The question is-----will she use her powers for good or for evil?

Certain things strike a cord in my husband. The depth of my desire to pass this test seems to be one of those things. He is doing whatever I want to do because he is so frightened that I will have a nervous breakdown and he will have to go back to eating hot dogs for dinner every night.

I'll give you a couple of examples. Last night I wanted to go to The Cantina. Him--not so much.

K: But babe, I think I really need to go to The Cantina because I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

Off we were to The Cantina.

When we got into bed last night...

K: That 3 watt light bulb around 3 corners and down the hall is shining in my eyes.
D: So why don't you get up and turn it off?
K: I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

Off he was to turn the light off.

K: My hands smell like fajitas still. And I washed them.
D: Maybe you need to wash them again.
K: But I'm having a nervous breakdown. Can't you get me a wipe?

Off he was to get the wipe for my hands.

It's wrong, I know, but it is so good. The last time I had this much power is when I failed the exam and he almost, almost let me name the baby.

K: I'm such a loser (while sobbing hysterically). Can we name the baby Ian?
D: (stunned and desperate to make the waterworks stop, but mortified that we could have a lifetime with at Brit-sounding baby name) Uhhhhhh, ok??????

At that moment I realized the extent of my power and that maybe even I needed to have limits. Thus no Ian, but Ethan.

I wonder if I cried if I could get a new car?

I feel the need. The need for speed.

This morning when I woke up I may have mentioned to my husband that maybe all I need was a little extra energy, a pick-me-up if you will, in order to survive. I was up in the middle of the night with insomnia but I had my trusty PMBR Constitututional Law CD #5 to put me right back to sleep. I am still dead though.

I like to occasionally make reference to my potential illegal drug use to my husband as he finds it most amusing. Having gone to a California school, he has seen it all. And I am the Pollyanna of virtually all illegality (excluding driving laws--they are merely suggestions for the weak at heart). I have had the old codeine in the cough syrup, but that's the extent of my drug use. OK, then there was the valium for my pulled back muscle. Valium good. But besides that, nothing. Not even pot. I am SO boring.

D proceeded to tell me about Bob, a guy in his class who apparently slept on his desk for about 95% of the final exam. Someone told D that Bob had been so panicked about the final that he had stayed up for three days (with a little help from speed). What kind of bad luck is that? You manage to stay up for over 100 hours and you just couldn't go 90 more minutes? If that isn't the perfect anti-drug campaign. Maybe now is the time to take up caffeine again.

This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions?

"It's fun to smoke marijuana"

Having said that, I can now roughly place your reaction to that title into four categories:

1. The "damn skippy" contingent,
2. The "huh, what the hell happened to Kristen?" contingent,
3. The "when-I-typed-'its fun to smoke marijuana' into-google-how-the-hell-did-I-get-to-this-blog" contingent, and last, but certainly not least,
4. The "Rock.Music.Is.Evil.Must.Not.Listen.To.It.For.It.Will.Drive.Me.To.Do.Drugs" contingent.

I distinctly remember that day in the 3rd grade when I sat in the auditorium of my fundamentalist school and listened to Queen backwards and forwards, about a million times. We were supposed to hear "it's fun to smoke marijuana." I couldn't hear it. It was gobbly-gook. I listened desperately, fascinated that I had now heard my first rock song AND found out about drugs all on the same day. We were then exhorted to not listen to rock music ever because it was just a few steps away from a 5-bag-a-day heroin habit. Marijuana, heroin, whatever that was.

Fastforward to 7:23 a.m. this morning. I had headphones on while still lying in bed and was listening to PMBR's Constitutional Law CD #2.

Why was Kristen listening to a Constitutional Law CD in bed? Why is Kristen now referring to herself in 3rd person? Has Kristen lost what is left of her mind? The answers to these questions are inconsequential to the story so Kristen will stop to say that Kristen is taking the bar exam in 19 days and today Kristen is feeling like Kristen is probably going to fail which is why Kristen is listening to CD's every given second. Having said all that, Kristen will just move on with the story.

So maybe I had wandered off to sleep. But what I heard at 7:23 a.m. awakened me with a fright. In the midst of a discussion concerning the Dormant Commerce Clause (and now you know WHY I fell asleep), the CD began to skip. And there it was. In a deep voice that was CLEARLY not the voice of the professor droning...

"Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex.Have.Safe.Sex."

I came careening out of bed dying to let Derek listen to this, only to have the cd player skip ahead one second. Back to the professor. It skipped again. Still the professor.

D: Are you sure you heard it? You need to go back and listen again because maybe he was talking about sex.
K: The Dormant Commerce Clause has NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX!! I heard it, I swear to God, I heard it, I swear on my grandmother's grave (God rest her soul), I heard it. PMBR Constitutional Law CD#2, Track 11, 10:09.

So did I hear it? Or was I just hearing what I wanted to hear, just like all the fundamentalists in the 70's?

If I had listened to the damn CD the first time around, maybe I wouldn't have needed to listen to it now....

Fantasies and food

As we drove home tonight, we passed a big hub-bub at the elementary school. D mentioned that he thought maybe we were missing some special election of something-or-other that he had heard about on the radio but to which he had paid no attention. I slammed on the brakes and veered to the side of the road.

K: We can't NOT vote. It's just wrong.
D: We don't even know if it is a vote.
K: Look at all the old people going into the building. It has to be a vote for something.

We jumped out of the car and ran inside, only to find the old people setting up chairs in the gym. Suddenly I got the "slimy lawyer" vibe. I turned around and one almost walked into me. Then another. And another. To attend this meeting it appears that you had to be over 80 or wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit.

K: We gotta get out of here. Too many lawyers.

D corralled an old lady to find out what was going on. She said it was a civic association meeting to discuss the proposed buildup of the town. She implored him to attend. It was like "Cocoon" meets "Rock the Vote." We left, of course, because we are for big business, big buildup and all those other horrific capitalist qualities.

K: You know, if they build up this dump of a town, that deserted restaurant down the street could be a real hotspot.
D: You aren't kidding.
K: Maybe we really could have our own brew pub.

Then we got home and realized that we can't even afford our Direct TV and now I am going to have to give up my Starz package or put the thermostat down to 55 degrees. The brew pub will have to remain a fantasy.

We sat down for dinner and my son initiated a hunger strike. He has decided recently that he only likes the food he is getting at the babysitter's house. Apparently my food is too bland. The babysitter has taken to sending food home with him so now he looks at me like I'm a lunatic when I offer him carrots or mashed potatoes. I remember when he used to LOVE wasabi mashed potatoes. Oh, now he is too good for them. A regular food snob. When I offered him pork tenderloin last night he threw it on the floor. I think he might be Muslim now. Which would be helpful to know by perhaps saying, "I don't eat pork, you heathen" rather than screeching maniacally and throwing the food directing into the dog's open mouth below.

So it appears that until I learn how to cook Middle Eastern and Ethiopian food, I'm going to have to ask the babysitter to send home a little extra. Either that or I can just start putting berbere in his YoBaby yogurt. Whatever.

Who are you and what have you done to my husband?

This is the link my husband sent to me this morning as a suggestion for a present for E's impending birthday.

Only if you promise to get a matching one, babe.

It's only because he is such a great mediator

Lately we have been having all of our important conversations through the baby.

D: Hey buddy. Do you want a baby brother?
K: Huh?
D: (thinking that perhaps he has just made a gender error) A baby sister?
K: Buddy, since Mom took an antibiotic that has the half-life the same as, say, uranium, Dad's penis won't be coming anywhere near Mom's Vahh-GIII-na anytime soon.

Oh, that's what I said. Vahh-GIIII-na. I let the "gi" hang in the back of my throat and then roll off my tongue just like my niece does. My niece realized that she could say the word "vagina" and it would have the fabulous effect of making everyone slightly nervous but no one would ever tell her not to say it because who wants to be responsible for contributing to the cultural dysfunction that will descend on its own by junior high?

D: Why do you have to say that?
K: What do you want me to say? Do you want me to refer to it by the anatomically correct term of "woo-woo?" How about "cooch?"
D: Why do you have to do it?

Just to bug you. See button, will push.