh, did I mention there's still that Easter candy left in my house, too? Surely there's some type of statute of limitations on this kind of thing. If this sweet bunny was wrapped in a Dove's Promises foil, it would likely read, "For the love of God, eat me already, why don't you?!" Or maybe "Please, child, put your poor mother out of her misery and at least nibble my ears." How about "Do you know how much I cost? If you did, you'd dig in!" Better yet "Those track marks on my sweet exterior are supposed to simulate my soft, downy fur and are not, despite your protests, marks left there when your Mom decided to drag her teeth gently and randomly across me over a period of eight to 12 days, assuming you'd never figure her out."

Oh, and he'd figure me out, alright. If I didn't fear the child's wrath, I'd be tearing into that box, telling that rabbit to shuddup shuttin' up, and commence having it hop on down the bunny trail of my gullet. Instead, I will enjoy delicious snacks of carrot sticks and apple slices, perhaps the random pilfered speckled egg, enjoyed all while trying to figure out how to post an actual Wordless Wednesday post.

********************

Wait! Before you go, allow me to totally eye tease you with what might be here Friday! The lovely ladies at The Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated have come up with this, like, totally awesome idea to have bloggers post their prom photos on Friday, and, like, OMG, y'all!? If I can find mine, I just might join in! I figure since most of you have no idea what I look like other than that smokin' hot profile photo up there, why not post the most heinous images of myself ever captured on film to shatter your illusions of love and gag you with a spoon? As soon as I post this, I'm off to stage a covert, Jack Bauer-like reconnaissance mission at my Mom's house to see if I can put my paws (actual paws...because I'm not kidding when I say heinous) on them. I'm going on the assumption she didn't burn them like I begged her to. If I do find them, they'll be here for the world to scream and tear at their faces. If I don't, well, this post will probably still be here, because I really can't believe no one has figured out how utterly boring I really am and this is really all I've got! Additionally, based on the photos from my senior prom, you'll understand why it is I have made myself walk way from all solid chocolate bunnies and their like that have come into my life over the years.

Seriously, you'll tear your hair out, and it's possible the Internet may explode. In fact, I don't know why I didn't explode! I really don't think the Web has the capacity to contain my senior year prom photo.

In the meantime, if you want to join in on the fun (which is another word for 'terror') on Friday, post YOUR prom photos and share with all of us by linking your posts with the ladies up there. I promise not to scream and/or laugh too hard at your photos if you promise to do the same for me.

'...for when he moves, his house moves, too, and nothing can prevent it'

He poked his head in the door and asked me if I was sure, and honestly, I thought I was, so I lied.

"Completely," I told my husband. "Take it to the curb."

As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, I sat statue still for one, two, three, four, five seconds (I know it was exactly five because I counted each tick, forcing myself not to change my mind and go stop him) before I jumped up from the couch, dashed through the family room and the kitchen, then screeched to a halt at the front door window just as he was rounding the front of the house, dragging the Little Tykes turtle sandbox behind him. You think turtles move at a snail's pace? Not the case when my husband is leading the parade.

With a muffled thud, the sandbox came to rest at the curb amid an assortment of empty cardboard boxes, peg boards, and metal shelving, waiting to be picked over by the junk vultures. When my husband turned to venture back into the garage in what I hoped would be a sequel to his first successful release, Quest For Useless Shit We (Meaning You, Tool Man) Don't Need, he caught me watching from the window, so I smiled, barely, and lifted my hand up in what I imagined he'd take as a friendly gesture. A thumbs up that would encourage him to forage deeper where once a car fit for him to find more to throw out along with the sandbox.

But really? Really my wave was meant as a final salute to the turtle sandbox that's been (strike that now - HAD been) in our backyard for the last eight years. I thought I'd been ready to see it go. Honestly. But when I got up Saturday morning and raised the blinds to open the windows so I could hear the boys playing in the backyard and they could hear me yelling out to them to quit wrestling, stop touching him already, for the love of God didn't we already have this discussion yesterday, my eyes immediately fell on the perfectly round circle of dirt in the middle of the yard where the turtle had made it's home and, speaking of for the love of God, my heart filled with regret.

It's not that the boys have played in the turtle sandbox much over the last couple of years. Hell, it's not like the turtle sandbox had held it's primary ingredient for the last couple of years! But what it was (no longer is) was a link to my boys when they were little.

Little.

Little, little, little.

Like I want them to still be.

Little tykes, you might say.

But as they like to remind me by their actions if not necessarily their words, my boys aren't such little tykes anymore. The days when we'd tumble out into the backyard to uncover the sandbox and explore ended, really, last summer, when I spent more time reminding them the turtle's hard outer shell was there to cover the sand, not act as a springboard for their backyard gymnastics. We very rarely had tiny sand castles to build anymore. Less frequently were the least favorite Matchbox cars brought out to bust through elaborate sand dunes. The days of sifting through the grains in a quest for gold became fewer, and the imaginary restaurant where I'd watch two chefs stir pots with plastic shovels while placing orders for plates of spaghetti and slices of blueberry pie was closed down, a victim of either the economy or the health inspectors. By the time I told my husband to drag it to the curb last Friday, the turtle sandbox had become more a petri dish where the latest pandemic was likely brewing, and it's lid, split and faded, no longer wanted to heal after another last ditch duct tape surgery.

By next week, grass will be growing in the space where the turtle sandbox has (had) rested for years. My boys will race over it while in the midst of some new game, and perhaps they'll forget the days we spent kneeled around the turtle's innards while building elaborate systems of dams and rivers we filled with bucket after bucket of water from the outdoor spigot. That's OK, really. But I'm pretty sure I won't, because like a turtle's long lifespan, my memories of my no longer so little boys will remain, even if the turtle sandbox doesn't.

kick off my sunday shoes

He (who is 7, and equal parts charming showman and bad ass): "I can actually feel the stench of my shoes!"

Me (who once was 7 and, depending on the day, would be considered more an ass than bad ass or charming): "And how, exactly, does that stench feel, Rhino?"

He: "It's like the smell, ya know?"

Me: "So what's a stench so bad you can feel it smell like?"

He: "Stinky!"

Me: "Oh, yeah?"

He: "Yeah! It smells like gravy! Gravy, bubble gum and peas!"

Me: "You know all those things separately are pretty darn good, don't you?"

He: "Not gravy!"

Me: "You clearly did not come from my body, where gravy and blood work in tandem to keep me alive."

He: "You're weird."

Me: "Uh, you're the one who can feel your own foot stench, dude!"

He: "What do your shoes smell like?"

Me: "Like magic. And sugar cookies, Chapstick and the sun. Overall, they smell like a pretty darn good day."

He: "Not like gravy?"

Me: "Oh, there's always gravy."

He: "Not if I can help it!"

Me: "You're weird."

i'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!

A couple of weeks ago, I was struck with an overwhelming desire to do something insanely wonderful for my sons. Lacking the key ingredients to bake them their favorite cookies or the assorted tubes of glitter to concoct some magical craft (which? hallelujah!), I spied a coupon for one free Redbox movie rental set to expire on that particular day.

"I know! I'll rent them Beverly Hills Chihuahua!" I thought. "They'll love it, but they'll love ME more!"

Delighted with my plan, I turned to the Internet, where I shared my plan with the world on my Twitter. Instantly, response flooded in.

"You know how Marley and Me makes you want to get a puppy? Beverly Hills Chihuahua will make you want to run them over with your car."

"I will nominate you for sainthood...guaranteed! :0)"

"THAT is one of the WORST movies ever made (but better than Observe & Report) they don't even do the CHIHUAHUA dance - gah!"

"I'll bring the Kleenex, because you will need it. :0) I'm told for the grownups, wine makes it hella funnier..."

"It's been a pleasure tweeting with you and I promise I'll visit when you're in the loony bin. I'm going to miss you! *weeps*"

"Are you fuckin' crazy!? WHY would you even consider that!? Forget hugs, I'm bringing you a straight jacket. *snicker*"

"Don't DO IT! That movie is AWFUL. Unless you have 10 year old boys, they will find it hilarious."

Well, not only is the Internet ripe with free porn, it's a magical world full of raging passions and diverse opinions, too, and frankly, most of the opinions (and some of the free porn) being shared with me was a little terrifying! People seem to really hate talking chihuahuas! However, that last comment really was the kicker. Although I don't have 10 year old boys, I do have boys who find talking animals (and farts, which dooms me if Disney one day releases a heartwarming tale of flatulence and family)(in 3D!) hilarious and so, armed with my coupon for a free $1 movie rental, off I went for Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

Dear heaven! People in the Internet do not lie! Beverly Hills Chihuahua? Ninety-one minutes of dreadful! Oh, sure it was free, but it was hella bad and hella bad comes with a price. Jamie Lee Curtis owes me a lifetime supply of Activia and an apology. The boys? They loved it! Tool Man? Let's just say that I thought our marriage was doomed after he watched Twilight, but when he laughed MORE THAN ONCE during BHC, I'm almost certain we should start looking at weekend visitation schedules.

Around 8:50 p.m., the following day, I realized no one had returned this dog of a dog movie back to a Redbox, and, not wanting to incur the $1 late fee that would kick in at 9 p.m., on my free $1 movie rental, I jumped in the mini and dashed across the highway to the McDonald's where our trusty Redbox is located, only to find the machine down for service. With the hour looming, I knew my only other option was a location 7 miles away, but I figured if CGI dogs can talk, I could make it there with the 5 minutes I had before the witching hour struck.

Within two minutes of my destination, I was halted by a red light while preparing to make a right-hand turn. With no traffic coming from any direction and my brake lights beaming, I observed all safety precautions before completing my turn and continuing on. I reached the grocery store I needed with seconds to spare, jumped out of the mini, ran inside and located the Redbox machine. Just as the minute hand on my watch struck 9 p.m., I got the movie returned! Booyah! Take that, George Lopez! I shall give you no money! Just as you freed your chihuahua princess from peril, I remained free of any and all costs associated with your movie!

I returned home, smug and safe, to share how I had utterly Wonder Woman'ed it in record time assuring that freedom - and the free movie - would indeed still reign. Then my family embraced me and the boys deemed me the Best Mom In The World Infinity Amen. Awww! Pretty!

(Here's where I might write something like "....and they all lived happily ever after" or "...and this explains why my kids will never have a real dog" or some such nonsense, and maybe you all would commend me on what a good and fiscally responsible mother I am and I would soak up those accolades and, of course, add my voice to the chorus of those who denounce talking dogs who go on madcap capers when some other poor (but free!) mom spoke up and inquired about Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but that would probably be really boring, so, let allow me to continue)

Yesterday, I ventured out to the mailbox to collect my assorted pieces of junk and random bills. At the bottom of the stack was an envelope bearing the official address of the city nearest me. The city I passed through during my rapid-fire quest to beat Redbox's 9 p.m., deadline, thus assuring my free movie would remain as such. The city with the stoplight cameras that apparently flashed on me and my mini while I was preparing to turn right on red. THE CITY THAT SENT ME A TRAFFIC TICKET FOR $75 FOR RUNNING A RED LIGHT!!!!!

(pardon me. I think I just went totally dooce-like with that last sentence.)

Do you get what that means? My free movie, the one that for 91 minutes made me a hero in the eyes of my children, the one I sat through without stabbing someone, the one that - let me say this again - WAS FREE!! - is going to end up costing me $75!!* Oh, don't think I haven't thought of fighting it because seriously, my brake lights are glowing as red as a demon's eyes in the photos - suitable for framing - that the authorities sent along with the ticket, but if I lose that battle, I end up with a $150 fee for my (not so much anymore, eh, hot shot?) free movie and I'm just not willing to forgo my family's groceries on such a principle.

I'm also quite possible that I'll never do anything nice for my kids ever again**, and also, Internet, I apologize. I will never not listen to you ever again, either. I know that you, with your strong opinions and massive collection of assorted boob photos, always have my back.

And if you also have a few bucks you'd want to chip in because you feel bad for me, I'd be cool with that, too.

*Additional tidbits of funny? This is my first ever traffic ticket! You don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do? I do not get traffic tickets!

**Totally not true - I made them cookies yesterday, and if, indeed, there ever is a movie made about talking farts, we'll be there on opening day.