Emily, look at that star. I forget its name.

What do you think happens to you after you die?

Do you believe in heaven and hell? Do you believe in reincarnation? Or is there just nothingness? Or something else?

I've been wondering that of late. Maude and I talked about it in the wee hours of Sunday night.

I used to think there was just nothing. You died, and that was it. You ceased to exist, except in the memories and hearts of the living.

But not long after my dad died, and I awoke that night smelling his cologne, and my mom and Pat did as well, I decided there was something. I wish I'd awakened Nick, who believes I believe I smelled it, but...

I'm telling you: he was there.

Nick's mother lives alone, as his father passed away last year. She does not ingest hallucinogens, and one wouldn't call her imaginative or whimsical.  And yet, she awoke one morning a month or so ago to find the key to their silver chest - the key they'd lost 15 years prior - in the lock of the chest.

She believes it was her husband, letting her know he was OK.

Who else could it be?

Even Nick agrees that this is, undeniably, an interesting situation.

Last night Betty said that sometimes at night she can feel the weight of someone sitting down on the side of the bed. You know how you feel a shift? And she knows it's my dad.

My grandmother used to say that her daughter tapped on her bedside table sometimes at night. 

I believe this, all of this.

So I think there must be something. Life energy doesn't just evaporate like perfume, I don't think. And Maude pointed out that some people's sparks are so strong, so strong.

I know it seems weird to think that my dad would have a grip on life in this world, when he worked so hard to leave it. But I think he just wanted to leave the pain, not this earth.

And let me say that it's not that I need the dead here, wandering among the living all Les Jeux Song Faits.

I love the idea that my dad is somewhere, hanging out with old friends. I can picture him with Meg's mom, and with our dear friend Michael, whose pottery we now use every day, and with his sister the painter, and with his parents, if that wouldn't take too much of a toll.

If there is a somewhere, then one of these days Lou will be in that where as well, and she will have good company.

India: Month 21

Dear India,

You are now 21 months old - nigh on two years! I don't remember the last letter I wrote, and it's high time I did so.

I talked you into wearing the brown corduroy overalls in this picture - the most subdued item of clothing in your ensemble. You chose the rest.

With Jordan, except for the Cold Pants, I could (and can) typically give him two choices of pieces of clothing, and he would happily choose. YOU, on the other hand, don't hesitate to say, "No! No!" You then march over to your dresser, climb the chair next to it, and peer in the top drawer.

Are you kidding me? You're not even two!

We have been watching a lot of Princess Bride lately. Your brother adores it, and you like it as well, although you understandably take breaks to play with things, climb on us, etc. But like the rest of us, you've watched it a good 37 times in the last couple weeks.

This morning, when I came in to get you, I said, "Hello!"

And you said, "Lady!"

"That's right! Hello, lady!"

This morning you pointed out and listed everyone in your crib with you. At night, when I put you down, you command me to amass them for you one by one. Doggie is always first. Then giraffe. "Graff!" Lion is new to your attention; until now you've had no interest in him. Then "Blanket!"

You have so much to say and your verbal abilities are lagging behind the sentences I know you are forming in your mind.

Last night I got home just in time to read you a couple stories and put you to bed. You, Jordan and I were all sitting in the chair with the book, but what you really wanted to do was tell me about the birthday party you guys went to on Saturday.

"Birday!"

"Yes! You went to a birthday party!"

"Party! Birday!" Pause... "CAKE!"

And every so often, you'd turn to look at me, put your hand on my cheek and say, "Birday!" You'd add a detail. "Yatta!" (Jordan had just explained that they had a pinata.)

I hope that this means that once you're older, you'll tell me all about what you did at school and what you ate for lunch and who you played with. Instead of saying, "I don't know." (Ahem, Jordan.)

At night, you have very definite ideas about the books you want read to you, although if Jordan joins us, which delights you, you're happy for him to choose as well.

You get enraged when it's time to stop reading and turn out the light, and lately I have taken to asking you if you'd like to just get in bed, or if you'd like to sing. You don't choose bed until you're read, so you opt for Sing.

Last night I said, "Well, then you need to stop screaming."

And you did.

You also like to be in charge of the songs sung, or the nursery rhymes you'd like recited. If I hadn't read Mother Goose (This version is a spectacular book, in my opinion. I've read it approximately 978 kabillion times, and I am not tired of it.) so many times, I often wouldn't know what you wanted.

Because you will say, "Ayplane!"

And I know that means you are thinking of the page with "Dickory dickory dare, the pig flew up in the air..." which has illustrations of a pig in a plane.

I didn't know your dad had been singing London Bridge to you, however, and so when you kept saying, "Bitch!" I had no idea what you might be requesting.

Sometimes now you and Jordan will play together and giggle so hard, and it brings me such tremendous joy. He gives you a boost up onto our bed to jump in it, and he helps you down.

You two love to get your little stripey towels on after bath, and lie on the bath mat like little striped turtles. I then put another towel over the two of you, and we play the, "Jordan! India! Where are you?" game.

We do this night after night and you love it. "Whee ah yo?" You will say it if I don't. "Wheeahyo?"

Unlike your brother, you love to brush your teeth, and you want to do it yourself. With him, it is a tremendous struggle. Always. Whereas you will suggest it.

You are so sweet, and huggy, and you blow kisses and say, "Love you." and bring us all such great joy. If Jordan is upset, you'll get concerned and give him a hug.

I mean, you do piss Jordan off when you break his Lego creations, or swipe a car and refuse to give it back, and I wish you'd get the rest of your teeth so you can stop screaming at night.

But on balance, joy. So much joy.

Love you love you love you.

Mama

So la da di da di We like to party

This is us, uncensored.

We wear tutus whenever we feel like it. I wear ugly but ridiculously comfortable felt clogs around the house. (Although I have now discovered the magic of Uggs, and I bought some purple ones on sale - they arrived yesterday, and thank you, Zappos; you are my spirit animal - and now even when I'm stark naked, I've got my Uggs on. I may never take them off. They are that awesome.)

I know, I know. Welcome to what, 2005, Lisa? Why didn't any of you people tell me about the Uggs?

But back to us. I can't dance. My boy, it seems, can twerk, although he's never seen anyone do so in his life. Certainly not his mother. See video, in which I have been ridiculed for doing "The Twist." What? He likes to bump butts.

Jordan and India like it best when they think that Nick is opposed to our underwear dance parties. So Daddy is always saying, "No! No underwear dance party!" This prompts us to break into exuberant dance mode.

The kids' favorite is when Nick's back is turned to me and I bend over and jump, bumping my butt into his, seemingly without his knowing. They howl.

So Jordan loves the tutus, which he sometimes wears on his head all Ave, Caesar!, and he loves nail polish, and purple is his favorite color. Except on the days when red is. Or pink.

India loves all of Jordan's trucks and buses and recently Nick bought her her own garbage truck and boy, is she delighted.

I know as they get older and exposed to more of the outside world - rather than mostly our crazypants house world - they will learn that there are stereotypical boy and girl colors, and boys don't paint their nails or wear lip gloss or shake their butts in tutus, and girls do girly things and whatever.

Odds are, Jordan's dream of racing India through the streets of DC, him driving an 18-wheeler and her driving a garbage truck, will cease to be The Dream.

They will stop thinking glitter is magic and that it's hilarious to do exercise videos with me. In their tutus.

But for now, it's our party we can do what we want.

(Also, I still think glitter is magic. So maybe that won't go away.)

Gentle into that good night

On Saturday, I am going to Vermont for the first time.

I'm going to Vermont for the first time in order to say goodbye for the last time.

To say goodbye for the last time to someone I love dearly, to someone I have known and loved my entire life: Maude's mom, whose name is Lou.

In October Lou began losing words, and she was diagnosed with a glioblastoma - an aggressive, malignant brain tumor. Very quickly, they operated. They determined chemo would do nothing. She decided against radiation, as it would take away as much time as it would give.

The prognosis was six months.

I know that this is more notice than many people have, and I know that she has lived a long and full life.  I know that children, innocent little children who have barely begun to live, sometimes die.

I know this.

I also know now that I am one of those people who would pull the switch and let three innocent people be run over by a train if it meant saving one person in particular.

Or however that ethics question goes.

Because I do not know how you prepare to lose someone you love so very much. Someone who is smart and funny and sparkly and kind and generous and has spent decades upon decades running around doing good in the world.

Do you? If so, please share.

In my experience, even when you know that Death is on the horizon, gliding steadily and inexorably forward, it is impossible to steel yourself for loss.

You all know my friend Maude - born a month before me, also in India. Her mom is Lou - Auntie Lou to me, in the Indian tradition. And really, growing up their family was always family to me. I had two dolls named Chandigarh, after the city they lived in. My mom was at their house for the birth of Maude's younger brother, Adam.

Maude says her mom and my dad engineered our friendship, and I believe she is right, and I will forever be grateful to them for doing so.

My dad inserted Maude into my childhood bedtime stories, even when we lived continents apart. And when I was 15 he told me Maude really wanted to join us on our family beach vacation, which I thought was weird, since we hadn't seen each other since we were kids, but OK. Turns out Lou told Maude I'd been begging for her to come to the beach, and she thought it equally odd, but OK. She was game.

We figured this out years later, when we were best, best friends.

My parents and Lou met in Afghanistan in the Peace Corps in 1964. My mom and Lou have been dearest friends for 50 years.

Fifty years.

Betty didn't quite trust her at first, because she was so beautiful, and so all-the-time nice. She didn't swear, she didn't say anything bad about anyone, she wasn't judgey. If someone were ill, she'd make chicken soup and get on her bike and pedal across the pass that divided Kabul to take it to their house.

Was anyone actually that nice?

Yes, in fact. A nurse-midwife, she cares about people - about humanity - in a way that most people, myself included, do not.

(And in fact, the only people I think I've ever heard her say anything negative about are Duke basketball players and the Taliban and politicians like Dick Cheney. And even then, she uses words like "thugs," rather than my unsavory choice, "douchebag asshole fucks.")

Betty went up a week ago, and Lou told her she'd had more words and slept less the week before. She was doing even better the week prior to that. In other words, there's a marked difference week to week. She sleeps more and more.

Someone you love most in the world drifts farther and farther away as they sit right next to you. And there's nothing you can do.

Your inclination is to pull them to you, to wrap them in a protective embrace, and shield them from harm. While you kick, and scream, and fight for them. Keep them here with us.

But in the case of a swift and fatal brain tumor, who do you fight? Who do you scream at? Where to aim your clawing and your kicks?

It's not fair (ah, fair, my friend fairness!). There are so many truly evil people in the world. Or even just bad. Or ordinary. Non-sparkly. Why are they fine?

When Betty got back from Vermont, she drifted in the front door, wan and limp. You could see she was shattered, barely holding it together. A strong breeze could've sent her into pieces.

How do you say goodbye, knowing it is for the last time, to your dear friend of 50 years? How do you say goodbye forever to someone who is part of your heart?

I know Lou doesn't want to go, she isn't ready. She has so much to do, so much love in her life, such a great family. Her youngest grandchild, Iris, only 15 months old, deserves to know her lovely Grandma Lou.

And yet, even now, even in this, Lou is sweet, and she is graceful. Ever kind. 

Dear Lou, she is so tired. She eats a lot of ice cream, and she sleeps more and more.

We are devastated. We are furious.  Where's the goddamn world train switch? We who will be left, we rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Time. We all want more time with the ones we love the most. It's all we want.

Is that so much to ask?

Helpful hints: nipple cream, sheep hair, and keeping your shorts on

Sometimes, through trial and error, you learn things that are rather useful, and you think other people might benefit from this knowledge. So here you go:

1. Chapped lips and dry cuticles: If you get really dry lips and cuticles in winter, let me tell you what is kind of fantastic: Medela nipple cream.

It's thick and really stays on, but isn't sticky. It wouldn't have occurred to be if I hadn't had some on hand, and if you're a guy you might feel odd buying it, but it is great.

If you're allergic to lanolin, then obviously this is a bad idea. But otherwise, totally recommend.

2. While I'm on the subject of sheep: If you hand-wash your wool sweaters, which I do because dry cleaning is spendy and chemically and sheep get wet so why not, putting conditioner in your rinse water makes them nice and soft.

(And I was recently told that you can actually wash anything that says Dry Clean unless it says Dry Clean Only. I am, however, rather cavalier about washing things. And I feel like sometimes they just slap a dry cleaning label on because it's easier than making sure their dye is totally fast or their construction will hold.)

ANYway.

Wool is protein like hair. I mean, it is hair, right? Or fur? What's the difference? Is it fur for animals and hair for humans?

In any case, it is protein, and like silk - and in fact, you should do this for your silk as well, which I learned when dyeing fabric - after you treat it with something alkaline, like soap, you want to use something acidic to bring it back to balance. Vinegar does this, as does conditioner.

I'm not science-y, so I may not have my explanation quite right, but I do know that vinegar and conditioner will both soften your silk. I haven't tried vinegar on my wool or my hair, although apparently it functions as a conditioner as well.

(Side bar: I would like to try using baking soda for hair washing and vinegar for conditioner, but I am afraid to fuck up my color. Has anyone with highlights tried this? Ever since I listened to the salesperson in Victoria's Secret about temporary black hair dye that turned out to not be temporary on blonde hair, I've been cautious about experimenting.)

In other words: this helpful hint might be too convoluted to follow and thus not so helpful. But if it isn't, and you're still with me, I recommend hand-washing and conditioning your wool and silk.

3. Working out in your underwear: I've been doing these daily workout videos, sweating like all hell, and going through a ton of sports bras and shorts. So I thought about it and realized that I'm working out at home, so why wear shorts? I need a sports bra, but why not just work out in my underwear?

I'll tell you why. Because unless you have significantly sturdier undies than I do, or a firmer butt, or a high tolerance for jiggle, doing jumping jacks, burpees and such in one's underwear is not all that pleasant.

Final word: Underwear dance parties? Absolutely. Underwear workouts? Not recommended.

Tell them all to f*ck off. For example.

You know, I just realized we were all sick and coughing and kept swigging Nyquil at night and popping expectorants during the day and sipping ginger tea and just coughing and coughing and not a damn one of us thought to use cough drops.

The hell?

This occurred to me because my friend Heather has a sore throat and said Halls is lucky she's brand loyal, because she finds their cough drop messages condescending.

These messages are news to me. I think I used cough drops last year, though. Maybe I was sucking on old cough drops?

In any case, if you, too, have been sucking old cough drops (which sounds like some kind of terrible euphemism, doesn't it?), I am here to tell you that Halls now gives you little pep talks on your wrappers.

Now, in the same way that I love horoscopes, and fortune cookie messages, although not the cookies, I tend to like this sort of thing. I was charmed when I discovered Bacci and their little love quotes on the inner wrappers. I like the Dove messages.

But a pep talk when I'm not feeling well? Tends to piss me off. I don't want to be told I should just get up, take a shower, and that'll make me feel better!

No. I tend to want to be left alone to die.

So I thought about the kind of messages I might prefer on my cough drops:

"Tell them all to fuck off."
"Get back in bed with a good book."
"My grandmother used whiskey for a cold."
"Raspy voices are hot."
"Sometimes you just feel like shit, and it sucks."

And so forth.

This kind of thing is fun! So then I thought about what I might like in my lovey-dovey chocolates!

"Sleep around as much as you want before you get married."
"Use condoms!"
"Be honest. And a little dirty."
"Nobody really cares what your underwear looks like."

I'm telling you, this is fun!

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

I don't mean to be cryptic, because that's annoying. But sometimes there are things you can't write about because they are not yours.

But it doesn't mean you don't feel feelings about them.

And so for now I will say that although I have long understood that the world doesn't operate on fairness, and if you expect fair, you will be disappointed.  And you can get upset about it and say, "It's so fucking unfair!" And, well, you may be right. But that doesn't change things.

But I was thinking, you know, IF the universe were fair, then instead of bad things happening to wonderful people, the following might occur:

Dick Cheney, instead of living forever (although I genuinely suspect this is because he has Horcruxes hidden all over the planet), would years ago have succumbed to a flesh-eating bacteria that started on his face, even while fire ants worked their way up from his feet, while also dealing with, I don't know, maybe a case of trench mouth and an excruciating case of moral rot in his intestines.

I'm not suggesting any of these things should happen, nor do I actively wish any harm to the man.

Please understand it's just an example.


Because, you know, I was just thinking.

So it's probably for the best I'm not in sales or marketing

Yesterday, as I was waiting for my hair to turn blonde, I posted this photo as part of my strategy to keep myself fairly constantly amused.

(And no, I've never seen Total Recall, in case you are wondering. Apparently there's something about three boobs? And Quaid?)

Next, while sitting there cooking, I did the thing that makes me kind of hate myself, and yet I know I'll do it again next time. I flipped through issues of Us Magazine and People.

I know these are minutes of my life I will never get back, and in actual fact, I think Kris Jenner is a disgusting human being, but what bothers me more is that I have an opinion on her at all.

Anyway. (At least it wasn't racist porn.)

So there I was, flipping through magazines, and I saw this recommendation to jazz up one's workout! A colorful reversible bra! Cute!

Reversible! I immediately thought, "But look how skinny it is in the back. If you turned it around, then your boobies would poke out the sides and jiggle and that would be so uncomfortable."

Reversible: inside-outable. Not back-to-frontable.

Well, then.

---

Last weekend I took Jordan and met up with friends at kiddie happy hour.

Now, when you walk in to this establishment, which is called Grand Central (and has taken up the kiddie happy hour charge now that sadly, the Reef is no longer), the wall leading up to the bar is floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Which to Jordan, I learned, looked like another room.

So as I was putting our coats down he was busy gearing up his fire truck in order to drive it as fast as possible, head first...straight into the mirror.

I'm sorry to admit that I burst out laughing, while all other parents, at the giant crash, turned and emitted a collective, "Ohhhhhh!"

He was fine, after massive amounts of comforting, if a wee bit fragile for the rest of the evening. "Why I did that, Mama? Why I did that?"

So dinner.  My friend suggested ordering two plates of food for our kids to share.  We got cheese quesadillas and chicken tenders, both of which both of our progeny have been known to like.

We set these plates of yummy yummy food in front of our progeny, exclaiming over the yummy deliciousness of them, proclaiming our delight.

Jordan eyed the plates suspiciously. He pointed to the quesadilla. "What's that?"

"A quesadilla! Mmmm! A quesadilla!" (I didn't mention cheese, because in theory he hates cheese, although in reality he likes grilled cheese and he likes mac and cheese.)

"Nooo! I don't like quesadilla!"

So I immediately reached into my bag of never-fail scatology.

"Oh! Did I say quesadilla!?! I meant fartsadilla! It's a fartsadilla!"

The LOOK. The look of horror on his face. "I would not eat a fartsadilla! NO FARTSADILLA!"

Uh, can't blame you there, my friend.

An open letter to my husband, love of my life, light of my days

Dear Nick,

You know that I love and adore you with my whole heart, and that I cannot imagine being married to anyone else, and that my sincere hope is that we spent our lives together forever and ever till death do us part amen.

I can't actually remember our vows, and I know you can't either, but quite sure we didn't include the sickness and health and richer poorer, etc, but of course it was all implied and neither of us are one to run from a difficult situation.

Naturally, you're probably going to die before me, because one, you're a man, and two, you're overweight and sedentary and have high cholesterol and a bad temper.

But I of course hope that by then I am very old and grey and feeble and not far behind you.

My darling, I love your mind, and your quick wit, and the fact that you are both funnily sarcastic and very punny. Even though it irritates me that you always have to drive when we do the Sunday crossword, and you always write on the fucking numbers, I enjoy how our minds and skills compliment each other.

You are extremely smart, and I'm constantly surprised and impressed by your breadth and depth of knowledge on topics I couldn't begin to talk about.

Physically, you truly are strong as an ox. I respect how hard you work - both in your firm for your clients and colleagues, and at home. You almost never stop on the weekends, and you can do everything from electricity to plumbing to tarring the roof. It shocks me when you pick up a sofa all by yourself and carry it up a flight of stairs.

You are the big, strong man with the power tools that I dreamed of all those years.

Also, I absolutely love that you swam competitively and played water polo and college lacrosse and you were just insanely fit, like, 20-something years ago.

Which brings us to the present. 20-something years later.

You've been sick - really sick - for two solid weeks.  You've been hacking and coughing day and night. For two weeks. Coughing so much your head hurts. Coughing and coughing and snoring.

Every goddam night. For two solid weeks.

I know your job is incredibly busy, and you have a trial next week, during which you will work 24/7. I also know that your doctor, who is now mine, is thorough but has terrible time-management, and it is not unusual to sit for two hours in his waiting room.

Yes, I realize you do not have this kind of time to waste.

And thus, even though you agreed and perhaps even promised that you would call the doctor, the odds are that you will not.

I do know that in most situations, your strength and stubbornness win out. And if you do not have pneumonia or something else requiring antibiotics, then I hope your constitutions gets you through.

However.

Much as I love you and do hope that we grow old as the hills together, don't think I won't smother you in your sleep if you don't die of consumption and this motherfucking all night coughing keeps up much longer.

Love,

Lisa

How's your day going? I mean really?

"How are you?" "How's it going?" "What's up?"

We say this as a greeting. We say it in passing. Mots of the time, what we mean is, "Hello!"

And when asked our automatic response tends to be something along the lines of: "Fine, thanks. You?" "Not bad." Or maybe, "It's Monday."

This is the exchange we expect, I think. Every once in a while you might say, "How's it going?" and the person will shock you with a response like bursting into tears, or saying something like, "My dog died."

I know I've done this to people. Sometimes you are carrying something so close to the surface that you cannot manage a normal response.

But sometimes, sometimes you ask, and you get real answers. I'm sharing something I posted on Facebook this morning. Really, I was venting, and maybe looking for a little sympathy.

The real-life, candid, thoughtful answers I got absolutely delighted me. I could so relate to all of the responses, and some of them made me giggle, and one of them made me so glad that he hadn't vomited on me while on my shoulders in a department store (you win with the puke, Lesley).

We've all got our stuff going on, you know?  So, how are YOU today?

Me
Yah, so my morning began with my son vomiting at the breakfast table. How's your day going?

English
Ha ha! Better than in the bed where you'd have to change the sheets. See? Always a positive side!

I hope he feels better soon!

Kelli
Yikes! -15 degrees here and husband with the flu. Thanks for asking;)

Sophie
yelled at Zoe so loud this morning I think I woke up the neighbours. I just can't do mornings anymore, they are Sean's domain. Really, just put on your frikking snowsuit!!!!

Christopher
I had a long commute in today, but believe me I'd rather have that than deal with puke at the table. Hang in there.

Lesley
Well, our son locked his bedroom door and refused to get up, so missed the bus and had to be driven...

Gotta love these kids, but probably easier than your morning! I still remember the stomach bugs. Could tell you some good stories - like the time Chloe was on Stephans shoulders at the 'Macy's' equivalent store in Germany and threw up all over him (that was our first experience w a stomach bug - fun times!!)

Kory Danielle
Well i have been home with all 4 kids since december 20th, they canceled school again today!! So here we are again home together.

Rachel
I'm trying to figure out how to answer Angie's questions about death and dying. Nana, I can manage, but she asks things like "Do kids die?" I'm at a loss.

Dana
Kids bitched and moaned about waking up because it's been two weeks since they needed to. Youngest threw a fit about his socks (but he always does). The puppy ate a book. And I'm overcome by a surprise but heavy bout of sadness. Yay Monday.

Paula
Oh no sorry. Hope he's feeling better.

Bobby
My dog decided to eat something out of the trash last night, so I put her in Time-Out. Now she's not speaking to me this morning.

Julia
Stepped on glass and cut my foot and have been trying to stop the boys from killing each other all day (its only noon).

Monique
Kids school got canceled due to yet another snow day... Uuuggghhh... Hope your day gets better... Hugs...

Amy
how do you do time out Bobby Evans - I need that for my dog?

Bobby
Amy, my dog knows when she's in trouble and she puts herself in Time-Out. She just walks into her room and sits in the corner. She is still avoiding me today.

Amy
Bobby, I wish I had that control over my dog. My daughter left to go back to college Sunday so he is down.Won't be happy around me, won't eat for days and he wont even be in the same room with me right now. he gets depressed when she comes back and forth. I can take this but he behavorial problems are about to drive me up the wall (sheltered dog - from a dog hoarders - 2 years old). I have no life anymore!!

Heather
Hugs to you and Jordan! I feel okay but woke up without a voice. If only there were a gentleman caller to use this husky sexy voice on, but alas no. Stay cozy Lisa

Lynn
Came home from Denver to have a nasty, loud argument with my 20yo son. Here I go again. Bigger the kid, bigger the problem. But still, I wish Jordan feeling better real soon and that it does not make its rounds at your house!

Becky
awwweeesome...ugh. We had a haircutting incident this weekend, but vomit tops.

And now I can't stop thinking about dinosaur porn

You know how you will get something stuck in your head and it will not leave? Sometimes it's a song - try getting "Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream..." out, for example.

Sometimes it's a new word you just learned, and you start listening for it. And sometimes it's something like DINOSAUR PORN, which will not enrich your life in any way and yet, there you are, stuck with it.

Yesterday, my friend Cynthia posted a link to an interview with these two young women who make good money writing dinosaur porn and monster erotica.

It's the kind of thing you see and if you are me you cannot help but click on and then you actually read the article and then you are all, goddammit why did I never think of that? Because I had years of tedious, low-paying jobs.

Why why why? Why didn't monster erotica or dinosaur porn ever occur to me?

When asked how much they're making, one replied, "I make more money than our friend who has been working as an engineer at Boeing for a few years and Christie's friend who is a five-year accountant in Dallas, Texas."

I don't know how much engineers or accountants make, but definitely more than I made annually in non-profit gigs.

So I thought, hell, I could totally write dinosaur porn or monster erotica. Couldn't I? I was totally Team Jake, and he was a werewolf.

I could write about women with heaving breasts and dinosaurs with quivering, scaly loins - a young maiden sunbathing on a rock, being eyed lustily by a...tyrannosaurus.

I mean, I don't quite understand how it would work, because really they're giant lizards. I know dinosaurs laid eggs, but the boy ones would still have penises. But probably forked penises, like snakes, which...I just...

And then there's the fact that when given an opportunity to come up with a porn name for myself, I chose Dolly Farton, which as Nick said, would never get me hired in normal porn circles. So maybe I wouldn't actually be good at the dinoporn. Maybe scat dinoporn?

You see?

The fact that I even go down this road when I have so little mental space and could instead be memorizing all of the U.S. Presidents in order or learning some other actual facts that I ought to know is just very indicative of, well, I don't know. Something.

Thank you very much, Cynthia, is what I'm saying.