Interesting observation today. I was excited to see that Oklahoma has two women running for governor. This is historic and truly, way full-on awesome for Oklahoma. Now, y’all know me, I vote straight-ticket Democrat. I vote that way for a lot of reasons: I am a christian and believe that democratic policies are more in keeping with Christ’s teachings than the other guys’ (especially regarding the poor and children); I come from poor, rural folk, the kind of people only fed platitudes by GOP but actively harmed by GOP policies; I reject hypocrisy (ie-advocating less government “interference” while actively interfering in peoples’ sex lives and reproductive decisions, including birth control); I don’t hate taxes per se, I consider taxes the dues we pay to be members of a civilized, well-functioning society;  I’m immune to knee-jerk propaganda and don’t react/vote out of hate, etc. etc. etc.

These reasons have shuffled about in ranking of importance to me over the years based upon my current life-status and circumstances. But the numero uno, biggest, most important reason or explanation for my political affiliation can be summed up with one word: children. Even before I had children of my own, I realized that every child should be a wanted child. Even before I was old enough to vote, I could see the detrimental effect that republican policies have on schools (good-bye resident artist, hello overcrowded classrooms).  And Nancy, that whole “Just Say No”-thing, what an insult to our intelligence and what a handy way to duck responsibility.

Now that I have children of my own, they are my first personal priority.  But as a parent, and responsible citizen, I can also expand my caring to include every mothers’ children. I can’t go the I-got-mine-screw-you route on anything, but most especially where children are concerned. How awful would it be to care only for one’s own children and not care at all about their friends or all the other children in one’s community. When one child is disadvantaged, we are all the poorer.

We all want to live in an orderly, well-functioning, globally competitive society and the only way to ensure that we do is to make sure that all of Oklahoma’s, all of America’s children are safe, sheltered, healthy, well-fed, and well-educated. We have to make children and their care and education our first priority as a state, as a nation. Our country will fail if we fail to do this. But if we succeed in this, if we put our money where our rhetoric is, if we boost all children, then our nation will point the way to the future for all others to follow.

I wrote to both of the outstanding women running for governor Oklahoma today, well, I commented on each of their websites. On Mary Fallin’s website (the repub.), I had difficulty finding a place to leave a comment and ended up using the contact link in very tiny print at the bottom of the homepage. (I later found the comment area, but didn’t think they’d print my comment anyway.) I congratulated her on her primary victory and told her that I wouldn’t be voting for her. And I told her why: I find her party to be too beholden to multi-national corporations and the most hateful voices on in our community.

I then reminded her that she needs to place the children of Oklahoma first and that closing down our borders wouldn’t do our kids one lick of good. Then I mentioned something about how she would work for all of Oklahoma and not to be too concerned about cuddling up to the old boys’ network.

Worrying about immigrants from Mexico, legal or otherwise, will not benefit our children. What will? Providing for quality public education (which can’t be done on the cheap!), making sure that children have health care even if their parents can’t afford it (as the anti-choicers like to say, it isn’t the baby’s fault!), making sure that no child goes hungry or only has junk food to eat, and helping struggling parents.

About childhood hunger, it’s a cryin-ass shame that any child in this bounteous land of ours goes to bed hungry. And it’s telling that Oklahoma has such pitiful records on obesity and divorce and child abuse. These things don’t happen in a vacuum.

Then I went to Jari Askins’ site and found one of her comments sections at the bottom of “about” page and left a supportive comment. Which was published very quickly.

The fundamental difference between the two parties was immediately apparent. The republican’s site was dense and complicated and secretive with demands to sign petitions against various things and join up and give money. The comments section was very structured and feature what looked like the glowing blurbs you typically find in book jackets. “I couldn’t put it down!” “I laughed, I cried!” “An engaging read!” Republicans like their dealings with the unwashed masses to be carefully filtered and censored. No dissenting views, no questions need ever pierce the ignorance bubble of these neo-cons.

Poor, delicate creatures, can’t handle the slightest disagreement to their worldviews. Makes them uncomfortable and incoherent; makes them stammer a bit and then resort to saying, “I’ll pray for you.” And, seriously, when your argument boils down to “Ah, bible!” and “I’ll pray for you.” you’ve already lost.

The democrat’s site was simple and straightfoward, the comments’ section seems to be mostly positive but I did see a comment saying the commenter didn’t know what she stood for, so it’s probably only being moderated for hate-speech and viagra-spam. My comment to Fallin went into the ether, never to be seen again. But my comment to Askins was published to day I wrote it.

This November Oklahoma will elect its first woman governor. Democrat or republican, let’s hope she stands up for Oklahoma’s children, ALL of Oklahoma’s children.

So anyway. You may remember that I was forced to acknowledge the death of one of my oldest friendships recently. At around the same time I located one of my best friends from high school on Facebook. Naturally, wanting to reconnect, I requested that she add me as a friend. Crickets. So a couple of weeks later, thinking she might check her Facebook as often as I do (not very), I tried again. I get this (dis)missive in reply:

Sorry, I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve lost track of who all I still owe emails to, but I think it’s nearly half a dozen people. Anyway, I also hope that it’s okay with you that I don’t add you as a friend for the time being. I first started on Facebook to keep up with extended family, and after a flurry of adding old acquaintances it started getting out of hand. (I’ve found that when one has too many friends it’s easy to miss the important information that’s buried among everyone’s Mafia Wars requests.) So I decided to limit my new FB friends to just people who are actively involved in my life. It’s much more manageable that way, and makes it less of a granfalloon.

I have enjoyed hearing from you over the past few years, and occasionally pop by your blog to see what’s up. It’s been nice to hear news of your family and school. If we continue to keep in touch I may reconsider down the road. I think you have my email address, which is (email redacted by me since I’m nice and shit.)

Unfortunately, I’m afraid I don’t have any news that you don’t already know. The more things change the more they stay the same here. I just work, hang out with my husband and my parents, and take care of my dog. Sometimes I get to travel, but mostly I work a lot of long hours.

I would like to hear from you, and hope you are well.

Best regards,

z

My, my, my, aren’t we just full of ourselves.

I’ve been thinking about these situations for a while and have come to the conclusion that, yes indeedy, I am the problem. Or rather, the much younger me is the problem. Seems I used to pick shitty friends. Not all of them were shitty, but these two definitely.

Seeing as how I have two new openings for friends I need to get on the ball.  Maybe I should conduct this like a job opening, take application and schedule interviews. Some things I’ve learned: liking the same fashions and music and nightclubs is not the best foundation for a lasting, meaningful, supportive friendship; and just because someone is smart and liberal doesn’t mean she is not an insufferable snob who will shake me off like the dirt from her boots the moment she takes a step into the larger world.

Harsh judgments? I don’t think so. Instead, I like to think of them as astute and intuitive. Perhaps if I had exercised better discernment back in the day, I would still have old friends.

Now I need some new ones, here in real life. Since gossiping across the back fence really isn’t a valid option these days, I’ll have to come up with something new. I’ll keep you updated.

Look, Spammers, I’m sorry if you just can’t get behind, ahem, my position on Underpants. It’s become obvious that not everyone has my sorts of issue with the dreaded undergarments. Also, it’s not great news that I once got hit by a car. And commenting that I need a fireproof safe on my post about our House-fire? Dude, not cool. Seriously, it’s like you’re not even trying anymore.

There is…something, I don’t know what, hovering just beyond my perceptions. Some impending event or revelation is grasping towards me from an unformed future. I am no prophet or prognosticator, no diviner or fortune-teller, but I feel the shadow of something yet to be. There is not a lot of “woo” that I buy into: I don’t read horoscopes; I don’t think futures can be read with tea leaves or tarot cards or palms; I’d say that I don’t believe in ghosts but there’s a ghost in my kitchen.

The future cannot be reliably foretold because every moment requires decisions that continually alter that future. Multiverse Theory tells us that there are multiple, not just one, and possibly infinite, universes encompassing every possible future. In the present, though, the future is Schrodinger’s Cat, just a fog of possibilities until we open the box.

While I don’t think the future can be foretold, I do tend to fret about it. I’m a planner, a list-maker, I like to plan and enumerate everything. And the other side of that coin means that I am also a worrier. It seems like anxiety has been a constant companion for years. Thankfully I’m experiencing a bit of a reprieve from all of that because I’m on a beta-blocker now. I don’t feel anxious on a daily basis anymore, which is better for all of us.

But for some reason I’m feeling a kind of anticipation, not a foreboding as if something wicked this way comes. It is more a feeling of hopeful presentiment that something good is coming this way. There is a positive development, or new opportunity, or correct decision on the horizon.

Who knows what the future holds, but Schrodinger’s cat and I will let you know as soon as we open the box.

So, I find the weirdest crap on the internet. It always starts innocently enough, with a simple search for facts. Then all of sudden I stumble into one of those rabbit holes and, inevitably, follow it all the way down.

This particular rabbit hole appeared because I was looking up information about my blood type. I never bothered to find out my blood type until I started trying to get pregnant about 12 years ago. I had to have RhoGam shots with each pregnancy because I am Rh-negative. Several years later, in Microbiology lab, I found out I was O-negative.

Remembering something about blood types from an old “M*A*S*H” episode, I looked up O-negative blood type. In addition to finding out that I am a so-called universal donor (but not a universal recipient), I found out that my blood type influences my ideal diet and my personality! I scoffed at the diet recommendations and dismissed the personality stuff as pure bunk. But I was rather intrigued by the sixth entry Google gave me-this.

According to this dude on the internet my O-negative blood means much more than RhoGam shots and the Red Cross needing my services. Apparently my blood type indicates that I am descended from a race of super-advanced reptilians who secretly control the world. But then there’s this theory that rh-negative blood is a mutation from “normal” blood.

This is all very interesting but if I’m really descended from crypto-lizard overlords then I really must protest this shabby treatment! Where is my unimaginable wealth and power, huh? Why don’t I have fawning sycophants rubbing my feet and peeling my grapes? But no, I have to get my own grapes and earn my own money. And instead of adoring followers I have a nice husband who tells me I’m pretty and kids who sometimes decide to do what I tell them.

Of course there’s still that mutation-option. But I have to tell you that if I could pick the kind of mutant I was, I sure wouldn’t pick the type of mutation that causes painful shots and transfusion issues. No, I’d pick the kind that causes levitation, then I wouldn’t need anybody to rub my feet!

Maybe I’ll just call the Red Cross. They won’t peel me any grapes, but I understand I get to lay down and then they give me a cookie. It’s not ruling the world, but I guess it’ll just have to do.

I work in a 24-hour call center and my shift ends at midnight. As far as I know I am the only person who leaves at midnight, everybody else leaves at 10:00 or 10:30 pm or even as late as 11:30 pm. Oh, there have been others who were scheduled to leave at midnight. They didn’t last.

Even though we work the same length shift, the others cringe at the thought of working so late. The time feels later, more onerous somehow. When your workday ends at 11:30p, it’s still the same calendar day. But time has always ticked over to the next day by the time I go home.

And superstition must not be left out of the equation. Ending a workday at the stroke of the witching hour can shake all but the sturdiest of souls. Even in this most technical of ages, when very few people truly believe in ghouls or witches or werewolves, most people choose not to be out and about when spirits roam the earth.

I love midnight, with its loneliness and dark connotations. Driving home that late makes me feel like I inhabit a rather empty world. Even the never-ending stream of traffic on the highway underpass takes on a not-quite-real quality.

On the nights when I stop at the grocery store on the way home, I’m extra nice to the graveyard-shifters and the other midnight shoppers. We are part of an odd minority. We choose this weird, nocturnal existence and we like it that way.

Some nights when I’m not working, I can’t keep my eyes open. I fall asleep by 10:00 pm, but then I wake up around 4:00 am and can’t go back to sleep. But most of the time I stay up late even on the nights when I could be sleeping.

I simply don’t understand those people who go to bed early and get up with the chickens. When do they do their thinking?!

It’s much easier to let my mind swim in the deep end in the dark stillness of the night. The clamor of daytime noises and light leaves little room and peace for a thoughtful soul. I will sacrifice sleep for peace and quiet any day.

So don’t pity me when I tell you my schedule, I like it this way.

I would like to thank Sue Lowden, Senate-candidate from Nevada, for the most rollicking laughter I have experienced in quite some time. Just when I thought the Right couldn’t get any funnier, the resourceful Ms. Lowden has proposed a barter system for paying for medical care. Forget the gold standard, this lady has totally invented the chicken standard.

Disregarding the various things that doctors and hospitals have to pay actual money for, like insurance and electric and i.v. bags, we are supposed to barter for medical care. And doctors also like to be paid so they can live in houses and drive cars and buy food.

But should Ms. Lowden’s inspired plan take root, have no fear. Some thoughtful soul has taken up the task of converting raw, live chicken value to various medical procedures. Please enjoy this medical chicken calculator as much as I have enjoyed it.

But seriously, what is wrong with these people?! If the mere thought of everybody–rich, poor, young, old, pretty, ugly, privileged, disadvantaged–finally being able to afford basic medical care offends you, then you need to re-examine your soul. Isn’t it funny that those who bleat the loudest about their love of Jesus follow His teachings the least?

I loved the fine print at the bottom, especially the warning not to let chickens drive you to the doctor, which only makes sense because chickens are stupid. If I were given the choice of livestock to do my driving, I’d definitely choose a goat, much smarter that chickens.

Blog note: This post specifically addresses archetypes in Western literature and speaks to the broader experience of western, largely European, women in the western, christian cultures that contributed these archetypes. As a result, this post doesn’t touch upon the life-experiences of women in other cultures, women of color, or women of non-christian religious traditions.

My, my, my, aren’t we just the blackest-hearted creatures to ever walk the earth? I’m talking about women, of course. If Disney, the Brothers Grimm, Lewis Carroll, and Frank L. Baum are to be believed, that is. Ah, yes, mustn’t forget millenia of abysmal religion-based opinion of our fair sex as the instigator of this hate-fest.

Despite our near-universal status as chattel until very modern times (and our improvement in status  is not so universal), we women are apparently the worst of villains.

History’s despots and dictators have always been men. Oh, sure you can probably point to a handful of women who wielded power for selfish purposes, but always at the side of some man. Think you know Lucrezia Borgia? Think again. She was no soulless poisoner, only a pawn in marital-alliance games played by father and brother. And poor, poor Marie Antoinette! Beheaded because the wrong people didn’t like her. That whole let-them-eat-cake-thing? She never said it. Upon further study, the picture that emerges in one of a devoted wife and mother if not the most savvy queen.

There were queens that wielded real power and ruled in their own right. Queen Elizabeth I and Queen Victoria, for example, tended to be good rulers who advanced England’s fortunes and status in the world.But, alas, any powers or privileges that a queen, dauphine, empress, or csarina enjoyed were never trickled down to her less well-situated sisters. Even with a woman ruling from the throne, common and gentle-women alike were still ruled by their husbands, fully endorsed by the Church. The Church which had a difficult time deciding if our gender was even in the possession of souls.

Why then were men so afraid of women that they had to cast women as wicked queens, wicked stepmothers, and (for the Church in particular) wicked witches? Or maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe men were aware of the utter shittiness of their collective treatment of women. And they had to rationalize this somehow.

Humans aren’t always rational creatures but we are always rationalizing creatures. Nobody, except for sociopaths, wants to admit the real reasons why they treat others poorly, even to themselves. It’s uncomfortable and naked to admit that we step on other people, in ways great and small, to our own benefit. Or because we are self-centered, or unthinking, or presumptuous, or greedy (when you shut 51% of the population out of ownership, there’s a lot more to go around). Most people can’t be that naked, we have to cover ourselves in reasons, in excuses.

When the ruling men wanted to rook women out of their rightfuls and grab the goodies for themselves, they had to re-cast women from equals to less-thans. And they did it with words.

It is not language itself that separates us from the other animals. Our pets understand us when we say “down” or “no” or “food” to them. A handful of gorillas have been taught to use sign language. But gorillas could only use words to describe the past or the present, and only that which is real to them. We hairless apes differ because we are creators. We create and shape our realities and our futures using language, words.

Want to demote and discipline women? Make sure to use language that ensures we only be seen as helpless victims or intractable bad guys. Toss out the pagan, judgement-neutral “maiden, mother, crone”-descriptors and substitute them with “virgin/whore” or “goodwife/witch.” Cast us the foul temptresses, the sirens that lead men to their doom. All the while telling us that our place is toiling thanklessly in the home because we are the glue that binds civilization. Can’t have it both ways, boys.

When we say something you don’t like, when we refuse to be cowed, call us heretics and witches, and burn us and drown us. When we are so evidently innocent as individuals, blame the fickle and capricious nature of our sex, even if you have to make that up.

In stories, the hapless, helpless, and guileless victim is always a girl. And who is the victimizer? In reality, and throughout history, girls and women are far more likely, by an order of magnitude, to be victimized by men, not other women. But in the stories, she is victimized by the evil stepmother, the evil fairy, the wicked queen, the witch.

In “Snow White,” the wicked queen/stepmother (who is also a witch) sends her henchman/gameskeeper to kill the adolescent Snow White. Of course, the gameskeeper, who is obviously the better person due to having a penis and all, can’t bring himself to kill the the woman-child. He weeps and lets her go, into the cold, dark woods. Then he presents the heart of a pig to the witch-queen as proof of the deed. The wicked, but obviously naive, queen accepts him at his word.

As events unfold, Snow White literally stumbles her way to safety and eventual rescue and redemption, all at the hands of men (or male dwarves.)

These days, the word “witch” doesn’t carry the same kind of emotional or criminal weight in the West. So when modern men, or society in general, want to discipline a woman she is called “slut” or “bitch.” As far as we have come, there is still farther to go. When the opinions, rights, hopes, dreams, pleasures, and pains of women can be casually disregarded and dismissed with a reality-reshaping word, then we are still less-than.

But I claim the role of creator, I am shaping reality and the future right now, with these words. And I will go on being opinionated, obstinate, heretical and I will not be shaped by words that seek to lay judgement on me. Lord have mercy on any man who calls me a bitch, because I will not.

We should reclaim our old pre-christian descriptors. Once a maiden, now I am a mother. Someday, when my chicks have all flown the nest, when my hair has all turned white, and when my face is seamed with the topography of age, I will gladly embrace my status as crone. Maybe I’ll even buy a pointy hat.

Regardless of the truth or lie of words and worlds past, I think I would much prefer the company of the wicked witch/queen/stepmother over that of the insipid Snow White. Scary, uppity women like me are wicked–wicked fun to be around–and far more interesting.

And absolutely nobody ever met Prince Charming or Mr. Right while sleeping through life.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me (daily uniform: jeans and American Apparel t-shirts), but I adore fashion. After nearly 19 years of being married to an artist, who is also the world’s best web designer, I have become a design snob. Everything from fashion to architecture to interior design to website design will be judged, often harshly. Heck, I’m even a font snob. (Perennial favorite: American Typewriter because it reminds me of the old manual typewriter I used to write my stories on; House Industries’ fonts are beyond cool; but don’t even get me started on the over-use of Exocet and Papyrus!)

I’m usually not a fan of reality shows or contest shows. Quite frankly I could literally not care less about the hair-cutting or cooking contests. But I loves me some “Project Runway!” Last season was rather lackluster and my favorite (Carol Hannah) didn’t win, but this season is shaping up very well indeed. I mostly like Emilio; Amy seems to be quite original; Seth Aaron is as cool as Jeffrey without all the distracting tattoos; but my favorite is Mila Hermanovski.

Mila is awesome–she’s cool, attractive, hip, and around my age. Her designs are strong and interesting; she knows how to draw inspiration from the tiniest of clues and seems to have a real sense of vision. However, she doesn’t get a lot of respect from the other designers. Every twenty-something on the show sees him- or herself as a wunderkind, the next Christian Siriano. Anybody approaching or firmly in middle-age just cannot possibly be any good! You know what? Christian was a one-off. Very rarely do these youngsters have a firm design aesthetic, they simply haven’t had the time to develop one.

So Mila’s first “mistake” was being a middle-aged woman. Middle-age is far more acceptable on a man than on a woman, so men around Mila’s age or older aren’t looked down upon as too old to be hip or cool or fashion-forward. Women, on the other hand, are often dismissed as “too old” and past their “use-by date” when we reach middle-age. It’s ok to ignore us and diminish our accomplishments if we aren’t fresh and nubile anymore.

Mila made a bigger mistake. The inexcusable crime of being self-confident while female. When a man is self-confident or over-confident, people will use words to condemn his behavior–cocky, arrogant. If a woman exhibits the exact same traits, people will use words to impugn her character, her very person–bitch, whore.

If we, as women, don’t diminish our own accomplishments, there will always be others only too happy to do it for us. If we achieve and excel we are expected to be coquette-ish about it. We adopt an “aw-shucks” demeanor, looking at the ground as we dig a dainty hole in it with a dainty toe. We bat our lashes and give all the credit to providence, luck, and all the other people without whom we would be nothing. If we say, as men would, “Hell yeah, I’m good!” we are reviled and someone needs to make an example of us.

This week, poor Mila stated that none of the other designers were interested in how well she was doing before, but she’s getting along with them in workroom now because she’s “more centered” whatever that means.

I think something happened, maybe not a big something, maybe a series of small somethings. There are petty but cruel ways others have to let a woman know when she’s stepped out of line. The lack of congratulations when you do well, the blank stares when they see you’re still there, the likely shunning in communal spaces.

My hope is in all this “centering” that has taken place, Mila hasn’t become humbled, that she hasn’t lost her self-confidence. I hope that she’s simply learned to conceal it a little better, as so many of us have learned to do. It’s a bad lesson to learn when we find out just how different the rules are governing women vs. those concerning men.

Mila Hermanovski is a talented, strong designer and I hope she wins. I hope, out of support and sheer cussedness, that she shows up all the young doubters.

Yeah, go Mila, win this for the cool-middle-aged-woman team!

It strikes me that there are certain things that grown women do that are better suited to teenagers. Things like read silly vampire books, wear skinny jeans, and over-inflate the worth of Valentine’s Day.

Why do grown women do these silly, teenager-y things? Probably to recapture some lost sense of youth. Perhaps the passing years have done to their girlish spirits what gravity has done to their girlish figures. Years of dealing with a harsh, cold world with little regard for the human heart can really grind a person down.

Perhaps their relationships are deeply unfulfilling. We have all sorts of fanciful notions about life and love when we are achingly young. Especially if life and love treats us kindly when we are young. If you have a sweet and passionate love affair while in the throes of adolescence, then the every-day realities of grown-up love can seem to pale in comparison to the unicorns and cloud-castles of first love. There was a reason Romeo and Juliet were teenagers.

Valentine’s Day may be the only time of the year when matrons feel like maidens once again. If women are partnered, sadly, with men who ignore them or worse, Valentine’s may be the only day on which they can be assured of their husbands’ attentions and affections. One single day that reminds them of first love and possibilities, of shoe boxes filled with cards and chalky candy hearts, of steamed-up car windows and the fear-thrill of maybe being caught.

My son (age 7) loves Valentine’s Day! Everyone in class decorates bags and then gets cards and treats from every single other child in their class. No exceptions, no one left out. I heartily approve of this because when I went to school, it was strictly law of the jungle, babe.

Back in my day, teachers and administrators seemed reluctant to intervene in the kid pecking order. Given enough time, and sufficient lack of supervision, recess would devolve into a mini-Lord of the Flies-scenario. For me, Valentine’s Day was only one more reminder of just how unpopular I was. Other girls’ shoeboxes would be so full the lids would not quite close. My paltry take would rattle around in the bottom and many of them bore messages clearly indicating the sender was being forced to give me said valentine.

Then, when I was a little older, one of my aunts told me that her sons (my cousins) had a habit of breaking up with girlfriends before Valentine’s Day so they wouldn’t have to buy gifts. This reinforced my impression of V-Day, that it is just a manufactured holiday designed to force displays of affection, even if they are feigned.

The media and Hollywood have convinced us that we need these cheap, manufactured gestures to prove that we are loved. Silly me, I always thought that simple consideration for each other and every day affirmations of our feelings for one another prove that we are loved. Nothing says “I love you” like saying “I love you.”

To the poor women out there who hold out for that one day a year when he’ll finally have to look at you instead of the game, take you out to dinner instead of being ungrateful for every meal you make, and spend time with you instead of with his whatever-buddies, you deserve more.

To all the men out there who would rather do anything else than spend time with their wives, rather hang out with fishing-buddies or poker-buddies as opposed to their girlfriends, or begrudge the women in their lives this one day of consideration, shame on you. Seriously, who do you think is going to take care of you if you, say, have a stroke. Do you think your poker-buddies are going to spoon-feed you or wipe your butt? No, if something life-changing should befall you, they will shake their heads, say “did you hear about poor Jim?” and thank their lucky stars they aren’t you.

You know those awful, insipid “chick flicks” she drags you to? She’s trying to show you the kind of romantic behavior she would appreciate from you. And I guarantee that if you pay attention to her everyday, actually say the words “I love you” to her everyday, make tiny gestures of affection everyday, and exhibit actual (not feigned) interest in her life, you won’t ever be dragged to another chick flick.

Personally, I don’t like movies about “romance”, I prefer movies about relationships, human contact, because it is that human contact that fuels us. We need human contact as much as we need food, water, or air. Without it, we die.

Mr. Prairie is very good at the day-to-day maintenance of love. Not a day goes by without an affirmation that he loves me and that I am beautiful. And yesterday, while I was at work, he thoroughly cleaned the kitchen. That man will never have to see a “chick flick” he doesn’t want to see, ever.

It’s not entirely some kind of big favor on my part. When given the choice, I rarely choose the chick flick, I’ll usually go with the sci-fi, the super-hero, or the gothic horror.

Not that we go to a lot of grown-up movies. Getting someone to watch both our kids at the same time is a bit of a production. My parents will do so occasionally but I don’t want to go to that well too often. So while we won’t be going out to the movies this weekend, I know which one I’d being seeing if we were: Wolfman.

You can keep your sparkly vampires, werewolves are awesome!