There's a reason for the MANtis to pray.

"Mommy, how are babies made?

Those exact words. Just like on a tv sitcom. Are kids hard-wired to phrase that question as she did? Out of nowhere, at the dinner table in between bites of filet and green beans. Shit, how do I not screw this up? I responded rather stoically. Saying this was a good question, but not something we should discuss at the dinner table, being it a mature subject and all, glancing at her little brother. He immediately insisted he was ma-door and anyway, he already KNEW where they came from ... your belly. Eye-roll from big sis. She asked if we could talk about it later and I assured her we would.

Later has not happened yet. I need some time to think. But not a lot. Years ago, I would have rushed to the bookstore or internet to research the probably hundreds of opinions as to how to best handle "the talk". Just as I did when she was a baby, always questioning, wondering, doubting, comparing. It's easier now being older. Mid life brings with it a deepened sense of realism. Not trusting others as much anymore. Relying on your own experiences with yourself and others for direction. The confidence is envigorating.

I know how I'm going to handle this. And I know it will be right. But, I am tempted to go in a completely opposite direction. Being that I am always "out in left field" anyway, why not? Here's what I mean ...

I have an equally wacky very special friend who, ironically, sent me this today. It's a pic of her pet praying mantises photographed just prior to shagging. She was excited to share the news that she will soon be a grandmantis. I'm so happy for her! I thought I may use this pic to help demonstrate and explain how all living things engage in the wonderful gift of getting it on. Not in those words, of course.

My friend also passed along some interesting facts about this species, and they're unusual mating ritual:

"Males usually attempt to flee right after mating to escape becoming dinner. Sometimes the female will try to eat her mate even before the mating process is complete. In fact, the female eating the head can cause the male to ejaculate faster. The male can continue copulating and inseminate the female, even headless."

Headless sex. Nah, I better wait until she's at least in high school.

Captive Aspiration

The less said, the better
When is that true
A restless voice 
like white noise
and no one to tell the story to


What use is there
for words begging to be heard
then silenced 
placed in a sealed crypt
and buried in rocky earth
Words that are felt
through the images left
by the lingering recollection
of an unforgettable dream
The silence of an embrace
that speaks forever


How do you hide
what's screaming inside
Daunting the days
spent as time wore on
wearing you down
Shout, shaking but
don't turn around
Smile then say goodbye


Sweet girl, 
bitter truth
how can we know
the life inside someone's head
Who's strong enough to conquer
what's better not said


(It's bad poetry, I know, but posted not with the intention of making you cringe. It's my feeble way of expressing to a dear friend, who may or may not know how much I love her and how I hurt when she hurts. We get blocked by so many things. I wish it wasn't so difficult to communicate what really matters. As time goes on, with a little luck and a lot of inspiration, we learn how to chisel away at the boulders in the road before it's too late. She did. We all can.)

Nut Lover

Pistachios are addicting. Why? Aside from the flavor, could it be the way the roasted shells have practically opened themselves for you, exposing the delicious and mysteriously green-hued nut meat inside? So eager to be eaten! I always hunt for the ones with the most nut meat showing first. Effortlessly, I apply a minuscule amount of pressure to the gaping crack and WHAM, within a nanosecond that palate tease is inside my mouth.

Is there such a thing as pistachio porn? There should be.

I'm not a huge television viewer, but I must watch something while eating pistachios. The two are synonymous, like those who only smoke cigarettes while drinking beer. I get into a zone. I don't even think about how many I'm popping or the rate at which the pile of discarded shells is becoming a mountain of casings. It's a whole hand-to-mouth fixation thing that puts me in a near trance-like state. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Very rhythmic. Very satisfying.

Until I realize I've breezed through the easy (horny) nuts and are left with the clamped shut challengers. I've nearly chipped a few teeth fiercely chomping down on those bad boys. But, as stubborn as they can be, I usually find a way to gnash the hell out of them, even if my reward is a measly few bits of pistachio crumbs.

Trust me, this never works. 

Ultimately, I arrive at the very last pistachio, powdered with an excessive amount of what appears to be dust and salt from being the last of the 3,217 pistachios packed in that burlap sack 'o nuts that I got as a gift from Aunt Helen last Thanksgiving. Poor guy. The remnants of his already devoured cousin nuts are now a pulverized mass of pistachio paste lodged between my gums and inner lips. Unable to speak, I then spend what seems like an eternity giving my tongue a work-out as it dislodges this yummy reserve.

More pistachio porn. Now it's all starting to make sense.

The pistachio-crazed euphoria gently comes to a close. I am no longer lulled by the sound of cracking shells and mashing molars. It's only then that I begin to wonder how on earth my digestive system will be able to process such an alarming amount of foodstuff practically inhaled in a matter of minutes. And later, when the tummy ache subsides and I finally fall asleep, the monkey returns in the form of what can only be described as a seed-eating-frenzy-induced nut-mare. Noooooo!

Pistachio revenge !!

See what happens when you mess around with nuts?