Happy (3 days after) Thanksgiving!

So, it was 85 degrees here on Thursday. Yeah, 85. This isn't some weird post I forgot to put up back in July, it's the end of November, and it was Thanksgiving, and it was so hot Becky and I wore tank tops and were sweating our asses off because someone had the audacity to make us bake on such a hot holiday.



You can't tell from my cell phone picture, but we are sweaty, and in matching tank tops - because when people ask us if we're twins we like to make it that much more awkward when we say no. I'd also like to point out that we look absolutely nothing alike in this picture - we're both tall, but that's about it. Had I angled the camera down a few inches you would have been made insanely aware of the fact that Becky's bra can hold three of mine inside of it and that my legs start around her belly button. Our limbs are sometimes like a baby giraffe's or one of those wind blown dudes at a used car store.



So, Thanksgiving was weirdly hot and made me miss weather ("This is Ohio, we have weatha.") a lot. Like leaves that fall, and skies that get cloudy, and waiting anxiously like a 3 year old for the first snow, and then walking around in it after consuming gallons of wine and proclaiming "This is a Winter Wonderland!", because the first snow - untouched, freshly fallen, white snow - is glittery, and smooth, and if you're from California it looks fake, like Disneyland sparkly fake, and you just want to cry when you realize - nope, all this gorgeous white stuff - that's real. (Well, that and because you're still drunk, and you cry a lot when you're drunk; ask boyfriends 3 through 7) Of course, four hours later it's brown mush, and you've got 8 months of not being able to take out your trash without stepping in pee-snow, but still, it's pretty for a while.

Anyway, I was totally missing that. And then I watched some people jump in the ocean after their Thanksgiving dinner just across the street from my Mom's house and they didn't immediately die of hypothermia, or drown because there's no salt to help them float, in fact they stayed out their enjoying it for a long time, and then I looked down the coast and there were tons of people at the beach, just being all thankful for year-round tans and the fact that 'getting the winter gear out' means the warm hoodies. And I gotta admit, that is pretty nice. Being able to wear flip flops no matter what time of year it is.

Doesn't mean I don't miss this though, cause I do.




So cold, but so fun.


(For the first seven months anyway.)

I Now Will Have Dumbo Stuck In My Head For The Next Five Years

Last night was dinner-with-my-brother night, and instead of going out with my Mom we went out with my Dad, which was totally different a) because with my Mom we always eat out, because we love eating out, but also because since she hooked up with E she doesn't cook for herself, pick out her own clothes, or drive herself anywhere anymore. The other day she came in wearing something very comfortable looking, something very much like the way I remember my Mom from childhood, and I went up and hugged her, half expecting to smell Obsession and Suave hairspray, and having to duck out of the way of curls because they used to be stiff little spirals of eye-gouging death - but her hair was soft, and she smelled like fancy new-Mom, and when I asked her about the change in wardrobe she said, "Oh, E left early this morning so I had to pick out my own clothes. I think I got this in 1989," she said proudly.

"It shows," I commended.

"Right? I love it. The 80s are back."

"Not in the carpet-jacket shoulder-pad sort of way."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Remember when I wanted to get blue eyeliner tattooed on my eyes?"

"Every day of my life."

"Maybe I should do that. You can't go wrong with blue eyeliner."


And this is why it's ok E insists on being her fashion stylist.


Anyway, dinner with Michael was also different because b) it was at our house, and Michael is not used to being there, so upon arrival he opened every cupboard, went through every drawer, opened every single piece of mail we had and then flung the bills and letters to the floor, choosing to focus on the envelopes, flushed the toilet a few times for good measure, and then ran* back and forth between my room and Becky's room trying to decide which bed was going to be most comfortable for him to relax on. (He chose mine. No surprise there. I'm the favorite - but only in the way I'm also the dog's favorite. I give the dog human food when she looks at me all cute-like, and I give Michael pretty much anything he wants when he looks at me all cute-like. Lesson: if you want something from me, look cute.)

(*Michael doesn't run, he stomps. I'm not sure if it's his cerebral palsy or that he never learned, but stomping quickly is about as fast as he goes. Becky doesn't run either, and she definitely doesn't have cerebral palsy. I think it's just a thing they decided they weren't going to do when they were in the womb together. That and clean their own dishes. "No running, no dishes, lets get ourselves born!")

When we're out with my Mom, Michael tends to act slightly adult. He asks to listen to Michael Jackson, he doesn't want to hear the Disney songs we usually sing to him, and you can just forget about hugging in public. But when my Dad showed up he was immediately pulling out the Dumbo tape we played on a loop from 1983-2001, letting me dance with him (ok, fine, near him) and sitting all two bills of himself down on my Dad's lap. Michael is not a small guy, he probably outweighs my dad, and is the same height (the men in my family cap out at 5'8 while the women don't drift under 6' which makes family photos awesome), and so within 5 minutes my dad had lost all feeling in his legs and was beginning to look a little faint, but nobody wanted to tell Michael to move because it was so f-ing cute, and lovey, and adorable that my 27 year old brother wanted to be sitting on my Dad's lap that we just let him sit there, giggling, and happy, and smiling this smile that can break my heart from four billion miles away. And then I looked over and saw Becky smiling and laughing at the whole scene, and suddenly I couldn't stop looking back and forth cause here were the twins, smiling, and happy at the same time.

It was so goddamn magical that you could have asked me for my first born son last night and he would have been yours. He would have been yours a hundred times over.





Ok, not really. I want my first born son. My second though, he's all yours.

Mr. Balboa

Tell me this isn't the cutest little sucker you've ever seen! His name is Rocky. I will be shoplifting him later today.

Ok, not really but if I was slightly more angsty and teenagey I would be shoplifting him, and then stealing a pack of my Dad's cigarettes and smoking them behind the weird water shed in the middle of town, while I reapplied my black eyeliner to my lips, and checked to make sure the back of my head was still shaved the right length.

(I shaved the back of my head in 7th grade, like just the underside part so when I wore a ponytail I would look badass. That combined with my Raiders jacket should have been devastatingly awesome, but someone forgot to tell me I had a bob that wouldn't reach into a ponytail so instead I just looked like a kid in a Raiders jacket with an oddly high back hairline. I was grounded immediately, by my (deservedly) furious mother who said, and I quote, "You're not even allowed to shave your legs, what makes you think you're allowed to shave Your Head!?!") (I also wore black lip liner, but that actually was awesome.)

He's sooooo cute! And totally not stinky like the last one I wanted! But about fourteen people have recently told me I can't have him for various reasons, all of which I can't remember because I'm too busy thinking about how cute it was when he was simultaneously chewing on my hand and peeing all over the other little puppy in the crate. That's like telling Angelina Jolie not to adopt that little Ecuadorian baby because there will be lots of other little ethnic babies for her to adopt! Is she gonna listen? No, she's gonna bring home the whole litter of diverse babies, and then her and Brad are gonna discuss his new gross facial hair.

To be fair, all fourteen of them actually made really good points, one of them being there are lots of puppies to adopt that are cute and need love - not $800 ones from pet stores. And that's true. That's very, very true. And one day I'm gonna adopt them. I'm gonna adopt the sh*t out of them. (I don't swear in front of puppies)

In the meantime, look at that face! He just got done licking himself for like fifteen straight minutes and he still looks adorable (and sort of embarrassed that he realized I was filming him).

Asparagus Is Genetic

You know asparagus right? You know how its a tasty vegetable, and funny to say when you're drunk at the grocery store shopping for the dinner you're supposed to be making in about ten minutes, but you got all distracted because you wanted to sip the white wine you bought and see if it was good, and then Real Housewives of Orange County came on at eastern time instead of pacific time and you're all "Happy birthday to me!" and then you sit down to just watch the beginning because you have to get to the store, but then you need just a little more than a sip because you never really know with white wine now do you, so you go get the bottle and sit down just for just a second because you have to get to the store, and you're all "Oh my god, stop bitching ladies. You have so much money I can see that little tiara on your bush from here" (you just learned you love to say the word 'bush', especially in front of your mom)(even though it makes you uncomfortable, like to the core) but then 48 minutes, and 3/4 of the bottle of gewurztawienerschnitzl later you're all, "Oh my god Tamara, that's right, you do deserve a phone made of diamonds, how DARE he!" and then you realize your guests are gonna be there in like fifteen minutes and you don't have any damn asparagus, which would be fine except the name of the recipe you're making is "Asparagus and Goat Cheese Pasta", and shit you forgot the goat cheese too, so you haul your ass to the store and get to the produce aisle and slur, "Excuse me, I just need to get a bunch of assss-" but you sort of trip a little and so you stop talking and then you start giggling out of control because you just told a stranger you needed to get a bunch of ass.

Well, anyway, I sobered up and made the asparagus pasta and afterward my sister was talking about how if she looks at asparagus the wrong way it makes her pee smell. Which is a horribly awful side effect of asparagus. And you all know what I'm talking about right? It's so weird! But my cousin Nels who is at dinner goes, "I can't smell it. Ever." And I'm all wha-? And Becky's all wha-? And I don't even really like talking about it right now, because it's a really weird topic for some reason. Bush - fine. Pee smell - not fine.

Anyway, Nels's incredibly smart, and ridiculously sweet wife goes "It's genetic."

And immediately I think she's somehow looking the three of us over, head-to-toe, sizing us up and all our flaws and finally realizing what it is that's weird/wrong with us, "Ah! It's genetic!"

But no, she's still fooled into wanting to be married into this mess, and begins to explain that when people can smell asparagus after they pee, it's a genetic trait. Like some people can't smell it because they were born that way.

And then she told us that being able to make a taco tongue is NOT genetic.

And my world crumbled before my eyes.

Because I can't do it. I try and try and try and the only thing making me feel better about it was that it wasn't my fault. It was genetic for the love of God! But no, apparently it's not genetic it's just me not being able to figure it out. Which I'm refusing to believe, despite the fact she graduated with honors in All Things Science-y. There's not a Dr. in front of your name yet little missy! Until that day I'm still blaming my parents for not passing along that all important taco tongue gene.

Jr. High coulda been so different.

They're Not The Same Thing. I Knew That, But Refused To Give In

It's been confirmed, finally, by scientists (me) and teams of research students (what I call my little cup filled with chocolates) that staring at my work computer screen is actually making me less smart (at life) due to the recent findings of a heated debate I had with Google about the difference between a zip code and an area code.

I lost.

Souplantation Conversation

Yesterday my sister told me my blogs were getting a little long, and a little "all over the place", and she was right. So today, I just give you this little snippet of conversation from dinner last night.

Mom: So, Becky and Michael's birthday is coming up.
Me: Oh yeah. Are you guys gonna be 28 or 29?
Becky: We're gonna be 28. And you're gonna be 30.
Me: We weren't talking about me.
Mom: When I was your age I'd had four kids.
Becky: That's true.
Me: I know I'm one of them remember?
Mom: And I was married.
Becky: For the second time.
Me: What happened to talking about how old Becky and Michael are gonna be?
Mom: Oh honey, don't worry about it. Think about it this way- you don't have four kids.
Me: I'm not sure how this is helping.
Becky: I'm gonna get more pizza.
Mom: Oh get some for Michael too.
Me: You're gonna be 28!
Becky: I'll always be younger than you.

And that's why I love Michael the most out of the twins. Because he can't ever tell me what I don't want to hear.

But then later Becky refilled my wine glass for me. It's always a toss-up.

E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles!

So, on Sunday Becky, the math teacher and I kept trying to drink beer and watch football, but it just wasn't working. No matter how hard we tried, we just kept getting sidelined by Girl Scouts (not selling cookies, but instead luring us in and then revealing they weren't selling little boxes of magic, they were selling tins of mixed nuts. What in the what?! I almost punched one of them in the face I was so upset.) , or the Mothership (Target - where I need nothing but buy everything.)(Three times a week.), and subsequent bike shopping after we realized we really wanted to buy the bikes we had been riding around the aisles of Target, but didn't want to have to tell people we got our bikes from Target.

We started off the day by going to the totally wrong place for breakfast (no beer or tvs) but by the time we realized it we had already ordered and they both vetoed my idea to quickly sweep all of the dishes off the table, let them clatter to the floor while we hurl the table on it's side and make a run for it. So, we stayed and then after that we were on it. Home. Beer. Football. But then like I said, I saw that Girl Scout green and almost lunged out the passenger side window at them if it hadn't been for my pesky seat belt.

Cue immense disappointment. "I can buy nuts INSIDE this store," I said. "Where mah cookies at?!" The little girls just stared at me blankly and then after an uncomfortable amount of adult-child stare-down, one of the moms said, "You buying our nuts or what lady?"

"Yes." Wait what?

"How many tins?"

"Wait what?" Seven.

"You just said yes, so fork over your money?" Fork over my money? What is this a drug deal?

"I meant no, I don't know why I said yes."

"No?"

"Oh no," shit what the hell am I saying? "I mean yes, of course, but no, I don't have any money."

"Stop staring then."

Perfectly reasonable request.

Once we finally made it to the bike store it was like four hours later, because Target is like a Vegas casino, there's no visible clocks and no windows to let you know what time of day it is so you'll just stay there throwing away your money and drinking.

I found this bike, this beautiful, amazing blue bike and called across the store, "Becky! I just imprinted on this bike!"

Three pre-teens in the back giggled, and the rest of the people in the store stared at me in confusion AS THEY SHOULD. Because "imprinting" is from Twilight - it's what the werewolves do when they fall in love, but it's more than love, it's imprinting. The really disturbing thing about this is that there's a character in the book who imprints with a baby. He more than falls in love - with a baby. (Dear Becky, Time Traveler's Wife creeped you out but that doesn't?! It's time for a talk).

Anyway, after being thoroughly embarrassed that I just quoted a fictional wolf-man we made our way home and instead of watching football like we'd talked about, somehow our living room morphed into a den for teenage boys who won't have sex til they're in their fourth year of college, because when I looked up I was on the couch reading the 4th Twilight, Becky was entranced with the Jonas brother's show, the math teacher was quietly playing World of Warcraft in the corner whispering to her computer, "Come on little penguin, run!" We were like five minutes away from starting to argue about who's twenty-sided die was going to be the best for our Dungeons and Dragons games later.

Geekiest day ever. And that's really hard to do if you're me and you spent your Saturday getting drunk with a Latin expert who once tried to teach you the exact routine to Britney Spears' Hit Me Baby One More Time, and then tried to see if you could still do it. And you couldn't. You really, really couldn't. No matter how many times you made people stop and watch you.

You Know How I Know It's Friday The 13th?

Cause everyone in the office is wound tighter than the inside of a baseball (not the small rubber ball inside the baseball, but the 25 feet of string inside all wrapped around the little ball. 25 feet! That's some tight winding to fit inside such a small casing. Wrapped by a thin sheet of leather. Then the thick leather skin around that. Held together by stitches.) (Anyone else just get creeped out by the baseball?)

This is already a really high-stress bunch - people tend to freak out if they accidentally hit print twice and the thing spits out two pages instead of one (the horror! whatever will we do with the extra page?! i'll tell you what to do with it), or if someone - and I'm not kidding - knocks on the office door instead of just walking in (the horror! who's gonna get the door?! i'll tell you what to do with the door). See that right there, that reaction where I tell them where to shove it? That's not my normal calm reaction to this place, usually I just shrug and go back to financial statements. Because financial statements can't talk to me, and I appreciate that about them. But right now for some reason there's something weird in the air, something where if I brush past someone in the hallways I have a good feeling they'll go flying into a bookcase and will then ricochet off to the file room where they'll bounce around between the copy machine and the water cooler before landing in the recycle bin. Like a pin ball machine.

I actually just got yelled at for standing too close to the fax machine. Because my body was going to interrupt the signal, beaming down from space apparently, and not through the phone line as I tried to explain, just before shutting up because the woman had a freakish grip on the letter opener for an 80 year old. The fax came through and I did not stick my tongue out at her because I AM NOT GOING TO LET IT AFFECT ME.

Everyone is walking around with their trigger finger just itching to reach for their wands and do some sort of Harry Potter changing-you-into-a-pile-of-spiders-and-then-making-the-pile-explode spell on the next person who breathes wrong. Even my Mom just yelled (to no one at all) "I'm taking Advil as a precaution to all of you."

I think Friday the 13th is just bringing out the crazy that has been lingering now that we only have one guy working here. Just one. One brave soul because the others (small Guatemalan man included) have fled to the safety of somewhere saner, and with more testosterone. And I don't blame them - today this place reads like The Craft, but without the sexy teen witches, and Neve Campbell.

There has to be balance people! Quick, hire some boys before we all start showing up to work in our pjs and talking about our cycles over the intercom. No one wants that. No one wants to hear me say "cycle" either. Me included.

Twitchy

I thought I was having some sort of mild seizure this morning, or that my eye twitch had reached disproportionate levels, because my computer screen was shuddering over and over again as if remembering what it was like to be kissed by that boy in 7th grade who was all tongue and no lips. But my screen was just broken.

But I do have a this twitch. I have this twitch in my eye that will not die. It starts about an hour after I wake up and then ends sometime between when I decide - why not, this red could use a splash of white - and bedtime. My mom keeps telling me I need to not work so much, and then she holds out her hand for my rent money. Make up your mind Mom!

I'm pretty sure the Subway guy thought I was just winking at him because he gave me extra tuna after the twitching went full force. Either that or he forgot how many scoops go on a 6 inch. (Scoops of tuna by the way.) (Scoops of ice cream - yes. Scoops of fish product kept in a plastic bag - hell yes.)

So, I'll be starting a new training regime, in which I sleep more than five hours a night and I only work eight hours a day. I'm not saving lives by working here so much, just slowly dwindling mine down to the point where I'm alone in the office crying because the soundtrack to Glee came on my shuffle and its just. so. beautiful.

If You Need Me I'll Be At The Airport Hoping Tina Fey Notices Me

So I get told I'm tall - a lot. Mainly because I am, but also because I don't hang out with a volley ball team or, you know, all of the NBA. Those guys probably never hear it because they're in a group, and would you tell the Lakers they were tall? No, because they're a group of big men over 7 feet tall who can shatter glass with their bare hands, and because there's a possibility one of them will rape you.

(Too soon? It's been like six years people. Plus I'm a firm believer Kobe is slutty, but not rape-y. Because I watch him on tv, so I know all about him.) (All of my friends in Chicago are silently revoking their friendships with me, again, for even mentioning the Lakers, let alone defending them. I can feel that hate stare BW, bring it!)

Anyway, my point is, a group is intimidating. A single girl - that's an open invitation for awkward conversation. But I'm used to it. What I'm not used to is famous people telling me I'm tall. You're the famous one! Lets turn this attention back where it belongs George Clooney - right into your dreamy eyes, and your impressively muscular body for a guy who's . . . oh, you're only 48? Interesting.



Except it wasn't George Clooney.

It was Gilbert Gottfried.

(Close enough)

So, here I am getting all flustered and weird because Gilbert Gottfried stopped and asked where I found a Jack In The Box in the airport, and I'm all, "You're Gilbert!" as if we're on a first name basis. And he's all, "Is it in this terminal?" And I had to tell him my mom drove through J in the B on the way to the airport because she loves me and she even got out of her house before 8am, which is rare for her because she's usually too busy spritzing her ferns with imported soda water or something in the mornings to make it to work at a normal person hour, and then when we get to the Jack she orders her breakfast sandwich without the ham, and then makes me take off the side of the sandwich that has the white cheese because her boyfriend usually takes that side and eats it like a taco while she eats the one half of the sandwich with the yellow cheese even though she can't remember why she won't eat the half with the white cheese she just thinks she doesn't like it.

And Gilbert Gottfried just stares at me for a minute before saying:

"That was a horrible story."

Yes. Yes it was.

"You're really tall."

And then he went to catch his flight somewhere fancy.

So, this wouldn't have been that weird, EXCEPT then I get on my plane and I'm standing in the aisle in the first class section waiting to move to the back of the bus where I belong, when I look down and see Ben Stein. The-Wonder-Years-teacher Ben Stein! Win-Ben-Stein's-Money Ben Stein! President-Nixon-speech-writer Ben Stein! Bueller-Bueller-Bueller Ben Stein! Apparently I was lost in this list of who he was in my head because he senses me looking at him and lifts his head up to look. . . right at my chest. You know, where the head should be. He realizes my face is not there, and neither are some huge boobs that could possibly leave him stranded there, and cranes his neck to look up higher.

"Wow," Ben Stein said. "You're very tall."

"And you're Ben!" Because today apparently I can only refer to famous people by their first name.

Then half the plane turns to see which Ben it is I'm nervously yelling at, and he just kinda sighs. "I guess I deserved that."

Awwwww, I blew Ben Stein's cover and he feigned sadness for me! I told him I was sorry (in a whisper because I was too embarrassed to use vocal chords anymore) and moved out of the way of two blond girls racing down the aisle to get his autograph.

Weirdest flight ever. My sister is always running into like Adam Sandler, and Jamie Foxx, and a variety of Victoria Secret models, but I get Gilbert Gottfried and Ben Stein. Something is off here. Very, very off.

Please Promise Me You Won't Do Anything Reckless

Uh, ok Edward. Anything else you want me to promise you? How about a million dollars, or my womb.

Yeah, I just quoted the Twilight movie up there, and no I don't feel good about it. The radio station here that I listen to because I want to have a deep, meaningful relationship with everyone on staff (even the King of Mexico) plays or talks about or mentions how to win tickets to New Moon EVERY FIVE G.D. SECONDS! I've had to hear how sad Bella is she can't be with her Vampire lover so much I'm almost tempted to listen to Ryan Seacrest. Almost.

But after last night I realized all that force-feeding me Twilight was actually kind of working because not only have I been dreaming my sister is all moody and emo and friends with shift-changers, but I was home alone last night and wandered into the bathroom with my (third) glass of wine and the dog. We poked around in Becky's cupboard looking for some nail polish because we decided it would be a good idea to paint her (the poodle's) toenails pink as a fun surprise! I didn't find any nail polish, but we did find her biore pore strip things - you know, those things you stick on your face to rip off the top layer of your skin so you look refreshed and/or like you just washed your face in an acid bath and couldn't find the emergency shower.

Anyway, I put one on me and then one on the dog (she needed it) and we wandered down the hall to Becky's room so Crystal could get cozy on a pile of Becky's sweatshirts that I set down for her because I couldn't find a blanket, and so I could scan Becky's books for my signed copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day (That I can't find and that I can't think about not finding because it was the best inscription EVER and I stood in line for an hour to get him to sign it and then when I got up there I couldn't think of anything to say except ". . . hi" and then I started crying. Ok, I didn't cry, but I may as well have. He had to coax me through talking to him like he was my therapist and I was about to meet my real dad.), but I didn't find it. Instead what I found was the entire Twilight series and I said aloud to the bookshelf "Please promise me you won't do anything reckless" in my best man-vampire impression.

And I picked it up.

And I started reading it.

WHY? WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF! Every page makes me feel dirty and weird inside (not in that way Gabi), but it's so hard to stop because . . . I don't even know why. The only explanation is that the book has some sort of hypnotizing powers instilled in it at the printers, or at the very least, crack-cocaine is seeping out from the spine in regulated intervals. I read 20 pages before I realized what I was doing and put the book back on the shelf and walked away. And I swear Crystal was shaking her head at me in disappointment as I made my way back to the loving arms of 30 Rock.

"But I can picture Robert Pattinson as Edward now!" I said in my defense. To the dog. Who was not in the room at the time.

"Not that I even like Robert Pattinson," I continued. Because I don't even like him. I just didn't have a good excuse at. all. Not. At. All.

I better come up with something good though, because if I start reading when I go home I'm gonna have to explain myself to Crystal and that's not easy to do. Not with those judging eyes of hers.

Traci Lords Went To Our High School, Coincidence?

I learned a lot of things in High School. Like how to dissect a baby pig all by myself because my lab partner threw up and/or passed out when I told her we needed to break the rib cage to get at the innards. I also learned how to say the pledge of allegiance in Spanish (always helpful); how to sing the Quadratic Formula to the tune of Burning Down the House (only impressive to my sister's math teacher girlfriend); that if you were taller than most of the teachers they would just assume your were smart and make you their 'class assistant' even though you had no idea what was going on in the Korean War let alone who won; and that if you leave a group of young boys deserted on an island they will turn into conch-wielding little heathens that hate asthma and are capable of murder.

But the thing that stuck with me the most was the class (very inappropriately) called 'Adult Living'. Adult Living was just sex-ed with a few weeks spent carrying around an egg and pretending it's your baby. There was no 'how to pay your bills when you've only got twenty dollars left in your bank account because you just haaaaaaaaad to go to Vegas for the weekend' section. And there's no 'you can't eat Taco Bell for pre-dinner snack every night and not gain weight like you can right now, so enjoy that metabolism before you hit your mid-twenties and everything halts faster than it takes to say 'extra nacho cheese please'' section.

Adult Living was the name of it just so the parents wouldn't freak out over the fact that we watched a sex-ed video every week. The week we had to watch the C-section four people had to run out of the room and two girls started crying. My favorite though, was a cartoon reenactment of what happens when Mommy and Daddy want to make a baby and are Chickens. To the best of my knowledge chickens don't actually have face-to-face loving intercourse, but whatever, they did in this video, and they gave a play-by-play while they did it. The whole reason I bring this up is because I cannot go through a week without thinking of that video and this is why:

I have sex with chickens.

No I don't. It's because the Mama chicken is talking about the Dad's penis and she says, "Penis: it's like Peanuts, without the 't'." It . . . what? It is? "Say it - peanuts. Penis. Peanuts. Penis. See?" No. No I don't, but today and for the rest of my life I won't be able to hear a Planters Peanuts commercial, or be offered a tasty party snack without thinking "this is just like something else without the t" in my head over and over and over again.

Thanks for making me feel like a ten year old Adult Living. I'm fairly certain that's not what you were supposed to be aiming for, but at least I know that if I ever give birth to a chicken egg I will be able to go two weeks without breaking it, and if I do I will be smart enough to know where the invisible ink marker is kept so I can re-mark my baby egg and still pass life with an 'A'.