Everyone has Christmas wishes. Some dream of mounds and mounds of awesome material possessions, iPads and gadgets and Gaga tickets (oh my!). Others dream of peace on earth. Some dream of peace in their families.

*sigh*

Me? I made a very special wish. To start looking like an old hag.

So I went to the eye doctor and HOORAY my vision is going all to hell and I need reading glasses. I mean, I’m still a BABY. I won’t even be 38 until NEXT YEAR.

Well, at least this will make it easier to give Jim his Christmas wish — to sleep with the sexy librarian. And no dear …. I am not keeping them on.

Food — I eat it all, who needs moderation? Not me, I’ll tell ya.

School — why check backpacks, Jimmy will do it.

Television — Okay, okay, not exactly a priority, but as far as down time that I frankly owe myself, well, I have yet to watch a single episode of The Closer.

This space — if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s the sound of my own voice, which translates in these here internets to my blog. More than a month! I’ve skipped five weeks of doing something I enjoy. Bummer.

This month on the facepage, people have been doing something obscenely annoying totally introspective: The Month of Thanksgiving. Folks from all walks of life are taking time normally set aside for stalking ex-boyfriends and playing mafia wars to list one thing each day for which they are thankful. You know, for Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving in America is all about saying, “Hey Indians, thanks for the food, now step aside while we rape and pillage your land. Oh,  don’t worry, we’ll give you “reservations” where the earth is bruised and rocky and the water is completely non-potable but the Bingo far exceeds any expectation you saw in your latest hot sweat vision quest!” And nothing celebrates that sentiment quite like two sentence quips each day on an addictive website built by a millionaire teenage dork.

Well, I have NOT participated in the Month of Thanksgiving. But I am. Thankful, I mean, For all sorts of stuff. So I present to you, 30 days of thanks, all in one convenient package:

1 – Health. Food might be on my list of things I have been bad about, but at least Zumba Stacey keeps me in check. It’s nice to be able to move like you’re one big sass machine.

2 – Beer. How can anyone dislike a food that will trigger you to vomit if you’ve had too much? It’s barley and hops sponsored bulimia at its best.

3 – Teachers. Without them, I’d have to parent 24 hours a day. No thank you. I didn’t have kids so I could watch them.

4 – Naps. Did you ever notice the way children freak the hell out at even the suggestion that they settle down, let alone lie down, let alone close their eyes? Can you imagine if every single day someone said to you, go sleep for no less than 45 minites. Sweet mercy, I would be in heaven.

5 – Pooping. I’m sorry, that just feels great.

6 – Chocolate. I am not a sweet fiend, but even I can appreciate this one.

7 – Chicago. Everyone has their big city, even if they don’t live there. This one is mine.

8 – Aruba. I’ve never met you, but we have a date. January 4, 2014.

9 – The never-ending saga that is Law and Order. Man was I ever pissed when they canceled your flagship show. IT NEVER GETS OLD. bum-BUM!!

10 -Lady Gaga. Self explanatory.

11 -Selena Gomez.. Your songs are so catchy and my sons are deeply in love with you. Sure, I am totally afraid that the day will come when the very magazines I bought featuring you will become my son’s first stroke material. At which point I will want you banished from all things Disney. Just please don’t Lohan on me.

12 – Smart phones. THEY ARE SO SMART!!

13 – The First Amendment. Totally working for me.

14 – Divorce. Also totally working for me.

15 – Pitbull. Possibly the worst artist ever. But I have never in my life wanted so bad to find somebody sexy and tell them hey.

16 – The Omaha Morning Blend. Making my kids stars at least twice a year.

17 – The facepage SO. Don’t ask, it’s secret!!

18 – Makeup. Zits + splotchiness + 38-year-old woman = your eternal customer

19 – The Winchester Brothers. Damn you’re fine.

20 – Central air. Now hear me out. I despise manufactured cold air. I love few things in life the way I love to sweat in July. But with my love comes fear that the rest of the free world disagrees. And no one, especially me, wants to deal with my husband Sybil when the oppressive heat of summer refuses to let go. Even I know when it’s time to flip the switch.

21 – The oppressive heat of summer. That’s why I have both a front and a back porch.

22 – The Chicago Cubs. Because the only way to stay sane is to deal with eternal heartbreak.

23 – Boobs. They’re right there and even these old gals come in handy.

24 – The Happy Place. Where happiness takes place, 365 days a year. I know there is supposed to be some natural rivalry and lifelong disdain between the cheeseheads and the FIBS, but there are few things in this world as truly beautiful as rural Wisconsin. Just so long as we don’t have to collectively bargain to keep it that way.

25 – Kayla and Nancy. A girl ain’t nothin’ without some girls of her own.

26 – Three sisters and one brother, all of whom are in their 40′s. I am in my 30′s. Suck it hags.

27 – My Mom and Dad. I NEVER tell them how much I love and appreciate them. Because clearly, I am a shit.

28  – Jimmy. Seriously, what were the chances of that ever happening?

29 – My boys, Hank and George. If you’d asked me when I was younger if I’d have sons or daughters or a combination, I would have told you sons. It’s pretty much the one thing I was ever THAT right about. I love those kiddos. They are the best thing I have ever done.

30 – Peace, love and happiness. I have it. I should take the time to notice it a little more often.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

That’s a long time.

It’s long enough to heal. It’s long enough to hurt again and heal again. It’s long enough to come together then be driven apart. It’s long enough to lose thousands in a war. And another.

But it’s also long enough to forget.

Over the past week or so, I have read several different stories about this man:

This photo has been dubbed “The Falling Man.” It was snapped by an AP photographer named Richard Drew, and it is part of a sequence of multiple jumpers from that day. The picture is iconic in the way that the jumper seems — relaxed. Earlier in the sequence, he is shown coming from the window like a diver, face first. He flipped midair, into this ”pose.”  Later in the sequence — which documented the last ten seconds of this man’s life — he rolls to his back. He waves his arms. His jacket flies off, revealing an orange shirt.

I saw this photo for the first time a few weeks after September 11 in a media trade magazine, asking the question, “should we, as the media, show this?” At the time, I didn’t know. I remembered the picture, but really hadn’t seen it again until recently, when it was published online and in the newspaper with the same question — should we be looking at this photo?

I think yes. Then sometimes, I think no.

I saw a documentary about a man who found a photograph of a woman jumping. She appeared to be wearing the same type of clothing as his wife was wearing that day, and she fit her general description and was in the correct tower at the right height. There are two grainy photos of her. In the first, she is at the broken window, halfway out the building, clinging to the side. In the second, she is in the air, her body in a “v” formation, arms up, face to the sky. The man said he was certain this was his wife, and it gave him peace. It gave him peace to know what happened to her, to know that she didn’t get burned or crushed. That she died on her own terms.

I assume not all family members would feel that way.

The “jumpers” were always the ones that stuck with me the most. I remember watching in disbelief as the jumpers were played over and over again in rebroadcasts. Then, they were rarely shown again after that, presumably to protect the families who might recognize them.  I tended to agree, and it was because of one man who I watched die — several times — as the feed was shown and re-shown on the television set next to my desk.

All these years later, I still don’t know how I feel about it. I think the photos of the jumpers are an important part of the record of September 11. But I still hope the families don’t ever see it.

I went back to a post I had written about it two years ago, and decided I would repost it, because I still feel the same.

From 2009:

On September 11, 2001, all those who lost their lives in the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon and on board United 93 were already gone by the time I woke up. I remember the night before explicitly. I was working at a TV station in Rock Island, Illinois, and I had worked well past 11 that night. I came home and had a beer (disclaimer — I did not know I was pregnant at the time!) and went to bed, exhausted.

I woke up at 10 a.m. central time, two hours after the first plane hit, 40 minutes after Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania, and 30 minutes after the second tower fell. All those lives — gone — as I slept soundly in my comfy three room apartment.

I woke up as usual. I normally went to work at 2 p.m., so I rarely set an alarm. I generally ambled out of bed, shoved a little coffee down my throat, and clicked on the news. But this particular morning, I had pulled back the blinds and noted what an awesome day it was. Blue skies, warm temperatures, summer holding on. I thought, I am going for a bike ride! I hadn’t gotten both feet over the bed and onto the floor when the phone rang. It was Cliff, the assignment editor at my station.

 ”You better get in here,” he said.

 ”Why?” I asked.

 ”You don’t… (sigh) Just turn on the TV.” He hung up.

I clicked on the TV to see what was already over — the towers were down, the Pentagon was attacked, a plane was down in Pennsylvania. Air traffic was grounded. The President was… somewhere. No one knew what the hell was going on. I threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and aimed my trusty Cavalier toward the station.

Six flights had been diverted to our airport in Moline. We rushed to the airport to talk to the travelers, all of whom had two questions: What the hell happened, and where the hell is Moline, Illinois? I don’t remember where those flights were from. We organized cut-ins from the network, live shots from the Rock Island Arsenal which had upped security, interviews with people at the airport trying to rent a car. We found people who knew people who knew people who worked in the towers. We talked to old military men and local officials about security and took feeds from Chicago which was sending everyone out of the city. We worked non-stop until after midnight, when I finally went home, downed another few beers (still not knowing I was pregnant, mind you) and sat in front of my TV, watching some more, until I finally fell asleep on the couch.

This morning I was discussing the day with my husband, and asked if he remembered the people jumping out of the buildings. He said he never saw that, and it occurred to me that part of the reason I saw it over and over is because I was working in TV, and I was watching the feeds all day. I wonder if the fact that I worked in TV and had access to feeds and video that weren’t necessarily shown on network TV is why I feel more haunted by September 11 than he does.

There was one man. I cannot tell you which tower he was jumping out of. He had dark hair, my guess is that he was somewhere between 25 and 40 years old. Average size, he was wearing a dark suit and a tie. He jumped from high up, and the camera followed him all the way down. He fought it every step of the way, kicking his legs, his arms flailing. He didn’t want to die. I could fee that much. But given the choice, die by jumping or die by fire, jumping was his better option. Yet still, he fought it, all the way down.

When I got home that night, before I snagged my beer, I thought about him. I went to the bathroom, and stared at my towels. I thought, somewhere in New York, or New Jersey, or Connecticut, is this man’s bathroom. His towel is hanging in the bathroom, possibly still damp from the shower he took this morning. Maybe he has a dog waiting for him to come home. Maybe his wife opened up one eye to see him leaving their room early that morning as she slept. Maybe there was a grocery list he had scribbled out stuck to his fridge. Maybe his kids were looking out the window, waiting for him. But one thing is for certain — his towel is hanging in the bathroom. His clothes are hanging in his closet. There’s food in his cabinets. The most basic of living essentials. Only he’ll never see them or touch them again.

I’m older and I have a husband and children now, including the one that was already brewing that day and I didn’t know about it. I have a completely different life now. But he’s still gone. I think about this man a lot, but more so on September 11. I wonder where he would be today if he had just missed that first train, or if he had accidentally slept in, or if his car wouldn’t start. I wonder why I had to watch him die. I wonder who picked up his towel, washed it, folded it, and put it away. I hope for them, they didn’t have to see what I saw.

But my absence here at my ultra fabulous blog is not for lack of anything to tell to you — my adoring fans. It is because I am clearly having the BEST MONTH EVER.

Let’s start by getting the bad parts out of the way. I’m still a fat fat fatty. I’m not getting any younger. And I still have to wash my face with anti-acne soap then follow it up by slathering on the anti-aging cream. Why, Lord? For real? My face goes in a cycle of month-long splotchery, clears for a day, then starts again. And I am pretty sure you could step into my pores. I think if I have any words of wisdom to pass on to the younger generation, they would be USE SPF 15 MOISTURIZER. Every. Day.

But seriously, bad skin and a big butt aside, my month has been GREAT.

First — it got warm.

And when I say warm, I mean WARM. Like, it was hot one day. Which I LOVE.

Of course, it hasn’t stayed hot, but the presence of a handful of stifling days in May is always encouraging.

Then, it was Mother’s Day. And while I appreciate the World’s Coolest Mom t-shirt that Jim got me because it was the last thing available 12 hours before Mother’s Day at WalMart he truly appreciates me, it paled in comparison to THIS:

HOW COOL IS THAT?

You’ll recognize this phone from the T-Mobile commercials with the girl so freakishly skinny you kind of wish someone would just give her a sandwich already. It’s one of those phones that came with the movie “Inception” on it, which is so incredibly unnecessary I cannot hide my giddiness. I haven’t even watched it yet. I just think it’s cool that it is there. Jim and I have now become those people we despise — the ones who play on their phones instead of talking to each other and “check in” everywhere on Facebook as if my old high school buddies give a crap where I am eating dinner. I have an endless array of mobile uploads on the face page already, and a game called Lightsaber that literally is just a lightsaber with sounds. I finally know what Angry Birds are. It’s SOOOOOO cool to be part of the hip crowd.

Then, there was this cuteness:

Good Lord the cute might actually kill me.

But before this, we had “touch a truck” day at preschool, where the kids got to climb up into garbage trucks and Bobcats and fire engines. Of course, I was only interested in the police car, and making my child do this:

Then this:

Because that’s just good parenting.

Of course then it was birthday time for Hank.

The child won’t eat cake, so I got him an ice cream cake. And since gluttony is my very favorite of the seven deadly sins, he got an ice cream cone too:

Not only did we stuff ourselves with ice cream, I think this is officially my favorite photo of the two of them ever (well, for now at least). We also took him to a White Sox game. And while Peavy had a great game and they won, it is the Sox. No need to assault your eyes with the photos from that game.

But wait, there’s more. I told you — best month ever!

Then it was time for our anniversary. Six years. Which is a record for Jim, way to go Pookie Bear!

*sidenote — I really call him Pookie Bear. Call him that some time. He’ll answer.

So we went to a restaurant called Grill Marx. We figured it was our kind of place, what being lefty liberal Obama lovers, anything with the word “Marx” in it must be good, right? Well let me tell you — it was:

This was called “Sombrero Chicken,” because it had a tortilla chip shaped like a sombrero in the middle of it And holy crap was it good. I didn’t think the garlic mashed potatoes would necessarily go well with it, but they were outstanding. This plus a bucket of beer and an appetizer called “drunken nachos” made for a truly outstanding anniversary dinner.

And as long as baseball has begun, we took a trip to see the Joliet Jackhammers. Only, seems the guy who owned the Jackhammers didn’t do important things like pay the rent. He even bounced a check to The Chicken after a visit late last summer. So he did the most fiscally responsible thing possible.. walked away from his debt like it was that girl he did after a night of partying only turns out she’s ugly, so the next day he pretends he never knew her. The Jackhammers were sold, but in their place…

The Joliet Slammers.

Same thing. Just a different team. And you know what’s awesome? Non-affiliated minor-league baseball tickets for $5 a piece on firework night:

New matching Slammers hats!

Another piece of awesome for the month of May (up to this point, at least). The school project of all school projects. The volcano:

I never got to do a volcano, so I was super excited about Hank’s. We went for color. And apparently, dripping blood? I don’t really know what the child was doing here. Truth is, the end result looks a little bit rated-R for some reason. But we used up every piece of modeling clay, and it is awesome. I used a smaller Pepsi bottle to do a demonstration for the kids, and George almost tinkled himself he thought it was so awesome.

One last thing.

Cementing why May 2011 has been the best month ever, my husband came home with this:

And let me tell you something, am I ever on the edge of glory, indeed. Because Ms. Stephani here and Justin Timberlake on SNL made my day. Some of this album actually creeps me out. But I still love it. LOVE IT. Plus, I know what to get my Dad for Father’s Day.

I suppose some of these things seem incredibly lame to you. But I’ll tell you, combined, they made the best month. EVER.

I can’t help how I feel about it, though. I’m on the right track baby. I was born this way.

I use my e-mail for work, so you can imagine my instant panic. I figured, bah, it’s probably just a glitch. But it WOULDN’T recover.

Enter my online chat with the “customer service experts” from my e-mail carrier. Considering I use a free e-mail service, the old saying of “you get what you pay for” could not have been more true. I’ve redacted the information that is embarrassing to myself, my e-mail provider, and that which of course could possibly get me sued…

Wanna hear about it? Here goes:

*Tonight we went to Subway, me, Jim and George. And I found myself splashed over with sadness just ever so briefly at the fact that Hank wasn’t there. This happens to me a lot when Hank is off for the weekend with his “second dad.” The family moves on without him, and suddenly I miss him so badly it can make me want to cry.

Then, as I was lost in thought about my eldest child, I looked up to realize that George was standing on his seat, licking the picture of lettuce that was bolted to the Subway wall. Suddenly, I had more important things to do than wallow — I had to hide my head in shame.

*As has been well documented, I tend to really hate commercials. Not because they ruin my favorite episodes of Fringe and Law & Order and whatever Kardashian show is on, but because anything can pass as plausible ad material these days. Yesterday, I saw a spot about the new, hip designs for Playtex packaging. Because nothing says “man I love when my uterine lining leaks out my lady parts in a bloody shower of nastiness” like neon colors on my tampon wrapper.

*Speaking of commercials, has anyone noticed how HAPPY men are when they have erectile dysfunction? Commercials seriously make me want herpes and my period every second of every day, while my husband battles with rising to the occasion and how his gray hair prevents him from getting a job. Because with all those issues, we would be a couple of dancing, cartwheeling, bike riding, road tripping, laughing, walking on the beach fools! Oh the joy!

*Bud Select 55 isn’t just light on calories and taste. It’s light on standards for the bottle. Because if you drop one of those babies, it will shatter into 8,000 tiny pieces… right before your bare feet.

*It’s totally cool to be excited about spending your Saturday night watching House Hunters.

*There’s such a thing as too comfortable with someone. And it’s when you apologize to them, and they have to wait to figure out what it is for. Only to find out it was for your stinky fart that you know is wafting their way. Too. Comfortable.

*According to some random website that no one in their right mind should ever look at (except for those growing children in their enormous bellies), the most popular girl name last year was Isabella. There are also several other names that seem to be on the list most years — Emily, Grace, Ava, Sophia. All names I really, really like. But you know what’s never on there? Marney.

Growing up, I actually was fond of having an uncommon name. Marney is not common, but doesn’t sound so unusual as to make people think “wow, how much pot did your parents smoke?” Which, we all know, is untrue anyway. Mom is a boozer, not a druggie.

But the consequence of having an uncommon name is that you are then associated with every person who shares that name, as if the common trait of your moniker makes you somehow connected to that person.

There was the Alfred Hitchcock movie, “Marnie,” where Tippi Hedren plays a thief and a total lunatic named, well, Marnie. And she is always lying about her name, but when she finally confesses that her real name is Marnie, her psychiatrist, played by Sean Connery, scoffs at her, “Well, that fits.”

WHAT THE HELL, SEAN CONNERY?

I thought it had reached a pinnacle with the infamous Marney Thanksgiving Letter, the one that people really thought was from me. But no.

Enter Marni Yang. Several weeks ago, Marni Yang was convicted of murdering the pregnant girlfriend of former Chicago Bear Shaun Gayle. And let me tell you — this woman is a prime WACKO. Total freakshow land. Killed this woman out of some weird fit of jealousy, but she was crazy obsessed with Shaun Gayle.

Of course, the story of the murder and arrest and trial was top news here. But last night, it was featured on an episode of 20/20. Once again, Marni Yang — MARNI — is on my teevee.

My favorite part was when the interviewer, one Ms. Juju Chang, first said her name.

“Marni,” Juju says, sarcastically, raising both an eyebrow AND the corner of her lip, apparently disgusted.

“Marni!” repeats Shaun Gayle, equally disturbed at the sound of her name.

PEOPLE. She is not a crazy person because her name is Marni. And for real — Juju? Someone named Juju is cocking her head funny to the name Marni? Juju. I’m not 100 percent certain, but it’s possible that just saying Ms. Chang’s first name is slightly racist, but she sneers to Marni.

Gah!

I heard many times from various folks, ohhhhhhh, the murderer is named MARNI. Oooohhhhhh! Oh my! Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh yeah shut the hell up.

When my sister named her son — the family’s FIRST grandson — Jonathan, no one shrieked, “Oh my God, you’re naming him Jon? But what about John Wayne Gacey? OH THE HUMANITY.”

No one ever stared an interview with Ted Kennedy by saying, “So… Ted. You and Ted Bundy. That’s a rough one, huh?”

No one ever said, upon learning that my husband is named Jim, “Oh my God, you mean like the Jonestown Massacre? Don’t trust HIM with the Kool-Aid.”

But somehow, Marney = Marni Yang.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote.

Well, apparently, if the name is Marni/Marnie/Marney/Marny/Marnee, what’s in that name is a murderous, lying, thieving, villainous psychopath.

Of course, Shakespeare should have known better. Being named Bill, he obviously knows that THAT name carries a lot of weight with the ladies.

*My husband and I Tivo Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant. What the hell?

*Beer can help you sleep. Sleeping pills can also help you sleep. Mixing them will make you sleep until 1 p.m., and will make your husband really pissed off at you.

*When ordering food through a drive-thru window, you shouldn’t be allowed to even GO to that drive-thru unless your window rolls down. You know what is aggravating? Waiting for the mom with 18 kids and equally as many bags and drinks try to collect all that stuff from the cracked open door of her 1999 rusty beige Suburban which she naturally pulled a little to close to the window number two. Seriously woman, get your tie-dye wearing, scrunchie-haired self INSIDE the restaurant. You’re holding up the line.

*My baby is turning five years old this week. I suppose it’s time to stop blaming the little bastard innocent boy for my big fat ass.

*My other baby will be nine in just about a month. So while I REALLY can’t blame him for my big fat ass, I am going to start blaming him for my gray hair.

I read somewhere that there’s a special place in heaven for a mother of boys. And someday, I hope my friends and family members with boys will leave heaven to visit me in hell to let me know what that place is like.

Big fat fatty.

Okay, maybe it’s possible that while I am not anywhere close to slim, I’m also not anywhere close to the ginormous beast that I think I am. I’m overweight, but not obese (technically). I am also terribly fit. I lift and “jog” on the treadmill and haven’t done much Zumba since those dirty bastards at LA Fitness dropped the class, but  do have Zumba for Wii. Which, by the way, is quite fun but not the same as super cute Stacey the Zumba instructor and her step-tap routines to songs like “Single Ladies” and “Solo” and my personal favorite, “Sexy Chick.” I mean seriously, I have “Danza Kudro” on my MP3 player, and I don’t even know what language that is, let alone what it means. I think it’s Spanish, but I’m not even sure about that. It doesn’t help that he sings “Oy oy oy,” prompting me to think it could be Hebrew. Totally awesome Zumba dancing Hebrew! See, Zumba at home is not quite the same. But, I do work out quite a bit and I’m well aware that I need to better control my eating if I really want to drop the weight.

But those work outs come with a serious down side. And it’s the locker room.

For real, naked locker room wenches of the world, WHAT THE HELL?

This is my biggest issue with locker room nakedness: For whatever reason, women (and presumably, men) are under the impression that when they are in the locker room (or the more fashionably named “dressing room”) they are somehow magically transported to their own bedrooms. Walking around whilst naked nude, hands-up while blow drying hair swaying, stretch-marked boobies in the sauna, shower curtain ajar while pits are throughly cleaned, showing off that disastrous tattoo, bending over without proper undergarments — GROSS.

Here’s the thing: locker rooms are PUBLIC. Sure, they are segregated by gender. Sure, they are private in the sense that they are sectioned off from the rest of the gym. But they are still PUBLIC. Just like public bathrooms are public. Look, it even has he name PUBLIC in it. Perhaps it’s the closeness of the word public to pubic that distracts people. But when you remove your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and let those girls fly, here’s the thing: I CAN SEE YOUR BOOBS. And you know what? I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR BOOBS.

You know what I don’t want to see even more than I don’t want to see your boobs? Your pubic hair. Or your butt crack . Or any body part that might prompt grammar check to ask if you meant “Libya” or “Volvo.” I don’t want to see your junk!

What is up with this? What prompts these women to decide that heck, there’s no men around, so I might as well get naked? I mean, I understand being in your underwear. That’s pretty understandable as far as locker room standards. After all, you have to change your clothes sometimes and it’s clearly a bit more comfortable that if you have to show people yourself in your bra, those people are also women. But someone has GOT to explain to me the naked part. I mean, if the local grocery store had a “ladies only” day, would women suddenly start shopping all nude like? Is there no dress code at Curves or Women’s Workout World because they are women-only establishments, hence it’s boobs out 24/7? Was I doing something wrong all those years when I had female roommates and we WORE CLOTHES. I mean, like, every day, totally dressed, no matter how often the neighborhood teenagers told us we were fat lesbian whores (we were NOT fat, by the way).

Look, ladies, here’s the thing. If you toss your goods out, I’m going to stare at them. No because I’m one of the gays. But because they are RIGHT THERE. If you are shaking your little butt out in the open, I’m going to glance while thinking, “man, where does she SIT? She has no padding!” And if you are going to walk around showing off the patch of fur that God gave you (although he apparently forgot to give you the ability to use a razor), then you better believe I am going to glance at the goodies, if for no other reason than to hope you see me look at your vajayjay in horror and think to COVER IT UP.

Maybe I am looking at this all wrong. I mean, when I was 19, I decided to get a butterfly tattoo on my awesomely flat rock hard abs. And two pregnancies and 50 pounds later, that butterfly is a nearly indistinguishable moth. And let’s not forget, I’ve had two c-sections. Maybe I should be the one to start walking around with my kitty uncovered.

That will teach them.

I enjoy being a girl.

Confession time: I’ve noticed recently that there is a part of me that I like to hide and pull out only when convenient: my XX chromosome. For a woman who grew up a slight tomboy with three older sisters, moved around, Mary Tyler Moore-d my way in the big city (New Orleans, not Minneapolis), refused to call home (because that’s what independent women do!), became a single mother and was at one point convinced that I absolutely could raise a son without a husband… I sure do turn to the “oh jeeze, I’m just a little old girl, what do I know” act whenever I don’t really want to do something.

Take today for example. Ding-dong, someone is at my home. And it’s like, 2:30 and I want to walk over to get Hank from school and I am not interested in whatever anyone has. So I open the door and Comcast guy is standing there.

“Well hello, ma’am, I’m Comcast guy, and I’m just visiting homes today to see if blah bleee da blurb bleebity blah blah blah.”

Now, I’m thinking, go away. Unless your Comcast offer comes with $10,000 cash and guaranteed safe liposuction rear-and-belly reducer and the Lego Deathstar (because I am not spending a house payment on that toy, no matter how much the boys want it), forget it! Go. Away. Now. But for some reason, I — Marney — the woman who is never short of creative words to let people in on what she is thinking — cannot just say it.

“Oh, you know, my husband, he takes care of all that!” I say. I may have even twirled my hair when I did it. And you know what? It worked. Off Comcast went to the next house while I slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door.

I did the same thing last week with the people who wanted us to use their lawn service. “Oh, jeeze, I don’t know WHAT my husband would want.” And the guy at Sears trying to sell me a refrigerator, when all I was doing was looking because ours works just fine and dandy: “Well, I doubt my husband would let me even have a new fridge.” LET? I really said that! Then there was the time the guy at the gym tried to talk me into getting a personal trainer: “Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I can do that, my husband takes care of the bills.” Uh…. no he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t even know where the checkbook is, let alone how much money is in it or what bill is due when. The list of things I am perfectly capable of doing yet still rarely do include:

• killing a spider
• carrying something heavy
• anything involving electronics
• hanging a picture
• painting
• changing the furnace filter
• being the driver on an extended trip
• settle a hotel bill
• anything involving automobile maintenance, including changing wiper blades, getting a new battery or picking out new tires
• killing spiders (worth a second mention, because I really am not afraid of spiders)

Remember — I am absolutely CAPABLE of these things. And there was a time when I wouldn’t just say, sure I can do that, but rather, I would INSIST that I do it. I remember when I was younger, thinking, I don’t need a man! I can do this all myself. And you know what? I think I could. For God’s sake, I managed to kill roaches that were flying at me in New Orleans with my bare hands, but I scream “Jiiiiiimmmmmmmm!” when a tiny little house spider is on the wall. I don’t know, just something about having a husband who will also do these things is so….

LIBERATING.

I use my husband’s perceived dominant XY as an excuse to cling to the perception that XX is meek and cute and just a GIRL. I fear that the sisterhood might reject me for it. I mean, all those years and all those fights for equal rights, and I won’t kill a damn spider! When the truth of it is, I LIKE chivalry. I like having someone who opens my doors and kills those pesky spiders. And it works to my advantage, as well. I can do things like look at a new car or browse the aisles at the Home Depot for paint samples or light fixtures, and when someone approaches me I’m all sing-songy and “ooohhhhhh, I’m just getting ideas” and they leave me the hell alone! Who doesn’t love that?

It’s not one way, either. There are plenty of things Jim can do that he just doesn’t: laundry, making beds, cooking. But I actually like doing those things, too. There are plenty of times when he can pull out the “oh my wife makes that decision” card to get out of making a choice. And not too long ago, realizing that I did indeed have to have a toilet that flushed, I fixed the snapped stopper in the tank. Even though we all know that’s man’s work.

I think I am overall a fairly strong person. But when it comes to using what the good Lord gave you….

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!

My new cozy socks — worthless.

My snuggie — worthless.

Kicking the heat up a good ten degrees — worthless, except for making my husband’s eyes bulge out of his skull when he spots it. So kind of worth the comedy of that, but mostly worthless.

Snuggling up to my husband — worthless. It doesn’t matter that his farts are warm, they are still farts.

You know it’s way too damn cold when the forecast predicts a high of 27, and you can’t wait for that welcome warmth. Jim said that my complaining about the cold is no different than the people who complain about the heat in July, the people who make me insane. And you know what? He is totally wrong. It’s not the same. It’s just not.

Since I’ve been stuck inside shivering and downing coffee and leaving a Marney-size permanent imprint on the sofa, I have begun to get more and more irritated by the things that keep me company. Meaning, the people who visit me on my television set and the tiny electronic friends (fiends?) who live inside my laptop.

Here are the things that — due to this irritable cold — really chap my hide:

*Toilet paper commercials — There’s a new commercial on these days. It’s a bunch of women talking about how their toilet paper isn’t just supposed to get you clean, it has to KEEP you clean. And one of the women, raising up both her hands, declares, “It has to keep my hands clean!” Seriously, if you cannot wipe your own butt without getting actual dookie all over your hands, you are a moron. If you cannot wipe your ass without getting it on your fingers, you need lessons, not new toilet paper.

*Feminine hygiene commercials – Here’s another one. It’s three women. One of them turns away, ashamed, while the other two continue on with their conversation. Then the voiceover says something along the lines of “I had to learn the hard way about feminine odor.” WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Is she saying that here she was, having a little get-together with the girls, and suddenly they were like, “Hey Sandy, hate to tell you this, but you have a little crotch-rot going on” so Sandy turned away embarrassed. So she bought some special soap and now she’s no longer a social pariah? Because at the end of the commercial, the three women are enjoying each other’s company again. Dude…. GROSS GROSS GROSS. There’s a word for those women — skank. And they don’t have friends who politely tell them to wash their cooch. They have men who leave without paying. That’s how they know.

*SAG awards — These were on last week. And I was strangely compelled to watch. And was I ever mad, because the hardest working woman in show business was not honored even one little time. Her:

She is EVERYWHERE. Need those removable hooks for your holiday decorations? She’s got them. Need investment advice? SO DOES SHE. Carpets? Draperies? She’s your gal. Potting soil that feeds your plants for you? She’ll recommend it. For God’s sake, she’s the wife of the Whopper in the Burger King ads. Once she told me how awesome KY lubricants are for your love life. And she’s the official lady spokesperson for the Shakeweight.

Someone explain to me why this woman does not have a SAG award!

Her name is Erica Shaffer, by the way. And according to her resume, in addition to her acting chops, she can salsa dance and do a cockney accent and lists herself as an “expert” in teleprompter. So seriously, SAG, show this lady some love. She deserves a little statue too.

*Mark Zuckerberg — Two things dude: 1-Quit making “updates” and “changes” to Facebook. Stop it. Stop it now. 2-You are a multi-gizzilionaire. Do something about your hair. Head pubes are not now nor will they ever be in style. Fix it. So stop fixing Facebook, start fixing your hair. Got it?

*Media Matters & MSNBC – Look, I’m a good lefty liberal. I find Sarah Palin intolerable and GleN Beck moronic and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity are shameful to the great Irish people. But ENOUGH already. Media Matters used to just be a media watchdog website, and they held everyone’s feet to the fire. They regularly tore down people like Chris Matthews and ABC News and EVERYONE who uttered something that could have been proven to be wrong or exaggerated. But now it’s just a crusade on why we should all hate Fox News. MSNBC regularly hosts Media Matters editors as their guests. It’s no different from Fox. It’s really not. It’s just the other side, and it’s just as unfair and unbalanced. When you stop reporting the news and start reporting on the other people who report the news, you’re not really a journalist anymore.

*Buffering — Jim thinks this belongs in the Tournament of Bad. He is right. I do not have the patience to wait for you to buffer. Just show me the damn videos.

*Paid programming — Please just play Law & Order. It’s too hard to wake up and dig the remote out from under my husband’s butt to flip the channel. And by that time I am fully awake and then I WANT a steam mop or an indestructible frying pan or those same hair extensions that all the stars are wearing. There’s 20 years of Law & Order episodes out there, and I really didn’t pay much attention during the years when they thought to make one of the detectives a woman or when the guy from Crime Story took over for poor dead Jerry Orbach. Play those episodes instead.

Bah.

This morning, Hank said to me, “Mom, you are cranky.” And is he ever right. I am cranky. And cold. Too damn cold.

Please come spring. Because right now, old man winter really chaps my hide.

It took me several weeks to actually get out there and purchase the light bulb, but I finally made my very first, truly awesome Easy Bake Oven masterpiece. Jim bought me an Easy Bake Oven for my birthday this year. Age 37, and I finally got that one item I whined and cried about not having for most of my youth.

I opened packets. I mixed with water. I used the push tool to carefully insert (hee hee) the cake and pull it out (hee hee) of the oven. I iced.

Follow my journey:

Pre-heating with a single lightbulb. Look at it glow!

Fresh out of the oven!

Here's what it looked like frosted.

Here's what it looked like when I dropped it on the floor.

Here's what it looked like when I picked it up, put it on a plate and fed it to my child.

And the verdict is…..

Delicious!!

Yay me!!!