Goosepimples Herbert Day!

Goosepimples Herbert was sitting on the couch with his wife Eileen watching television. When Eileen looked down at the cushions for the remote, she noticed that Goosepimple Herbert's left arm had broken out in Goosepimples.

"Oh, God. Herbert look," Eileen said.

Herbert looked down at his arms, then up at Eileen. "Don't panic," he said. "Get out to the car and wait. I'm going to put on pants."

They raced to the airport where their son, Roy, was about to board a plane to a Marching Band Competition in Chicago. Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen were not allowed to go to the gates without a ticket, but they had Roy paged to meet them at the security gates.

"What's up?" Roy asked from behind the metal detectors.

Goosepimples Herbert held out his bare forearms, which had by now turned beet red.

"Oh crap," said Roy.

"Go back and get your stuff," Eileen told Roy. "And tell the rest of the band that the plane might go down."

Roy marched sulkily away from the gate. Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen waited for twenty minutes with no sign of Roy's return. They started paging him again, with no response. With just minutes before the flight's departure, Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen began to beg and shout at the security desk, warning them that the flight to Chicago was in danger. They were both detained, and somehow the flight was allowed to take off.

The plane is in the air right now and Roy is on it. He is sick of being pulled out of trips and events every time his father's goosepimples erupt. Half the time, the goosepimples predict tragedy. The other half, they predict nearly nothing at all. Roy refused to back out of the trip and he certainly wasn't going to warn everyone else on the trip based on his father's half-baked psychic ability.

Goosepimples Herbert and Eileen are no longer being held but they've yet to leave the airport. They're watching the clock, waiting for their son's flight to land without incident, at which point they're going to rent a car and drive to Chicago to pick him up.

Happy Goosepimples Herbert Day!

The Boy Who Can Sing Day!

He was six when he first let his beautiful voice chirp out into the middle of My Country Tis Of Thee and midway through the song everyone else in the class stopped singing and just let Malcolm take it away. He didn't realize he was doing a solo until the very end of the song he opened his eyes and saw the whole homeroom staring at him, their mouths hanging open. His teacher's hands hung heavy at her sides, her eyes were wet. Malcolm was about to apologize when she went running out the door.

From that day on, the whole school district was priming Malcolm to ride his voice outta that town. "You have a gift, Malcolm," the world-wise custodians would say to him. "Build upon that gift and make greatness. It's your responsibility." Malcolm wished he didn't have quite so beautiful a voice, so that just a little less might be expected of him.

By junior year, Malcolm had fallen in love with Maria Bobst. What Malcolm didn't know was that his best friend Chipper also loved Maria, had loved her since elementary school. Chipper was doomed to take over his father's drywall business following graduation. "After graduation" was a phrase Malcolm and Maria chose to avoid because they knew it was just a long way of saying goodbye. Chipper was pissed that even though Maria knew she had no future with Malcolm, that he'd never take her with him when he gets out, she still chose to stay with him. So today, Chipper's going to swing a length of pipe at Malcolm's voicebox. Chipper's going to say, "You two deserve each other" right before he does it. In the coming weeks before Malcolm speaks his first word, he's going to hope that his voice has been destroyed forever so that he can stay with Maria and shrug off all that was expected of him and just live a quiet little life listening to someone else's songs.

Happy The Boy Who Can Sing Day!

Conga Line Classes Day!

Retard, who told you you'd meet the girl of your dreams in a conga line? The only one your gonna find on the tale end of a conga line is Buddy Lou. Remember Buddy Lou? Got buried alive for six days by his senile uncle. The uncle caught Buddy in the middle of one of his seizures and thought he was dying. Buddy's uncle flashed back to his childhood as a stable boy and decided he had to finish Buddy off and bury him so he knocked his nephew in the head with a shovel. He thought Buddy was dead, but he was only knocked unconscious. Asleep deep enough to get dropped in the ground underneath his uncle's basement and curl up under six feet of soil. That's who's got his arms on your hips, kicking to the left and the right like a cartoon chimpanzee. Buddy Lou, a man dead for six days and lived to dance about it. That's the kind of fun you'll find creeping up at the back of a conga line. Now get a bicycle and talk up the babies down by the bike path.

Happy Conga Line Classes Day!

Describe Love For Money Day!

It seems hard to believe, but a great many Americans (surveyed) have never fallen in love. Either because they are extremely busy, extremely shallow, or were hurt by the loss of a pet at a very young age and have yet to risk opening their hearts to another living creature, these people neither crave this "love" about which so many songs are written, not do they fear it. They are simply curious.

That's where you come in. These people want to know the difference between "loving" and "grabbing." They want to know why, following sexing, some people choose to spend the night together instead of dressing and walking out the door in silence, with averted eyes. They want a workbook full of exercises.

Call it "This Is What Love Is" and charge seven hundred dollars. Only allow pro-rated refunds up to the 8th class session. And give out diagrams that show puppies sharing ice cream cones.

Break love down into seven stages: Confusion, Surrender, Ripping Metal From Metal With Seeming Superhuman Strength To Pull The Object Of Your Love From A Car Wreck As A Seeping Puddle Of Gasoline Approaches, Suspicion, Disillusionment, Experimentation, Murder-Suicide.

Here are some notes for your lectures:

1. Confusion: "So you're just going about your business and all of a sudden you see this face or this flip of the hair and it's like you got conked on the head!"

2. Surrender: "You try to fight the feeling, but trust me baby, you are powerless. I don't care how rich you are. Love's gonna getcha!"

3. Ripping Metal From Metal With Seeming Superhuman Strength To Pull The Object Of Your Love From A Car Wreck As A Seeping Puddle Of Gasoline Approaches: "Being in love doesn't make you a superhero. But if the object of your love is in danger of dying, you will find that you can do things you never thought you could do. Such as flight."

4. Suspicion: "You love her so much that when she comes home late from work you decide she's handing it out to anyone with a late-model Chrysler!"

5. Disillusionment: "He's still the only one who understands the real you. But you feel utterly deceased inside, and you think that all you have left to do is wait for your body to die too."

6. Experimentation: "You'll be thinking, Hey! I never did it with a Black!"

7. Murder-Suicide: "Till death do us part baby. I mean, you can say that right before, you know. Or you can come up with your own little bon mot that you can say right before the end. Let's hear some ideas."

Just remember, a lot of the people in your classroom are gonna be angry types who wanna challenge you. They'll have signed up after they got dumped because they didn't know how to love, and they'll be looking at you and thinking, "This is the kind of guy she's looking for. Fucking fruitcake, is what." Look out for yourself, and expect your car to get keyed.

Happy Describe Love For Money Day!

Talk To The Girl On The Raft Day!

You're twenty six years old and you're still going on vacation with your parents because that's the only way you can afford to go on a vacation. The red-haired girl on the raft has been out on the lake every day for the past three days. She's apparently also on vacation with her family and she appears to be close to your age. Unless she's engaged to someone stationed in Iraq or something, you two will have sex not long after introducing yourselves. Or at least before one of you goes back home. You just have to swim out and ask her how old she is.

"Hey!"

She lifts her head from the pillow of the raft and looks to shore.

"Yeah, you!"

She shields the sun from her eyes with her hand to see if she knows you. She doesn't.

"How old are you?!"

"What?" she asks.

"I said, how old are you?! I like your bikini. Are you over twenty? Twenty's kind of a cutoff for me!"


"I can't hear you," she says. "You're going to have to swim out to me."

Told you you'd have to swim out. By the way, she's twenty-three and her boyfriend just broke up with her. If you make plans to meet up tonight, you can have sex in the shed where they keep the life-jackets, which will be kind of uncomfortable because all the walls are really splintery and you won't be able to lean up against any of them. But if you get the first bout over with tonight, you can invite her over on Saturday when your parents go to the gorges and the two of you can have the cabin to yourselves for like six hours.

Happy Talk To The Girl On The Raft Day!

You Matter To No One Day!

Most of the time you feel like furniture. Like you could be dragged about the living room according to what is convenient for guests your husband has invited over. Occasionally, you feel like trees. Just a few trees scattered about some relatively uninteresting public property, such as a median strip.

The last time you felt needed was when you saved a girl from drowning. You were a lifeguard on the Jersey shore for a summer and a sixteen year old girl went out too far and couldn't fight the tide to swim back in. You swam out and pulled her into shore. She thanked you with as much enthusiasm as if you'd held a door open for her. Even her parents gave off a "waddayou want a medal?" vibe.

Today is nothing special. Don't do anything to try to make yourself heard or anything. Just rest easy and keep quiet. Life will be over soon.

Happy You Matter To No One Day!

Live The Life Of A Shipwreck Day!

Just rest absolutely motionless at the bottom and wait for people with access to extremely advanced technology to come poking around you, joking about how spooky you are, while they take what they want to bring up to the surface (where everyone else in the world is) and leave the rest to rot very slowly. Additionally, you should be full of human skeletons and jewelry that once sat upon the wrists of wealthy little girls. Plus, every twenty five years you should list over to your side with the guttural sound of hell opening up to yawn.

Finally, live in stark irony as the dilapidated remains of what was once so full of promise.

Happy Live The Life Of A Shipwreck Day!

Waterguns Day!

Your home is the battlefield. Your wife is the enemy.

Strapped from head to toe with pistols, balloon launchers, and a water-pump with backpack ammo-tank attachment, soak that little girl you married with extreme prejudice.

Whether she’s eating the breakfast she made for the two of you, whether she’s showing a house to a buyer ready to close, whether she’s in the shower, she’s going down.

Yes she’s your wife and yes she’s the reason you are what you’ve made of yourself up to today. But guess what, she’ll do it to you. If you don’t drench that lady first, she’ll turn around and she’ll look you in the eye and she’ll fucking irrigate your ass.

She might even tell you she loves you when she pulls the trigger.

Splash her in the head. Spray the crotch of her pants so it looks like she peed. Soak her white tank top and then tell her you can see her bra. Get that lady so damn wet friends and neighbors will fear that she’s lost her mind and taken a shower with her clothes on.

Shoot your wife with water.

Happy Waterguns Day!

His Name Is Hopeless Harv Day!

He explained the nickname when he met you that day in the cafeteria of the library.

"People call me Hopeless Harv because most people who know me think things are pretty hopeless for me," he said from behind the lip of his milk carton. You found his honesty to be sexy so you asked him out on a date.

He's going to stand you up. He was just about to leave his house when he looked in the mirror and asked himself what ever became of that kid who used to talk so big about what he was destined to become. "Did you kill that idealistic little boy?!" he started shouting into the mirror. Then he shattered the mirror with his fast and sent a shard of glass deep into his wrist. His sister came home while he was trying to edge the shard out from the gash and she committed him again because she assumed he had made another attempt on his life.

Hopeless Harv didn't really put up a fight. He could use a rest. And though he thought you were very pretty and very nice, he's glad he doesn't have to try to get you to like him. If you'd like to visit Hopeless Harv in the psych ward, drop Prettygirl a line and she'll ask Hopeless Harv if it's okay.

Happy His Name Is Hopeless Harv Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty "So Much Beauty There In That Circle" Sunday And Monday!

Check it out. Prettygirl sat down yesterday to deliver your personal regression assignment, but she was interrupted by a knock on her door. It was a Policeman.

"Yes?" Prettygirl asked. "And how can I help you officer?"

"Were you close with your next door neighbor? Ms. Polnechek?" asked the Policeman.

"Oh no one was close with Ms. Polnechek," said Prettygirl. "She was far too beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the whole building. Perhaps on the entire block."

The Policeman went on to explain that Ms. Polnechek had jumped from her window just an hour prior. A note was found in her apartment asking what the point was.

Prettygirl voiced her terror. "But if such a beautiful young woman cannot find reason to continue…"

"What hope is there for the rest of us?" said the Policeman with a rueful nod.

After a brief embrace, Prettygirl asked the Policeman whether there was anything she could do to help. The Policeman explained that they had run out of chalk.

"I was halfway through the outline when I started tearing open the skin of my fingertips," he said.

So the long and short of it is Prettygirl spent most of yesterday on the horn trying to track down a fresh piece of chalk, and most of today trying to figure shit out with her new Policeman friend. So, here's yesterday's and today's. Scroll way down and read yesterday's, then scroll a little ways up and read today's, or else that pretty little nose of yours is coming off. Tomorrow'll hitcha tomorrow, like it's sposed'ta.

Monday, July 5th, 2004

Does She Weigh One Hundred And Twenty Pounds Day!

The girl of your dreams, they claim. She'll be meeting you at seven.

"Does she weigh one hundred and twenty pounds?" you ask.

Yes, they lie.

"I'll be weighing her the minute we meet, so you needn't waste her time if you're not telling me the truth."

One hundred and eighteen, they say.

"And how exactly am I supposed to replace a one hundred and twenty pound ancient totem with a one hundred and eighteen pound girl without tripping the booby traps?" you ask, and rightly so. Rightly so.

They say that love requires compromise and you demand your money back.

Happy Does She Weigh One Hundred And Twenty Pounds Day!


Sunday, July 4th, 2004

She Fell Asleep In Her Black Panties On Top Of Your Comforter Day!

You're not gonna be able to sleep for a little while, so load your handgun and position your desk chair so as it's facing the door to your apartment. Wait.

For a burglar. For a serial murderer. For the brother of a boy she killed twelve states away, the brother who has finally found the vengeance he's been hunting. Perhaps.

Wait, occasionally cocking the hammer of the handgun in case anyone's listening on the other side of the door.

In fact, compose a sign and run downstairs to post it on the bulletin board by the mailboxes. Fasten it over top the babysitter available and man with van flyers that have the little phone numbers dangling from the end. Your sign could say:

My girlfriend is here. Congratulations. You've found her. She's asleep and at peace in Apt 4D and asleep and at peace she'll stay.

I am unemployed and I am armed. And I am prepared to do what is necessary to prevent her from being disturbed.

Until I find work again, you can take it as truth that if you try to kill my girlfriend I will try to kill you. And even when I find work again, you can expect that I will set traps.

If you've come here to kill my girlfriend, good luck. Let the games begin baby baby baby.

Then go back upstairs and cock your handgun a few more times. Then check moviefone for Spiderman 2 showtimes. She'll be up by nine I bet.

Happy She Fell Asleep In Her Black Panties On Top Of Your Comforter Day!

Fat Girl Day!

The reason your new apartment is so cheap is because it was once occupied by a really fat girl who died in a fire there because no one went up to save her because she was a fat girl.

"There's a fat girl on the fourth floor. And an old man on the seventh," said the nosey old lady in the basement apartment to the firefighters.

"How fat?" asked the firefighters.

She haunts at dusk, when the light dances with shadow, when everyone and every thing settles into a cocktail and an easy chair. What she does when she haunts is she runs at full speed down the hallway and slams herself into the front door. It makes a hell of a racket. Even when the front door is open, she still launches herself at the doorway as if she has to knock the door down. And almost like there's an invisible door there, the ghost of the fat girl still ends up tumbling backwards and yelling. Every time she falls she yells, "Oh my holy God! Shit!"

But you get a lot of sun. Sign the lease.

Happy Fat Girl Day!

The Boys In This Town Day!

The boys in this town are all the same. They love their cars first and foremost. Then they love their mamas. And not a one of them is willing to stay out past dark with a girl for fear of being chewed through by the nine-foot tall hobgoblin that lives in the woods.

You've dated nineteen of them and you've got six more you're going to cross off your list before you move three towns over to Houston, TX. Of those nineteen so far, must have been twelve of them who claim to have been bit on the ankle and dragged through the grass nearly into the thick of the woods by the toothy mouth of the hobgoblin.

"How'd you get away?" you asked every damn one of them.

And every damn one said, "Ma rang the dinner bell."

"Sounds like one faggoty ass hobgoblin if he can be scared off by the sound of a dinner bell," you started telling them after about the sixth one. That'd usually break the two of you up. No one fucks with the dinner bell where you're living.

Marcus Landry was the only one you ever convinced to stay out with you as late as ten PM. The two of you were going down on each other in the backseat of Marcus' Pontiac when the hobgoblin punched through the fogged up rear windshield and dragged Marcus out of the car and off into the woods. Marcus' body was never found since no one will go into those woods.

Since then, you've been known by the mothers in the town as "Trouble." The mothers have been counseling their sons to stay away from you, which has actually sent a few more phone calls your way. When a Mom describes a girl as "trouble," the son only hears "whore."

So you've dated three since Marcus. Tonight, or maybe just "Today," you've got number four, Jamie Kraus. You're meeting Jamie at the Dairy Queen at four, then you're going to walk along the creek together. At 6:30, let him feel your boobs, which are still pretty bitchin' for a 31 year old. Hopefully, the promise of more, or at least the promise of more boobs, will keep you and Jamie out deep into moonlight tonight.

But if Jamie ends up getting eaten by the hobgoblin, you should leave town. After Marcus got killed, there was a quickly squelched effort by some of the mothers to string you up in the middle of town and slit your throat in front of a crowd. Kill another of their sons and reason might not prevail this time.

Happy The Boys In This Town Day!

Wanna Say Goodbye To Something Sweet Day!

They should put it on a bumper sticker. "I'd rather be looking down into a pair of sad little eyes and saying that I'm just not the guy that you wanna be making any long-term plans with." You'd buy it. And if you owned a car, you'd put it on your car. But since you don't own a car, you'd totally tack it to your bulletin board.

You just want to be a dangerous person. A man who owns one pair of jeans and has seven thousand dollars in a shoebox buried at the base of a tree somewhere in Omaha. You want to breeze into a town solely to get killed, but end up being mothered by the town's widowed librarian until she demands that you hurt her any way you like as long as you leave town in one piece.

You want that librarian to stop you before you step into the thick of the sunset and show you the bag full of everything she owns that she's got in her left hand. You'd caress her cheek with the knuckles of an open fist. And you'd tell her that you wanna do right by her, and the only way to do that is to say goodbye.

"The more people I leave behind," you'd explain, "The fewer who'll know when I'm dead. That comes kinda close to livin' forever."

She wouldn't understand what you're trying to say, and a little part of her would be relieved that she's staying put because that little part of her would suspect that the reason you're unable to settle into anything secure is because you're not that bright.

Trouble is, you are pretty bright. Just bright enough to know what to be scared of, and how to behave in khakis. So tonight, instead of telling a sweet little thing that you're trouble and not to get mixed up with guys like you, you're going to take a bath and then watch season one of Alias.

Happy Wanna Say Goodbye To Something Sweet Day!

Hippies Day!

More and more dead hippies are pouring out of the sewers into the bay. They all of them have dollar signs carved into the back of their heads. As Chief of the Coast Guard, it's your responsibility to make sure an investigation gets underway. But no one will listen.

You told the Chief of Police about it when you, he, and the Chief of the Fire Department met for your Thursday dinner. All he said was, "Hippies. Whoopdie do!" Then he pulled you in real close and told you it's an election year.

The only other two people you told are your wife and the President of the United States. But your wife thinks you're a failure and hasn't listened to a word you've said since 1980. All the president said was, "My hands are tied!" Then he pointed to a chalkboard that had the word "Deficit" written on it in big letters.

The going is rough, but you can't give up. Even if you have to spraypaint it onto the face of every child, you must make it known that the hippies are dying. They're almost people too.

Happy Hippies Day!

Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!

You saw it when you were waiting by the printer. A brief flash of lightning from atop those clouds to the south. The storm is beginning.

"The storm is beginning," you should say to the account rep with whom you're in love and from whose cubicle you must keep to a minimum distance of five feet at all times, even when she calls you over for a meeting.

"Mm," she'll say. "That your storm Henry?"

You'll say, "The Final Rain, yes. It has begun."

Run inside her cubicle, race behind her desk and stifle her cries with the palm of your hand.

Whisper into her ear, "I know you are frightened, but you've left us no other choice but to share our last moments thusly. You've chosen not to understand me, but I have some things to say before our time on this Earth ends. Now that we are all about to die, I am not afraid of what repercussions may come."

With the hand that is not clamped over her mouth, pet the top of her head. Whisper, "I have loved you. I have loved you with a love that has consumed all of my being. My love for you has been my life, ever since just before I went perm. This life, and with it this love, is about to be washed away into the swirl of the greatest of floods. I had to voice this love, so that we might both acknowledge its existence and kiss it goodbye."

Kiss the part of her hair. Once.

"Thank you," say. Then let go of her head, walk out of her cubicle, and as she screams accusations of assault and insanity, walk calmly to the stairs, where you will begin your descent into the inevitable.

Happy Flash Of Lightning, Say Goodbye Day!

Two Dogs Per Lady Day!

She's got two dogs and a pocketbook full of attitude.

It's 1:40 AM and Janice has brought the mongrels out with her for her trip to the store for some eggs. The fella she brought home is waiting for his omelet. He's a coworker and she promised him an omelet if he'd take her home.

"Mushroom and swiss or nothing," Michael said. They made out for the duration of the cabride.

It was a sendoff for a temp who'd been with the firm for two and a half years, refusing to go perm and waiting for the assignment to be discontinued. Ultimately, she got married and quit. Janice liked the temp and envied her, not for marrying, but simply for knowing that Monday will be a little different. Janice is very aware that this is most likely why she propped herself by Michael's left arm for most of the evening, why he's upstairs in her apartment naked on her couch watching HBO Signature.

The dogs are named Leopold and Marcus Welby MD (Welby for scolding brevity). They're both terriers, both boys. Michael likes them. He likes dogs.

At the store Janice buys the eggs and the mushrooms. She was relieved to find she already had the Swiss, as it's hard to get a counter guy to operate the slicer after midnight. When she's waiting for her change, the counter guy needs to break a roll of quarters. This allows her that extra moment of reflection she needs to conclude that Michael is going to rip her to shreds.

Not tonight. He's going to come back for more, and she's going to fall for him. Whether it's two weeks or two years down the line, Michael is going to break her heart.

She'll quit her job. And maybe she'll even leave the city.

Janice carries the omelet makings back to her apartment at a jauntier pace. She's excited. She's got something big waiting somewhere over the horizon.

Happy Two Dogs Per Lady Day!

Washington DC Day!

Today, Washington DC is where the United States Government happens. At around 9 PM tonight, the United States Government is gonna pack up and haul ass over to St. Louis for a three night engagement. Look out St Louis. The United States Government comin' atcha.

Happy Washington DC Day!

Singles Canoes Day!

It's happened to you time and time again. Just after you fuck a dude he gets up and does some kind of crazy shit you never saw coming. One guy told you he could see himself marrying you, if he wasn't already married. You had to call an ambulance for the guy who ate everything that was left in your vial of Vicodin. And then there was Mister "Aren’t my very realistic prosthetic limbs awesome?" It was enough to turn a girl off anonymous sex for as much as two to three weeknights at a time!

So when you saw the ad for Singles Canoes, you jumped for the phone. "Find out how you two get along inside of a canoe," it read. "And you'll know how freaky shit'll be after all the orgasms occur!" You made a reservation for today.

His name was Jason, the guy you got assigned (Singles Canoes matches up their singles based on a complicated algorithm using only height, eye color, and a single turn of the board game "Scruples"). When you met this morning, you shook hands. Jason didn't seem happy.

"Let's get this shit over with," he said.

A half-mile down the river, Jason revealed that he had been signed up for Singles Canoes by his parents. "They want me to find someone special and get married," Jason said. "But I only wanna be with them."

You said, "That's sweet." The back of Jason's head was round and sexy. You took the back of the boat because you don't like to be snuck up on over water. You didn't know at the time that his white tee shirt would paste up against his sweaty torso and reveal some of the most delectable upper body muscles you've seen in quite some time.

"God I miss my Dad," he said, letting his oar rest on across his legs.

"How old are you Jason?" you asked. He said he was 39.

For a good length of the canoe trip, you and Jason kept quiet. The only time the two of you spoke was when he told you, unprovoked, that you couldn't have any of his sandwiches.

"Almost time for the barbecue," you said when you saw it was five o'clock.

Jason said, "I hope to try to leave before the barbecue. I wonder if that'll be okay."

You stopped rowing to open up the Singles Canoes brochure. Each single will share a riverside cabin with the single to whom they are assigned and none will be allowed to leave before the awarding of special prizes on the morning following the canoe trip.

You were relieved. "You could try, I suppose."

Jason turned around to see if the amusement he heard in your voice also showed on your face. There was in fact a smirk there.

Jason, of course won't be allowed to leave. And tonight in your cabin, he will be very talky for several hours, promising you that there will be no sex to be had. He'll go on and on about how relations through blood are all that are necessary and that romance is just theft of the heart. Then around midnight, he's gonna stop talking and wait. You'll go to him and pull his head to your breasts, which are awesome.

Jason won't say a word during sex, and he won't let you have any say. When you try to remove his pants, he'll remove your hands from his belt buckle. He'll tug your clothes from your body, guide you to the couch and then remove his clothing himself while you lay across the couch waiting for his next decision. You will be moved from your position on your back across the cushions of the couch, to a standing spot on the rug bent over the arm of the couch and peering into a large mirror fastened above the back of the couch, to the bed, to the headboard of the bed, to the floor by the bed. Each move will occur of a sudden. You will not be consulted beforehand.

Tomorrow morning, you will win tickets to see the Billy Joel musical "Movin' Out." At the barbecue after every canoe trip, Singles Canoes Administrators hand out pens, pieces of paper and envelopes so that each single can write what behavior he or she predicts her assigned single will exhibit following sexual relations that evening. Singles who predict accurately will win one of several prizes provided through sponsoring bodies. Your winning prediction will be, "Jason will stare out the window at the moon and the trees and when I ask him if everything is okay he'll tell me to shut up."

Jason's losing prediction will be, "She'll probably take a bath or some shit like that." When Jason's prediction is revealed to be inaccurate, all of the assembled singles will laugh at him. He'll demand his keys and rush off in his car.

Singles Canoes awards singles that make accurate predictions of their assigned single's behavior because it proves that their canoe trips really help people get to know what makes each other tick.

Happy Singles Canoes Day!

Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!

Scale the trellis with some stealth. Her father has a shotgun. The window isn't going anywhere, so go step by step and keep your weight towards the house. That thing isn't very secure.

Her window will be open, but don't use your voice to wake her. Scratch your fingernail against the screen in swift swipes.

There she is. She's cloudy behind that screen, but she's there.

She'll ask, "What are you doing out there?"

Say "I'm in love with you. I have been since sophomore year."

She'll nod and say mm hmm, scrunching up her nose and rubbing at her eyes when she does it.

"Your boyfriend is wrong for you. My love is true. Please accept it."

When she says, "It's a barbecue," you'll realize she's still half-asleep, in a dream.

Say, "Hey! I need you to get this!"

She'll snap awake and look at you like she just caught sight of you out there.

"That's better," say. "As I was saying, do you wanna go out with me? I love you. Have for a while now."

She'll shake her head.

Ask if it's because she has a boyfriend and explain that she should leave him for you because you're caring and your love is true.

"No," she'll say. "I'm just not attracted to you. I'm too young to settle for the guy who'll take the right care of me."

Blink your eyes, not sure whether you can believe what you're hearing. Remember, you're the only one she should be with, ever.

"For now," she'll say, "I want to raise a little hell. Get hurt a few times. Then I'll make the cautious choice and go for someone like you."

Ask, "How long?"

She'll say "12 years minimum."

Tell her you're gonna go home then.

Happy Climb Up And Tell Her So Day!

13th Birthday Day!

All across the globe, little boys and girls are taking the big step into adolescence today. They are frightened about what is going to happen to them.

"I'm 13 now," they'll say. "I'm going to be pregnant soon."

"Only if you're bad," tell them.

"And what's to become of my genitals?" they'll say.

Show them photographs of your and your wife's genitals.

"Oh," they'll say. "And what about smoking?"

Tell them they're not allowed to smoke until they're 18, but they should try soon. "To find out whether you like it or not," say. "Pot's a gateway drug," add. "If you smoke a joint, you'll get addicted to crack. You won't be able to control yourself. You'll finish smoking pot and you'll immediately go running out the window to buy as much crack as you can."

When the kids start to talk about the long-term psychological effects of knowing that their fathers are cheating on their mothers, pull them all into a group hug and shout at the sun, "Why?!"

Happy 13th Birthday Day!

Three Hot Young Chicks Day!

When three hot, young chicks who work at the same munitions factory decide to rent a house together, they'd better be careful. The intention was to just have a fun time being hot and carpooling to work together. But hot, young chicks bring in outsiders.

Ultimately, one of you (but not you) is going to start dating a middle-aged man and the other two are going to be confused by her choice, considering that there's an army base nearby. The middle-aged man will be married. And he'll be unemployed. And he'll watch a lot of television.

When a house meeting is called to find out what up, it will be revealed that the middle-aged man is actually a middle-aged Man Of God. The one dating him will say he's shown her a path to walk and she's devoted her life to him. "My body and the use of my TV is the least of what I am obliged to give to him." That's when the other two of you will say, "Ahem, whose TV?"

There'll be some violence in July. None of you will be hit directly, but someone will get scared and jam a finger into a dooframe trying to get away from one of his rages. Eventually, the two of you who aren't dating him will go to his wife and tell her that he's straying. The wife will be another one who believes he's holy and she'll understand that he needs more than just one woman to serve him. Back to the drawing board!

It will be quite a shock when you find that he's been running a meth lab in out of your basement. He'll offer you ten percent of profits and just to not get killed, you'll agree to his terms. Late one night, you and the one not dating him will go down to the meth lab and start a meth fire (after drugging his whiskey with a barbiturate of course). You'll run out to the yard and drag the one dating him with you. She'll try to run in and save him, and you'll end up having to punch her out. After a week of deprogramming, you three will take two weeks to go down to Cancun and try to salvage the rest of your summer.

Happy Three Hot Young Chicks Day!

Big Mistake Day!

The note reads as follows:

I have taken her away from you, to my home, where she has always belonged. It was fate that you invited me into your bedroom. The first moment I looked into her eyes it was like we were reunited after a life apart. Vanessa is meant for me. You do not deserve her. Any man who would share her could never deserve her. If you follow us, if you try to take Vanessa from me, you will be killed.

David James

Vanessa was way into bringing home anonymous partners to have sex with while you watched from the chair in the corner. In fact, you can't recall correctly now, but it might have been her idea. Regardless, this David James guy is acting like you dragged her down into something seedy when you know damn well that wasn't the case.

He's the crazy one. That's what you gotta remember. He's a lonely man whom you made the mistake of inviting into your bedroom. He became obsessed with Vanessa and he painted you as the villain blocking him access to his obsession. So he stole her.

Problem is, letting another guy have sex with your wife while you watch is so universally frowned upon that you can't help but internalize his accusations. And as you go about your hunt to get her back, there's gonna be a little seed of doubt growing in your belly. Could you be the monster? You won't know for certain until you break into that basement and untie her (you assume she's tied up in a basement someplace). You won't know for sure until she runs into your arms. Only then will it be clear that she dug having sex with strangers while you watched from your chair in the corner. Only then will it be clear that she is yours.

Happy Big Mistake Day!

After The War Day!

You'll go back to your husband and he'll go back to his wife. Right? That was the plan this whole time. Right? You and he clung to each other only to find some comfort amidst all of this bloodshed and insanity. But your hearts were always back home. Right?

"I mean, can you imagine? Us back home?" you say with a little too ambitious a laugh from the crook of his arm (you're on a chopper to Seoul tomorrow, where you'll meet a boat to the states. He's sticking around to pull the tents out of the ground).

"I can," he says. "I'm a five hour drive from Baltimore."

Your bloodflow came screeching to a halt in your veins when he said that. "So's your wife," you say.

His arm, underneath your head, it's so strong. It's bulletproof. He doesn't move an inch when he says the following: "I'll be with you in America. If you need me to get a divorce, I will. If you need me to stay married, I will. I'll do whatever you ask, as long as you promise that I'll see you in America. This fucking war brought us together. I'm not gonna let it tear us apart."

You've got some thinking to do, pretty young black-haired war nurse you.

Happy After The War Day!

Believe In Him Day!

Some girls think that believing in their boys amounts to being nothing more than a kiss-ass "yes-man." You know better. You know that back-rubs are necessary.

When your boy comes home from a hard day at the laboratory, he'll sit down at the kitchen table and cry. Go to him.

Say, "No progress today baby?"

He'll say, "Science is dead. There's no one left with vision."

Say, "You'll open their eyes."

He'll pull his head out of his hands and look up at you.

Say, "You're going to change this world baby. I know it."

He'll accuse you of knowing nothing about anything and he'll hit you. You'll cower on the floor, wiping the small bauble of blood from your lower lip.

Say, "I don't want you to feel bad about this baby. I don't want it to get in the way of your work."

He'll say, "You believe in me."

You'll say, "I gave up on God the day I met you. I looked into your eyes and I thought this kid can deliver results."

He'll take off his shirt and sit in kitchen chair. You'll get the oil from atop the refrigerator and you'll coat your hands. You'll knead him back on track.

Happy Believe In Him Day!

If You Hurt Her Day!

I'll lift you off the ground by your hair, shove a six foot copper pipe up your ass, then slam you down on the pipe until the pipe rips up through your torso, your throat, your brain, and then cracks through the top of your skull. Then I'll bury the ass end of the pipe in the ground and let abused kids come by my yard and spin you around on the pipe. Then I'll let dogs eat you. She's very special to me and though she comes off as a tough cookie, she's not.

Happy If You Hurt Her Day!

Coonskin Cap Day!

The worst part about your wife cheating on you is that you found out about it because the guy she's having the affair with left his hat underneath your bed. It wasn't your usual hat.

Happy Coonskin Cap Day!

Magic Picnic Day!

Plant the bottle of white into the bed of the creek and let it chill. When you get back to the blanket, your companion (Marie, third date) is sitting there talking to an adorable little six year old boy with a bowl haircut.

"Well who do we have here?" you say as you kneel down to the boy.

"You're not gonna believe this," Marie says. "Tell him."

"I'm Ernest," says the boy.

"Ernest," you smile. "Unusual name."

Marie says, "That was my brother's name. He died when he was sixteen. I was seventeen."

"You never told me…"

Marie shushes you with a wave of her hand. "Tell him who you are. Really."

Ernest smiles like he's trying to hold in a giggle. "I'm going to be your son."

Before you get a chance to think twice you look at Ernest's nose and think, That's Marie's nose.

"Those are your eyes," Marie says to you.

You drop on your ass onto the blanket, staring into the boy's face. You ask how old he is.

"Six."

"And when will you be born?" Marie asks.

Ernest giggles and gives a shrug that makes your heart melt. You put your hand on Marie's shoulder and she grabs it like you're pulling her out of a stormy sea.

"But…I'm your Daddy."

Ernest nods his head real big.

"And I'm you're Mommy?"

Ernest nods again. "You're my Mommy," he says, proud to know the right answer.

You and Marie just look at Ernest and start to laugh with him, occasionally putting your hands to your mouths to stifle a gasp.

"Can I have a grape?" Ernest asks.

You let him pick five grapes from the stalk and he stuffs all five in his mouth at once, making his cheeks bulge out until he sucks in air and squishes it all down and starts to chew.

"Well," Ernest says. "Bye bye."

You hold out your hand to shake. "It was nice meeting you Ernest."

Marie leans over to kiss his forehead. "I can't wait until we meet again."

Ernest giggles. Again he says, "Bye bye." This time with a wave. Then he runs across the grass to disappear into the woods.

You and Marie watch the woods be still for a while, smiling. You're not able to look at each other without filling up with a blush. You kiss a couple times, but you don't say anything. Not even when you get up to get the wine.

When you get to the creek, the bottle of wine is nowhere to be found. You spend maybe five minutes searching up and down the bank, but it's gone. You can't help but think that Ernest had something to do with it. And after he's born into your home with Marie three years from now, every time he giggles and shrugs you'll be dying to shake him by the shoulders and accuse him of running off with your booze that day three years before he was born when he came to you as a spectre.

Happy Magic Picnic Day!

The Driving Test Day!

Your instructor is going to say that you are by far the absolute worst driver he's ever seen. This will happen after you drive up onto a sidewalk and crash through a giant balloon full of banana peels and slice a man clean in two at the waist. Luckily, your driving instructor has a dorky son.

"He goes to your school. You seem real hot. Take my son to the prom and you'll walk away with a driver's license right here this afternoon."

He'll show you his son's picture. You'll recognize the boy. You'll say, "Bobby Boogerbrain? No way!"

The instructor will yank his son's picture away from you. "His name is Bobby McFarlaine. And you just failed your driving test young lady."

You'll feel bad, and a little pissed. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know your son that well. And I already have a date."

"You'll feel even worse ten years from now when my son uses his intelligence to soar to the top of industry," the driving instructor will say.

"Actually, your son isn't all that bright," you'll say. "It's true, he doesn't fit in all that well. But it's not because he's so caught up in school. I'm in way better classes than he is. In fact, I bet a big reason he doesn't really fit in is because he's so dumb."

"Yeah, you're right," the instructor will say. "And I guess he's in no rush to go to prom. He might get held back this year."

Suddenly, you'll agree to take him to the prom. You'll explain why.

"Wait a minute," you'll say. "Maybe a date with me is just the boost of confidence your son needs to get himself on the track to success. I'll do it!"

"Great," the instructor will say. "Looks like you just became a licensed driver."

"Oh no," you'll object. "I'm not doing this to get the license. I just want to help."

"I know," the instructor will say. "And crash or no crash, we need a generous heart like yours out on the road!"

Happy The Driving Test Day!

Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!

You're bored and thirty one. Your mother is bored and disappointed in you. Your father is trying to stave off death with some affairs and some brazen embezzlement. You're taking suggestions.

Which is why you didn't object when your Mom started talking about arranging a marriage for you. She joined this group of mothers who wanted to change their adult children's lives for the better by making their adult children's lifemate decisions for them. Basically, it was a bunch of Moms who were going to mix and match their kids into marriage. As was previously stated, you were bored. And you saw it as just a slightly more aggressive set-up situation.

Problem is, and a blind dead person could've seen this coming, but at the big arranged marriage mixer party, you were introduced to your mate-for-life and you found her to be loathsome. But you met Marty Cooperman's mate-for-life (JULIE!) and you thought she was aces, tits to toes, and she thought the same about you. You asked your Mom to ask THE COUNCIL if you and Julie could be set-up, but the Moms on THE COUNCIL said hells no. Their reasoning was that when you signed on for an arranged marriage, you agreed to submit to their pairing process.

"Everyone who mates according to our decree will only mate for the better," Mrs. Gamberslee, head of the council, declared just before banging her gavel (she just brought it in with her one day)(drunk with power).

What's going to happen is love is going to try to prevail against reason. You and Julie won't be able to keep away from each other. THE COUNCIL is going to order you to cease contact. Julie's gonna pretend to have killed herself, so you're going to kill yourself for reals, then Julie's gonna kill herself for reals, and your Dad's gonna go to jail for falsifying quarterly earnings statements.

Happy Arranged Marriages Are Bad Day!

Muddy The Dirt Day!

Make it so no one can get to her anymore.

Say, "This dirt is too loose baby." Pour your seltzer bottle onto the mound atop her grave until the color of the dirt goes dark. "I know that didn't do enough, but soon it'll rain baby. And the dirt will soak through and then firm up like cement and none of the sons of bitches in this hideous town will ever be able to get near you again."

From where he's standing just a few graves away, Lane will say, "C'mon Greg before someone sees you."

Drop to your knees and hold some of her wet dirt in your fingertips.

"Damn shame," Lane will say, looking off away from you. It's like Lane is the generous-hearted guard who's taking you off to prison and he's giving you one last kiss goodbye with your sweetheart. He's looking away to give you privacy.

So you put the dirt to your lips and give it a kiss. And you feel a little better for doing it. The mud stays on your lips and you'll taste it there for the rest of the afternoon.

"Let's go Greg," Lane says. "Let's go make some motherfuckers pay."

"Okay," you say. You rise from the grave and walk with Lane to his car, which will drive the two of you back to the center of town, where the funeral reception is still in full swing.

Happy Muddy The Dirt Day!

Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!

She left a lipstick stained coffee cup on the dashboard of the getaway car. You already know the answer. And you know that she's pretty much drawn the police a map to your hideout. You should already be out the back door, since the sirens can be heard a ways off. But she thinks that she can shed a few tears and you'll forgive her and take care of everything. Even though that's true, and even though you have around twelve seconds to get the hell out of there, you two find it so hard to actually discuss anything that you only pick the most inopportune moments to make it clear how you feel. Moments that make it impossible to get anywhere near a resolution.

Take the twelve seconds before your desert police chase for example. You want to tell her that, although remembering to toss a lipstick-stained coffee cup out of the getaway car is a small detail, you feel like she missed that detail because this whole bank job was your idea, your creation, and she didn't pay attention to the small details because she never took your work seriously. You want to tell her that you turned down a 6-figure diamond heist last Autumn because she was pregnant, and that even though the miscarriage wasn't her fault, you've nevertheless resented her ever since. You want to tell her that she's always hated you for stealing her away from her District Attorney ex-husband, and that she's grown bored with throwing your promises to go straight up in your face, so now she's decided to go ahead and get you pinched.

"It's how it's gonna end anyhow, so why not get it over with," you want to tell her.

You'd like to hit her. Which is why you place your hands over her tear-stained cheeks. It's like you're hitting her real soft and slow. You say, "What have you done?"

She sniffles. She tries to say I'm sorry but a sob cracks it in two. You grab her by the arm.

"Come on," you say. And you drag her out the back so you can get into the car with the clean plates and start your way bitchin' police chase. She's gonna die before you, but you're gonna die. In a motel room above a bar.

Happy Put Your Hands To Her Tear-Stained Cheeks And Ask Her What She's Done Day!

Just A Faint Wind Day!

The wine glasses hanging above the wet bar in your summer cottage are shaking in their slots, banging together at the steady rhythm of an oncoming train signal. A storm wind sent in through the deck door sent them rattling. The noise wakes you up and sends you into the maniacal clutches of your vengeful ex-husband. The phone is dead.

You were awarded both the summer cottage and the Brooklyn flat, nothing beyond what you'd requested. Both combined don't equal the value of the Greenwich home your ex will be keeping for himself. But Jess didn't want to relinquish his claim on the memories housed inside each.

"Lets sell them both," he offered. "You'll keep all the proceeds."

When you balked, Jess grew more aggressive. Showing up at your sister's where you were staying to argue his case. In twelve minute orations delivered on the front step of her house, he'd complain of you bringing a new man back to his cottage and tainting everything the two of you shared there. "What we have is dead," he once said, back when he could control his anger. "But please don't try to kill what we had."

You told him to speak to his lawyer, who would in turn speak to hers. In the divorce mediation, he let more outbursts against your character fly across the table. At night, he'd pull up outside your sister's house and park there for hours. Until one morning, your sister's son walked out to meet his schoolbus and found a pair of your panties on the front lawn. He brought it into the house and gave it his mother, who handed the pair to you. The next morning, the mediation judge exacted a restraining order upon Jess, and the divorce agreement was rapidly sewn up not long after, since Jess' objections would no longer be granted any merit.

Tonight, the memories built in the cottage remain untainted. You've brought no man home. You're alone, and the wine glasses are clanging away with a sound that should be a signal for nothing. But you have to go and close the deck door. Jess is sitting at the head of the breakfast table. He sits in violation of his restraining order because he has something unpleasant to tell you.

Happy Just A Faint Wind Day!

Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!

Tell her, "These are for your handgun."

She'll say, "Baby, you know I don't have a handgun."

Say, "That's where you're wrong." Then give her the handgun you bought for her from that guy. She'll be so happy.

"Oh my God where on earth did you get the money for this?"

Tell her that you got the gun at a discount because it was used for something pretty bad. But that it's clean. No traceable serial numbers.

"The owner just wanted to get rid of it because he knew the police would trace his crimes back to him one day, and he would be made to pay. When that day comes, he doesn't want the weapon in his house. He wants there to be no physical evidence. He wants to be convicted based only on the accusation and his confession."

Your girlfriend will already have started shooting stuff.

Be encouraging. Say to her, "Wow, that was a nice one," when she hits her intended targets.

I think this is going to be what makes her realize you are the greatest person on the face of the planet. I think this is going to be what makes her kiss you all over your face even on your open eyes.

Happy Give Your Girlfriend A Box Of Bullets Day!

Hats Off Day!

To the son of the bossman for killing the bossman. No more will you have to suffer under the incompetent chicanery of that fool. The whole office should send the son of the bossman a big fat thank you card attached to a little piece of sweet pie. Sure, the son of the bossman killed the bossman only because the bossman was trying to divorce Mrs. Bossman so he could go and live with the mother of his other family. But he should still get a little credit for what he didn't intend. Anyway, take a long lunchbreak and go see Troy and think about what a great guy the son of the bossman turned out to be.

Happy Hats Off Day!

Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!

We checked. Looking at it from all angles, there's very little to top the image of a dude in a blazer who probably just rudely left a table full of future in-laws to chase down the girl he's supposed to be with, but whose family doesn't really have that much money. She'll either be about to marry someone her father picked out for her, or she'll be ethnic and about to board a bus to go home and help her father run the ethnic person's small business he's been running on his own ever since her mother died.

The street's wet but it's not raining. For a huge stretch of it, the stretch in which the concreteness of the dude's resolve is made evident, the street is completely empty, allowing him to sprint into his destiny. Then he'll turn onto an avenue and start tumbling over the hoods of cabs.

The best part, and you fucking know I'm right, is when he finally reaches the girl as she's getting into a cab/wedding dress and says what he has to say, she won't necessarily run off to be with him. If she does, all of us out on our stoops are happy because the young kids in love are gonna live happily ever after. If she doesn't, it'll be because she realized that life isn't a fairy tale, and he'll realize it too, and all of us out on our verandas (we're all wearing white) are happy because the young kids in love learned something.

Fuck it, even if he's trying to return American Wedding before Blockbuster closes, as long as the DVD is kept concealed inside his blazer the image of the dude running down the middle of the street is way bitchin. Today, as he runs past you, shout "Go get her. She's the one!" Then go inside your living room and eat out your wife.

Happy Running Down The Middle Of The Street To Stop A Chick From Making A Big Mistake: Still Awesome! Day!

By Candlelight Day!

You do coke only by candlelight. You're trying to preserve the romance of recreational cocaine use. Only problem is, immediately after you take a hit, you wanna take the candle flame and set fire to anything in your house that'll catch. You let the flames crawl up the curtains and across the couch cushions and you sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor in your briefs and you just giggle like a baboon. Then you come down just in time to get out of the house while there's still a path through the fires.

Today you're moving into your new split-level. The adjuster will be over later to give you the check paying off your last claim and to tell you that they're not going to insure you anymore, which is cool. The adjuster is pretty smokin', but you've been laying off out of respect for your professional relationship. But now that her company won't work with you anymore, she's fair game. Offer her some coke and a match. The only thing better than the blood pounding through your veins to the pulse of a fire raging through your living room is to have someone who looks good in her underwear standing by your side while it's happening.

Happy By Candlelight Day!

Your Little Weekend Away Day!

The closest you ever came to love was the three-star hotel birthday weekend you spent with your friend's wife. You bought the room on Priceline and you'd intended to invite everyone over to trash the place in celebration of your thirtieth. But when you joked to Lydia over email about you and her keeping it to yourselves, she asked for the room number.

After the first sex, she said things with her and Mark (your buddy) were over and that you shouldn't feel guilty. Mark was out in LA, getting things ready for Lydia to follow him out there. Lydia told you she wasn't going to go. After the second sex (in the shower) she wanted booze so you went out and got it. When you got back, you were surprised to see her still there. But she was crying. You didn't try to comfort her, you just poured two glasses from the bottle and waited for her to drink her tears down. Then you had sex and fell asleep.

The next day, Saturday, you woke up and had breakfast and some sex. Then you bought The Bourne Identity on the hotel Pay Per View and watched it. After the Bourne Identity, you started drinking again, both of you. You had really, really good sex at 3 o'clock that day. Her back was flat up against the headboard for a good hunk of it. It was aces. By 7 o'clock, you both wanted out, but instead you took a bath together. You held her in your arms, thinking about your Mom and Dad. She lay against you, thinking whatever she was thinking. By ten o'clock you were both good and drunk. For around forty minutes she was hysterical, laughing and crying. You ordered a pizza from room service so you'd have enough food in the two of you to sleep through the night.

The next morning, Sunday, you woke up early and tried to order porn on the pay-per-view, but the porn option was unavailable. You assumed it was because it was Sunday or something. That bummed you out. You'd been trying all weekend to get up the nerve to suggest the two of you watching porn while fucking, then when you woke up that Sunday you figured fuck it, I'll just turn on the porn and see what she does. But there wasn't any porn to be had so you just had quiet, sleepy sex then lay around for an hour or so. You went in and took a shower by yourself and when you came out, she was gone. There were several goodbye parties for Mark and Lydia over the next couple months and you avoided them all. You haven't spoken to Lydia since. Mark's emailed you once or twice and you've been cordial.

Today's the two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary of that last morning in your hotel room together. Write Lydia a postcard wishing her a happy two-year-seven-month-and-thirteen-day anniversary and ask her if she had a nice time with you.

Happy Your Little Weekend Away Day!

You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!

You don't really like Candy. But the first time you opened the zipper on her pants you saw a snowball fight you had when you were nine, plain as if you were watching a movie. You could have stood there for hours staring at her crotch, just watching a nine-year old you duck behind a fort for protection from a volley of snowballs, but Candy made you have sex with her.

So Candy is getting a little bit harder to tolerate with every date, but in the three times you've gone home together since that first snowball fight vision, you've seen your big brother beat you in the face with a dustpan when you were six, you've seen your childhood cat Fred deliver her kittens when you were eleven, and you've seen a ten year old you put your hand on the chest of ten year old Janice, the girl who lived two houses down. You plan to keep sleeping with Candy until you get to see your Dad come out of his anesthesia after the open heart surgery he had when you were fourteen. You're hoping to make out whether he really muttered the word "failure."

Just nod and smile.

Happy You Can See The Past In Her Pants Day!

Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!

Tell him about the five course dinner you just ate. And the big expensive play you just saw. And the operation you elected to have. And the big expensive things you constantly buy. When you bring hookers home, have them stop in front of the doorman and say to them, "Ladies, tell Jerry how much each of you cost."

Then go down the line as each of your evening's hookers sounds off with her price tag (don't do this if any of your evening's hookers cost less than 500 dollars).

Additionally, sometimes your doorman brings his son in to work with him. Usually on Saturdays. That's when you should have your son play with his most expensive toys in the lobby. And hire a clown to come to the lobby and play with your son.

If your doorman doesn't get jealous at all that, he must be pretty happy with his life. He's probably in love. Or he's a Taoist. You can't piss those dudes off.

Happy Make Your Building's Doorman Jealous Day!

Make Up A Kid Day!

Get a custom-made mug with a picture of a baby all over it and caption the photo with the declaration: "I Wish I Loved Him But I Don't." When a coworker raises his eyebrow at the mug while you're getting a coffee fillup in the break room, say, "Yeah. That's my son Joey."

Your coworker won't know what to say and will try to leave. Block the doorway.

"Everything else in my life feels so right. My job. My marriage to my husband. My parents are my best friends in the world."

Step closer.

"But my son, when I hold him, I feel...unmoved. It feels like we're remaining mother and son out of duty." Sip your coffee. "Sometimes I wonder if I only had him out of a sense of fashion."

Then slip out of the breakroom without a goodbye, go to your department manager and tell him you accept his offer to go perm.

Happy Make Up A Kid Day!

Scene Of The Crime Day!

When the victim's mother arrives at the scene of the crime and demands that she see the body of her daughter, initiate an affair. She'll be comforted by the warm touch of a new man, and you'll feel just a little less impotent in your ability to right the wrongs of this city.

People die around you left and right, and so many of the killers are never found. Or if they are found, they've already been killed by someone else. It's beginning to seem like killing is a reasonable conclusion to a relationship and when you start poking around to find out who did it and why, you're just being nosey.

What's kept you from quitting homicide is meeting the mothers. They're still reacting with horror when their sons and daughters are murdered. When you see their tears and hear their screams, you're reminded of what's right. Act on behalf of the grief of the mothers. If you can't give with justice, offer them the comfort of your embrace over a series of discreet late-evening engagements. Your wife won't understand that by having sex with the bereaved, you're just trying to make your city a better place for your two daughters and her daughter from a previous marriage. So keep it on the hush hush.

Happy Scene Of The Crime Day!

1...2...3...Brush Day!

Getting your wife to brush her teeth is no small feat. She hates the feeling of having something plastic inside her mouth and she thinks her teeth are indestructible little weapons more powerful than solid steel. And when you tell her her breath smells, all she says is "Fuck you royally."

You're going to have to combine brushing her teeth with a race for some chicken. Tonight, come home from the store with a full rotisserie chicken in a see through container. Your wife will see the chicken and throw herself from her chair, swinging her arms out in front of her to grab at the bird and stuff it into her mouth. Just hold the tray up above your head and make her jump for it and kick at your shins. Once she's settled down a bit, tell her you want to play a game.

Put the chicken up atop the kitchen cabinets and take her into the bathroom with you. Tell her that on the count of three, the two of you will start to brush. And the first person who manages to scrub every accessible surface of every tooth three times gets the entire chicken.

"And the loser?" she'll ask.

"The loser doesn't eat until morning."

Your wife will smile that same beautiful smile she wore when she looked up and said I do. "Hope you had a big fuckin' lunch dickhead cause you're going down!" she'll say.

Your wife will snap her fingers in front of your eyeballs, then wheel around and grab for a toothbrush. Before you start the count, she'll strip down to her waist (she has to do that before brushing). When she's ready, apply toothpaste to each of your toothbrushes, and get them held at the ready.

"1…2…3…and BRUSH!"

And simple as that, your wife will brush her teeth with such a fury her naked breasts will ripple like a lake in the rain. Those grunts coming out of her mouth will be the sound of months and months of plaque and grime being ripped away from her teeth. You'll look into the mirror at the steady cascade of foam pouring from her lower lip and you'll want to cry. You'll have done it. Your wife's teeth will finally be clean.

"YEAH!" she'll scream through her mouth full of foamy paste, her toothbrush held in the air. "Go get me my chicken bitch, and I want your skinny ass to watch me eat every bite! Go on!"

You'll rinse your mouth clean and then go and set the chicken down in front of your wife's seat at the table. You'll sit across from her ad watch her as she makes exaggerated groans of ecstasy after every bite. You'll have to eat a quick dinner before you come home every night from now on. But it's worth it. Her teeth are worth it.

Happy 1…2.…3…Brush Day!

Homoerotica Day!

Today, all homoerotica is half off. This includes homoerotic literature, homoerotic pornography, and the homoeroticism of the dirty conversations you have with your roommate. The kind where your roommate, purportedly straight, asks you if you've "banged" a particular woman you've been seeing, and you respond that, yes, you and she are pretty serious now. Which elicits a frothing response from your roommate, something along the lines of "Aww yeah! Yeah! You banged that pussy! Yeah! Make that pussy SCREEEAM! Yeah! I really like pussy. Really. I really do." Your roommate then presses you for details, which you refuse to provide. Your roommate asks questions about the woman's anatomy, such as, "Does she have big tits" and "Does she have a nice ass you know the kind." You just shake your head. At which point, without explanation yet without fail, your roommate launches himself across the living room to tackle you on the couch and bounce his weight upon you, occasionally crawling up to grind his ass into your face*, all the while screaming in a high pitched voice as if he were the woman you were having sex with. That conversation, for today only, is half off.

Happy Homoerotica Day!

*He once bloodied your nose.

Croydon Station Day!

Like the song says, "Take me to the bench at Croydon Station and finger me blind."

The last Northeast Corridor train stops at 10:42 PM. After that, consider that bench your honeymoon bed, that shelter your five star hotel. Dough, your boyfriend, has weed and his brother's car. But his brother took out the back seat to make room for his amps, so you need someplace to spread out. Just try not to remember when Jonathan, your ex took you there on his birthday. You might start crying, which really gets Dough angry.

Happy Croydon Station Day!

Maximum Rock And Roll Day!

Hug your dolly. Tell your dolly you love her. Say, "I love you dolly." Get so tripped out that you think your dolly is real and you pour imaginary tea down her throat from an empty tea cup. But go full throttle. Set up an entire tea party table, with lacey table cloth and everything. Then talk to your plastic dolly as if the two of you were a couple of gossipy 19th century society types. You are so out of your mind little girl. You are maximum rock and all, tits to toes.

Happy Maximum Rock And Roll Day!

Blood On The Hula Hoop Day!

Guy got shot doing a hula hoop. Got shot in the belly. Kids. Drove past saw guy out on his driveway doing the hula hoop with a big smile on his face, like he knows everyone in their cars is loving it. Bang. Some kid just leaned a gun out his window and shot the guy's gut wide. He was hula hooping then this POP! Of blood blurts out from the middle of him and his hands slap down at his belly and he flops backwards. Man did he scream. The car that shot him zipped into the back driveway of a strip mall across the street, but all the other cars, we all just stayed in the lane waiting for the turning light. A couple people pulled over onto the median and ran out to help. But most everyone else just waited to turn. And you know that intersection. That light lets three cars turn at the most. So we waited for the light to change about four times, just staring at that guy writhing on the ground, people leaning over him. Just edged up to the intersection a little bit by bit. Then finally we turned onto 223 and headed on to Grandmom's.

Happy Blood On The Hula Hoop Day!

On To The Bars Day!

Hit the bars tonight. Bring Dave and Joey and tell them to bring some girls. Bring Brad, Johnny, and Frank and tell them to bring some girls. They know girls. Bring Kevin, Lewis, Jeff, Amrit, and Jacques and tell each of them:

"Don't forget. Six girls each."

Six girls each that you don't know. Six girls each who don't know your nickname (The Heater). Six girls each from Kevin, Lewis, Jeff, Amrit, and Jacques equals 30 girls right then and there.

"How can I lose?"

You'll find a way baby. So stack the odds. Invite Theodore. He always has girls. Tell him it would be a good idea if he brought some of them with him.

"The hot ones Theodore. Not Deborah!"

"Ah," Theodore will say. "But Deborah is the most beautiful of all. You just haven't spoken to her long enough to see what depths she possesses. For instance—"

"Shut it Theodore! Her teeth are too big."

"Her teeth," Theodore will say. "Such stark white totems of…"

Hang up on Theodore and hit the online personals. Create a profile so witty and weighed down with obscure pop culture references that no HoneyBabyOne will be able to resist. Check back an hour after the profile posts and only scroll through the replies that have the phrase, "LOVE Your Profile! ROTFL!" in the subject lines.

Still a couple hours before you have to hit the first bar. Call everyone in forty five minutes to see how they're doing with the whole "Corralling Women" project. The two guys who are showing the least incentive should be disinvited. Then, hit the chin up bar. Get those arms into "Feel This Muscle" shape. Tonight's your night.

Make.

It.

Count.

Happy On To The Bars Day!

Plaster Head Day!

Have your friend Lou sculpt a perfect plaster sphere around your head. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just a round, milk-white ball growing out of your neck. This way, no one will be able to look into your eyes and realize you’re the one they want. This way, no one can rub their noses up against yours and feel like they've just been sent back into the warm wet womb with a fun little splash. This way, no one can watch what your lips do when they wrap up around a beer bottle, leaving them no choice but to grab you by the shirt collar and drag you home to meet their parents. This way, you won't have to buy so many hair products.

You're either going to have to be fed intravenously or suck all your food through a tube that's cemented into the base of the sphere and permanently inserted inside your mouth. But with a tube in your mouth all the time, you'll probably get nervous and chew on it. Go with the intravenous.

If you're not into the plaster sphere, get under the covers. No one will find you under the covers. No one will find you under the covers.

Happy Plaster Head Day!

The Bridesmaid Died Day!

The body of work she left behind has been well documented, but none of the articles mention the promise she broke. Two little sisters of ten and eleven shook on it.

"When I get married, you'll be my maid of honor."

"And when I get married, you'll be mine."

As the years passed, you both lost the little girl daydream of a princess wedding. But when your sister finally got married, to her editor, that promise might as well have been written in blood. She wouldn't in a million years have asked anybody else. Out of respect for the silly little girls the two of you were for so many years.

The articles made mention of you. "…Leaving behind her parents and a sister of 34 years…" And there was even a short piece in today's Daily News about your wedding. "…sister of the recently deceased Booker Prize winner Kate Ashton, who died of a prescription drug overdose this past…" A slow news day when a story fleshed out from a marriage announcement gets run on page 8. No reporters spoke to you, and you're glad. If they had, you might have mentioned that Kate was supposed to be your maid of honor, and the writer would have wrapped an angle around the grieving bride who just wishes her sister could've been by her side on this beautiful day. If they found out you were going it bridesmaidless, the story might've made it to page 2.

Your mother offered to stand in your sister's stead, but you wanted to leave it empty. Your aunts will think it's out of respect for her memory. That no one can fill her place by your side. Let them think that. Let them be wrong.

That space by your side will be the void left behind by a promise broken. You'll be alone at that altar because a trust was betrayed. You held up your end of the bargain. You put on the lime green dress at her wedding. You did it happily. Because you promised.

"Where the hell are you Katie?" You fix your veil in the mirror. You're unhappy with the bosom of your gown. But you're very happy with the little tiny waist it cuts you. There's eye makeup on your eyes. Someone put it there when you weren't looking. It looks okay enough.

"And when I get married, you'll be mine," you tell your reflection. "Guess you thought I'd never find a guy, right Katie?"

You adjust your veil for the ten hundredth time, then you take a deep breath.

"Your word is for shit Katie," you say to the mirror. The you go downstairs to find your place on the dead empty side of a church altar.

Happy The Bridesmaid Died Day!

You Can Bring Home The Bacon Day!

You can let the bacon sit in the freezer until you move out of your apartment and you have to empty the place out to get your deposit back.

Jena used to cook bacon. On Saturday mornings. The first few times it was a lark. She'd laugh while she cooked it. You laughed while you ate it. You both felt like you were play-acting, doing what your parents used to do on Saturday mornings. It was funny lookin'.

After a few months, bacon became a part of the nutritious Saturday morning breakfast in apartment 22D. Every morning, Jena would wake up, brew the coffee, and get started on bacon and either eggs or pancakes. She didn't laugh while she cooked it anymore. And you didn't laugh while you ate it. Which of course made you look more like your parents than ever, because neither of you could see how funny lookin' it was.

Jena started working on Saturdays when she got promoted to adminstrative director at the theater. You went back to egg sandwiches from the deli, if you got out of the apartment in time for breakfast at all. Things didn't feel right. You never noticed it then, but the problem was that you stopped looking like your parents, which was funny lookin', whether you knew it or not. Around that time, not a lot was funny lookin' to you and Jena.

You bought the bacon today thinking you might make yourself some this Saturday. You won't, but maybe one day you'll bring someone home who'll find the bacon in the freezer and cook it up for the two of you. If not, the freezer will keep it from going bad until you have to move out.

Happy You Can Bring Home The Bacon Day!

Couch Love Interrupted Day!

Tonight when you're making out with your boyfriend on the couch, the kid you're babysitting will fall in the pool. He won't drown, but he can't swim. Your boyfriend will jump in to save him.

Afterwards, you'll dry the kid off and give him a lot of ice cream and you'll try to get it across that he shouldn't tell his mom. Luckily, the kid will think your boyfriend is a hero and he'll want to be like him. So all you'll have to do is get your boyfriend to talk to the kid about how this should all just be a secret between a couple cool guys who know how to keep quiet about stuff. The kid won't say a word to his mom. For like three weeks.

Happy Couch Love Interrupted Day!

Jimmy, Age 9, Waterslide Hotshot Day!

No one thinks you can do it Jimmy. It looks like a desperate move to remain relevant. It looks like you got something to prove.

"If this story's gotta end, might as well give it a big finale."

But Jimmy, it's suicide.

"Maybe. Or maybe it'll be the biggest thing to every cascade down those tubes."

C'mon Jimmy, you had a good run and you got a lot ahead of you. The waterslide is a little kid's sport. So what if Dayton McAfree—

"DON'T…ever say that name to me again."

Let go of my neck Jimmy.

"Sorry."

He's a good kid Jimmy. He's got talent.

"He's got a knack for gimmicks is what he's got. Trying to beat the record in a sandpaper wetsuit."

Yeah, but he beat it.

"With no respect for the slippery!"

Jimmy, really, don't do it.

"I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna climb the tubes and jump three different slides in one turn before I hit the splash pool."

And you're really gonna tie ten pound weights to every limb?

"You bet your motherfuckin' ass."

You want your finale to take place in the emergency room?

"My finale's gonna be in the splash pool. And it's gonna be painted on the faces of every last one of you who didn't think I had it in me anymore. I only got about sixty or seventy summers left. Better make this one count."

I'll be waiting at the bottom Jimmy.

"With some peanut butter sandwiches?"

And sliced bananas.

"Thanks Mom."

Happy Jimmy, Age 9, Waterslide Hotshot Day!

In The Baby Cemetery Day!

"You never look at me. I only know that because I look at you a lot."

You smile and take a sip from your cup of beer, spilling a bit from your lips. It seems all night long you haven't been able to take a sip without spilling a bit down your chin, onto your shirt sometimes, always wiping it away with the back of your hand. You wipe this spill away with the back of your hand, because you're going to have to try to kiss her soon.

"I thought you liked Lisa for a while." She pours some beer into the grassy grave of Jessica Hoyle, 1975-1978.

"No." You did like Lisa. You do. But Lisa's had the same boyfriend since sophomore year, and Lisa's not here, telling you she looks at you a lot.

"I hate beer." She pours some more of her cup into the grass. "Just being here is so horrible. Why always the baby cemetery?"

You take another sip and wipe your chin with the back of your hand. "More trees. Cops can't see us from the street. Less chance of getting raided."

She says, "It's like nothing we do here is disrespectful because the very fact that we would ever even come here and put a keg down on one of these graves is so disrespectful, we can't top it with our behavior once we're here."

"I don't think of it as any different," you say. "Every grave, no matter how old or how they died, everyone met the same fate. Everyone here stopped." You take a sip, wipe your chin but it's dry. You take another sip and wipe your chin and you say, "I look at you."

She doesn't look at you. Just looks ahead with a smile.

"I looked at you the first day when you walked into homeroom."

"What was I wearing?" she asks.

"Blue tank top. White skirt. Light blue, the tank top. You have a dark blue one too."

Her cheeks are big and fat like a baby's when she smiles like she's smiling now. Her free hand's in the grass next to your leg. You take a sip, and slip your hand over hers. You finish your cup. Both of you race your thumbs overtop each other, down into the crook between thumb and forefinger, then back up and over. She only turns her head to you when you lean over and she meets your kiss.

The kiss is just one, long and still. Then she moves her lips and you move yours, and you're kissing. You put the beer in the grass by your side and you put that hand on her shoulder. Then you let go of her hand and wrap that arm around her back. She follows suit, pulling you towards her. You move to your knees and she reclines so that you can climb atop her, the two of you stretched across the graves of Mae Franklin, 1989-1989, Martin Ganz, 1963-1969, and of course, Jessica Hoyle, 1975-1978.

Happy In The Baby Cemetery Day!

Unicorn Fiiiiiiiiiiiight Day!

Apparently, the one unicorn stepped on the other unicorn's hoof. The second unicorn spun around and spilled a little bit of his beer on his pelt. He started yelling, "What the fuck is your problem? Look at what you made me do mother fucker. You get dizzy from suckin' so much dick all day?"

The first unicorn tried to apologize and offered to buy a round. But the second unicorn just kept talking about "respect" and "think 'cause I wasn't born from a waterfall?" and "spotted hooves." The first unicorn's friends (six black females in their 30's) were trying to intercede. They seemed to know the second unicorn. They were calling him "Walsh."

But "Walsh," the second unicorn, just kept his eyes on the first unicorn, who met the stare with a stony mouth and seemed to be growing impatient. It should be noted that Walsh's friends (an Asian couple) appeared to back away from him. He'd occasionally direct his comments to them at their table, looking for support, but they just tried to look down into their pint glasses.

Finally, the first unicorn spoke calmly and directly to Walsh. "Sir, I've apologized. I would be happy to buy you another drink. I want no trouble. However, if you insist on causing trouble, this won't end well for you. Please accept my apology."

This was all Walsh needed. He started shouting, "He's talkin' bout trouble. You heard that?" shouting at everyone in the bar. Walsh was clearly a regular there, based on the heads shaking left and right on both sides of the bartop. "You want some trouble then?" And that's when Walsh slapped horns with the first unicorn.

It was over before anyone had a chance to take a gasp. The first unicorn slapped his horn smack into Walsh's jowel. Walsh's head whipped left and the first unicorn bent low and smacked his horn flat up into Walsh's ribcage, drawing from Walsh's lungs a high-pitched whinny, the sound of the last breath he'd take for several minutes. The first unicorn sidestepped into Walsh, slamming him up against the jukebox with no effort at all. Walsh was paralyzed. The only thing holding him up was the weight of the first unicorn pressed up against his side. The first unicorn started demanding of Walsh in an enraged growl, "You gonna cool down baby? You gonna cool down?" It took a second for the first unicorn to realize he wasn't getting an answer because Walsh had no breath to carry his response. The first unicorn stepped away and let Walsh slide down to the floor. He stepped back and let the Asian couple help Walsh out the front door.

The mood in the bar afterwards was noticably more jovial. There was no applause or anything like that. But the first unicorn (I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name), he handled the situation, and even the brawl, with more grace than anyone could have expected. His fellow patrons were grateful and relieved. The fate of their Friday night had been placed in his hands, and he'd been sure to make it a good one.

Happy Unicorn Fiiiiiiiiiiiight Day!

This Wife Will Change Your Life (For The Slightly Better)! Day!

When you married her, you hoped she might send things on an upswing. And she has, to a degree. You make more money now (1200 dollars more) and you have sex sometimes (twice today). You can't complain.

Or can you? Take a look at the deficits. For example, she got sick last January (THE MUMPS) and you spent lots of hours being concerned when you could have been at peace. And what about the baby? That thing just bleeds money. And then there's the silences that are getting longer and making you wonder whether you made the right decision.

If you're wondering whether you made the right decision, can it really be said that this wife has been a positive addition to your life?

Then again, she does make her own candy.

Happy This Wife Will Change Your Life (For The Slightly Better)! Day!

Twelve Thousand Bats Day!

Your favorite sports bar used to be a speakeasy with many private rooms outfitted for bootleg gin, poker, and "other." Some of these rooms have been renovated for storage and for private meeting rooms. Some have not been opened. In one of them there live 12,000 bats.

That one room, the one with the 12,000 bats, the bar back just discovered the sealed up door that leads to it. He presently has the dishwasher and the grill cook trying to pry it open with various heavier kitchen utensils. When they get it open, not all 12,000 bats will pour out into the bar area. Maybe a good two or three thousand. Anyway, enough bats will pour out to cloud over the entire giant plasma screen currently showing the Knicks-Spurs game. So you're going to miss your game. And you're going to get bit on the nose, cheek, neck, and scalp. Bit by bats.

Some of the bats are freakishly huge. Like eight pounds.

Happy Twelve Thousand Bats Day! Button up.

She Has A Fucking Bird Day!

Everything about her seemed perfect. She's got a lot of money and she drinks constantly. You should've known it was too good to be true.

"This is Arnold. Say hello."

You peer through the little bars into the eyes of the perfect yellow parakeet, trying to steady your drunken legs, afraid you might fall over and grab at the cage for balance. You take half a step back to get the bedpost within reach.

"Say hello I said."

"Hello. Arnold, hello."

Arnold doesn't say anything.

She says, "Arnold is the most important thing in my life."

You sit on the bed, remembering how good the sex had been in your tiny apartment following the first two dates. You can't wait to get into her place and see what a trust fund can buy. You discover that it can buy an average apartment with an additional small alcove room that could be used as a study or extra storage. In this case, extra storage.

"My soul's in there."

"What?"

She puts the tip of her finger in between the bars of the cage. Arnold pokes at it with his beak. "Inside that little yellow body. When Arnold flutters his wings, my stomach grows unsettled. He contains my essence."

Why do you keep your essence locked up in a cage, often blinded by a white lace-fringed doily?

"That's nice."

"Did you see the way he just looked at you?"

No. Is he taking a shit?

"Arnold is uncertain of you. I can't have sex in here tonight."

"Should we go back to my..."

"Lay here on the bed by my side but don't touch me. Arnold has to absorb you."

You lay on the bed, so terribly disappointed in yourself. From the pillow, "Do you have anything to drink?"

She goes to the kitchen and returns with an unopened bottle of vodka and two glasses. "I don't have any limes."

You drink with the lights on bright. You don't speak. Arnold holds her soul motionless on his perch, occasionally crying out for no discernable reason. Birds cry out from time to time.

Happy She Has A Fucking Bird Day!

You Need A Place To Stay, And It's Raining Day!

Naturally, you call your ex-girlfriend, the one with whom you had an incomparable erotic connection. A physical understanding that left the two of you unable to occupy the same physical space without screaming. It began to seem like the sex took place solely to give the screaming an appropriate context.

So anyway, you need a place to stay for the night. You have the cash for a hotel, but call her. Because you haven't done the wrong thing in a very long time.

I have a husband.

You don't dignify that with a response.

But he's at his parents' house for the weekend.

You ask if her buzzer's still broken.

When she says hi, she's sweet. You don't remember her being sweet. Her kiss in the doorway is gentle. It's loving, searching. The sex begins on the living room floor but ends in her bed, properly.

What's the boyfriend like?

He's kind. Rich. He loves me.

You can't believe you're gonna ask this. Um, kids?

She turns her head on its side to give you a silly smile. I'd say so. I'd say if you come back here in two years I'll be a mom.

You want to tell her about your pending divorce, but it's suddenly too depressing. Instead, you want to ask whether what the two of you were has been erased by the four and a half years that followed. But instead you ask:

Why'd you do this?

Wanted to find out. She's still smiling silly.

Did you?

Didn't you?

She's still got a smile. You return it. You take her in your arms and the two of you hug there on the bed in silence, both aural and physical. You hold her still for an hour and a half, before going to the yellow pages to locate a hotel.

Happy You Need A Place To Stay, And It's Raining Day!

Running For President Day!

Instead of running for president, Lucy's gonna get drunk with her boyfriend, have sex with him one last time, then break up with him.

"I just think we don't really have a shot at anything awesome," she'll say to him. She'll sit Indian style on the edge of the bed, giving her naked stomach a crease. He'll lay along the length of the bed with his back up on the pillows.

"You're just trying to kill it before you have to put any effort in. It's what you always do," he'll say.

"What do you mean, like I always do? What else have I given up on?"

His eyes go wide with disbelief. "How's that presidential run coming?"

"2008. You'll see."

"And the massage therapy license?"

She'll say this to her knees. "Carpal tunnel. I told you."

"Right," he'll say. "And how's the drug dealing coming along?"

"Oh for God's sake. There's too much competition."

"You never even tried to get a supplier!"

"Maybe I would've been dealing drugs by now if you'd offered some words of support instead of throwing all my failures up in my face all the time."

He won't say anything at first. Then, "You're right. I'll try harder to be supportive if you'll stay."

"No," she'll say.

Happy Running For President Day!

Mincemeat Ate A Breathmint Day!

That's why her tongue's hanging out like that. Cats aren't used to retsin. Just keep an eye on her. Mostly to see that she's alright, but partially, to see what will happen. Her tongue's been hanging out for a half hour already. And she's flicking her whiskers the way she does when she gets them dipped into some spilt syrup. Pretty sweet.

Happy Mincemeat Ate A Breathmint Day!