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?

Get Out Of My Facebook ... The Peculiar Parallels Between Social Media and Motherhood

Not a day goes by that I am not in some way reminded of two things ... my children and as weird as it sounds, facebook. My kids are a constant and facebook is everywhere. I enjoy facebook for the most part, and lately have been thinking how much the experience is very similar to being a mom.

I've established a love/hate relationship with both. There are days when both worlds make me laugh and entertain.  Some fb friends have the gift of making their personality shine through updates, comments and links. Even being an obnoxious and total asswipe of a facebooker is hilarious when it's kept in the right perspective. My kids force me to LOL daily with schtick that flows naturally from the pure minds of those so fresh and unencumbered.

And then, there are the many social media moments when the level of annoyance is equal to if not greater than my 6 year old's incessant whining for Wii Lego Star Wars Clone Wars II. Biggest culprit, the "Repost this if ..." status. The facebook version of a chain letter with the implied message that if you don't repost, you aren't one of "us" and something bad should happen to you if it hasn't already. The repost topic is usually some sappy ideology that is aimed to lift your spirits or elevate awareness of some elected higher cause.

Here's an annoying example:

If You Support Our Troops, Hate Animal Cruelty, Love Your Daughter, Pray For World Peace and A Cure For Cancer, Recycle Paperclips and Believe In The Importance Of Regular Bowel Movements, Then Please Post This on Your Status and Leave It There for One Hour and If You Don't You Suck

I never repost. I'm clearly an apathetic communist who hates children.

Other irritating pet peeves are

animated posts,

http://img365.imageshack.us/img365/5563/dancingcow.gif

posts that use symbols to draw a freaky looking picture,

.............(0 0)
.---oOO-- (_)-----.
╔═════════════════╗
║ INVITE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ║ (No, thank you)
╚═════════════════╝
'---------------oOO
........|__|__|
.......... || ||
....... ooO Ooo

Farmville shit,

and anything that's regurgitating hearts.

Put ♥ this ♥ on ♥ anyone's ♥ wall ♥ who ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile ♥ somewhere ♥ sometime ♥ in ♥ your ♥ life. ♥ It ♥ may ♥ surprise ♥ you, ♥ but ♥ check ♥ out ♥ how ♥ many♥ comes ♥ back.♥ Thanks ♥ a ♥ lot ♥ for ♥ making ♥ me ♥ smile ! ♥ Put ♥ this ♥ back ♥ on ♥ my ♥ wall ♥ if ♥ I ♥ ever ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile

The worst is the application where people send each other hearts and ask for one in return. They mostly resemble this:

It's called Puzzled Hearts, and it puzzles the fuck out of me why someone would want to  "send and receive beautiful hearts, unlock love quotes, and solve virtual jigsaw puzzles." I'd love to shock these misfits who partake in such nonsense with sending them a heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Boxed and via the USPS.

"HDBW just sent you the heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Won't you send her one back for her collection? If that's too much trouble, one made of dryer lint would be equally delightful!"

Another similarity is the the egomania and self-centeredness running rampant through the veins of many facebookers and all children entering kindergarten. With social media, this is most evident in how many pics one has of themselves throughout their various "albums". I'll be generous. More than, say, 15 pics of yourself and I consider you a high ranking member of Club Narcissus. I'd rather see one or two awful, or mediocre, or plain old honest pics of someone who doesn't give a rat's ass rather than 37 of an insatiable photogenic poser. Ok, you look good. We get it.

In my mom role, I'm blasted with perceived attention deficit syndrome constantly. What about me, look at me, what's in it for me, don't forget me, me first. And it is definitely audible, not so much visual.  Concentration frazzled by what seems like endless questions and calls for help. Mommy, mommy, mommy where is she? She's right here chasing after a train of thought.

It's funny. So often, the things that make you smile are the same things that make you crazy. Nothing is more truer for me than this. And that sentiment could be considered motherly wisdom, or tomorrow's status update. 

Boob Envy

Let me begin by saying this is not about low self-esteem, or not being appreciative of the beauty of the human body in all its forms. And I'm not whining. It's about a common condition called boob envy, relating mostly to the admiration of and pining for a beautifully full, womanly set of knockers. A full rack. Great tits. For these I desire, if not for anything else, to compliment my sparkling personality.

BE syndrome doesn't age discriminate. In fact, my case began as most with the onset of puberty. As my daughter nears this milestone, we talk more often about how girls bodies change. She says she doesn't want "big boobs" and I respond neutrally. Using the "play it down as to not cause undue anxiety" approach. "Yes, well remember that you are beautiful with whatever nature gives you. As long as you're healthy ... love yourself on the inside and the outside." Great words with significant meaning. But the reality is, once girls begin developing, the natural boob fixation begins.

Don't remember much about 8th grade, but what is etched in my mind is how preoccupied we all were with breasts. While most girls were proudly wearing tube tops that effortlessly stayed in place, I was still sporting training bras lined with tissues. I'll never forget Dave Summers* who use to run around the hallways grabbing the chests of the developed girls. He'd then spread his thumb and index finger to the width of what he felt and announce brazenly to all "she was THIS big!" God I hated him. Yet, wished it was me he was fondling. Where were my boobs? When will I bloom?

That too did pass. I bloomed in other ways. And I loved my body all along and still do. Yet, I can't reduce the frequent occurances of BE and wonder, why do I focus on this particular physical deliquency?

Let's face it. Beautiful breasts have and always will be one of the most attractive features of the female body. Being flat chested makes me feel like a girl, not a woman. A prepubescent child/woman who has resigned to a life of padding to achieve a more curvaceous look. Yes, my boobs are perky and firm. (Think Kate Moss posing topless during her modeling hey-day.) Fantastic. Still, sufferers of BE can't resist the craving for more chest flesh to flash. More glorious glands to grab.

MAYBE what is bothering me the most is that this is something men don't have to deal with.
Is there such a thing as dick envy? And I'm not talking about the jealous admiration of the many talents of Mr. Van Dyke. (Have you watched Mary Poppins lately?) But how would dick envy evolve unless the men in question are gathered in a locker room shower? Standing around the water cooler on a casual Friday afternoon, those khakis and jeans reveal nothing to compare.

Small penises are a well kept secret. And oftentimes, from what I hear, easily enlarge to an acceptable size. Pop culture never mentions teeny weanies. And even in the rare instances when it does, it's a non-issue. Remember the 70's glam group The Sweet? I myself rocked out to Little Willy who wouldn't go home. The life of the party, that guy was, with a persona so big it didn't matter what was going on inside those trousers of his. For those of you who were still in diapers or not even born yet ...


Relive a memory from my youth ... click here

Oh, the decades-long obsession with BE. It needs to end. I wish I could convince myself that I am not missing out on anything. Except cleavage!! Maybe what I miss most is cleavage. Or maybe this IS about low self-esteem after all. Maybe I am a whiner. If I may be so bold, maybe I should just shut the fuck up, count my blessings, and just let me be.

* name changed ... he now goes by the moniker Delta Bravo.




(Check out this link ... the power of the boob. Very funny, and very true.)

http://www.cracked.com/funny-212-boobs/

chAnGEs

With age comes wisdom ... maybe. What I'm sure of is that with age comes change. And lately, I've been noticing shifts in my personality, my perspective, my behavior and my appearance ...  tell tale signs on life's highway that scream "Mid Life Crisis, Bear Right".

Like I want to have sex all the time. Every night. No matter if I am dead tired, falling asleep on the couch, a sense of urgency arouses me to find the energy to get the game on. As if to take advantage of my capability, my physical attraction to my husband and his to me, my age-defying body, and my libido before it all goes away in a puff of Jean Nate' scented powder, my grandmom's favorite.

When I sneeze, a little bit of pee comes out. How's that for depressing?

Then there is that lovely slap in the face disguised as a compliment, "You look great, for your age." Yes, I've heard that one many times in the recent past. Its sting is sharp coming from men, even with my understanding of their inherent cluelessness. The little vixen in my head wants to reply "You look your age, and it ain't great."

Some of my most simple pleasures are under attack. Like catalog shopping. What's better than returning from your mailbox with an armful of slick, thick, vividly enticing mini-mags chock full of fashion must-haves? Wait, what's this? Lands End Swimwear Collection? The Walking Company? An invitation to a Shady Acres luncheon and tour of the facility? Hey Victoria, the fact that I still look damn good in your swimsuits and lingerie is no freakin' secret!

We normally do not exchange for any occasion, but this past Valentine's Day, my adoring husband decided to surprise me with a gift. I was tickled a lovers day pink when I saw the cute little Neiman Marcus bag, imaging what fantastic trinket lay waiting for me inside. Perfume? A blingy bauble? Gorgeous lacy barely-theres? Well, it seems with age also comes practicality, and what's more useful to a nearing mid-life crisis mom than a complete set of Kiehl's skin care products. And with such exotic names ... Midnight Recovery Cream, Ultra Intensive Deep Wrinkle Serum, and la creme de la creme, Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. (Big sigh) We still had sex that night.

The hormonal roller coaster, the sudden interest in Juvederm, the fantasies featuring the 22 year old lifeguard with the hairless pecs, the obsession with self-tanner and white strips, all get to be a bit overwhelming for me. I need more rest stops along this autobahn of life. But even with all the angst that comes with accepting age and the changes I face, some things never change. Love is a constant. As this woman marches forward to face the battles of time, I know she will forever be one lucky girl.

Wanted

More time. Or a personal assistant. Or a clone.

While we're at it ... a window in my home office. The complete elimination of the words "awesome" and "amazing" from the English language. Followed immediately by removing the repeated tendency to use the word "issue". Since when did a problem become an issue? Okay, Websters does list "emotional problem" as one of its definitions, but it is one of about six others. Just stop using "issues" so much. My head is going to explode. It's obvious I've got a problem with it.

Someone to scratch my back for more than 7 seconds. A professional back-scratcher/masseuse/hair washer/scalp kneader/hair stylist at my beck and call 24/7. The ability to afford one of those would also be nice.

A way to stop that crazy robin from flying into the great room window. The looney bird's repetitive attempts create a tap-tap-tapping sound that rivals the beat-beat-beating of Poe's clever little demonic organ. I have tried hanging dark towels in the glass, tried screaming at him through the open window below, even hitched a scarecrow-like voodoo doll on the stucco wall beside his target. Nothing works. He is determined to beat his little breast into that window until ... don't really know why. Maybe his fellow bird community have tweeted the equivalent of "amazing" and "awesome" one too many times, poor guy.

More laughing. Less scandal. Less attention to scandal. More made-up words. Like nipplitis, and quinsensines. Don't ask.

You to excuse me, this post has become tiresome.