This is the point where my husband, who reads me while at work, has a lump in his throat. I’m not certain what his face looks like right now, but it was all worth it for that title.

Rendering my dear, darling Jayne (so named for this hottie, by the way) inoperable for the past two days was, indeed, due to something viral. Even blonde bombshells can get sick I suppose, but my sweet little Apple laptop is back home and has forgiven my transgressions. However, I’ve lost Firefox and MSN Messenger and Adobe Photoshop CS2. I’m too busy to be pissed about Adobe right now. Next week, I’m throwing a major tantrum. Ummm… July 7 to be exact. I like scheduling tantrums and psychotic episodes. Makes it easier on the family.

Even if you are not the Clicking Type, you should click that link because not only is she beautiful, but she looks like a real woman. She has hips and thighs and everything. Most women, myself included, look like women. I’m not 12. I don’t want to look 12. I will never look 12 again until I’m 92 when I’ve withered away to nothing and am hipless and flat-chested once again like a 12 year old. There are enough body issues out there and I won’t feed them and, frankly, I’m too busy to do so. I say this knowing that I promised to post a picture of myself in the $10 dress. Soon.

So you see, I didn’t want to talk sex. I wanted to talk sexy. Big difference between the two. To illustrate, I could get dolled up and get nothing out of my husband other than a You look nice said in a sing-song voice that I expected to get anyway. When I spend that much time getting ready all I want is some confirmation that my time was well spent.

The flip side of this is that on those days when I go makeup-less (which is nearly every day in the summer) I don’t really expect much at all and those are the times when a compliment can go a long way. Years ago, when I was wearing yellow rubber gloves and had on my cleaning attire of t-shirt and shorts and was really putting some elbow grease into my work, Ken stopped me and said, “My God. You’ve never looked sexier.” It wasn’t because I was cleaning either. It was because I was glowing and looked natural and was doing an everyday thing.

When women dress up they do look nice and perhaps the word would be “sexy” or “beautiful”, but for the most part, it’s not on those days when you look nice, it’s whether or not you feel sexy. So, what is sexy to you? That’s for you to define.

I found this hilarious thing when looking for a pretty picture of Jayne Mansfield and was fascinated for a little bit too long. I’m slightly embarrassed.

But, I recover quickly.

After all, I am human, and fallible and can even appreciate bathroom humor. As I was saying to Sarah the other day, “Sarah” says I. “How old will I be before farting is no longer funny?”

We could not come up with a definitive answer and are, thus, forced to become drinking buddies more experienced at the technical aspect of blogging when we meet at BlogHer next month.

The new update is that there is childcare for women who need it and a free yoga session for everyone who should desire it. I’m really glad about that so I can exercise away from home, but don’t expect to see me crying when I go to yoga.

I’ll more likely fart. How sexy is that?

Sometimes, a cuppa can be a work of art. The Moroccan coffee, which is this beautiful reddish-brown color, is normally so special that I don’t have to add anything. A dash of vanilla creamer was a treat this morning as I watched it swirl into this pretty design. Ron, who sent it to me, is a painter who does beautiful work. He’s just let me know that he’s nearly finished with a painting of me from a photo I sent him. Watch out, Art World! I can’t wait to see it!

Special… having my own bathroom.

Not so special… having people need me only when I’m in the shower and try to talk through the door that’s 5 feet away when there’s water rushing through my ears.

Special… having friends ride the bike trails with me now that they know I ride with some frequency.

Not so special… having people stare at me when I’m riding like I look like some sort of prize in my bike helmet and tank and shorts (Oh, note to the Bubba who spoke to me through his pickup truck window: No, thanks. Not ever. No. No. No.)

Special… having my husband agree to make dinner even though he works full-time.

Not so special… just having a bowl of cereal while he spends time wondering what to make for dinner.

Special… having Morgan wake up early to make me muffins because he loves me.

Not so special… having Morgan eat all the chocolate chip muffins and leave the lemon poppyseed ones for me.

Special… getting a free lip gloss mailer from Bath and Body Works.

Not so special… having to spend $10 just to get the free lip gloss.

Special… listening to my husband tell me how proud he is that I just rode my bike 25 miles.

Not so special… listening to my husband say, “Wooooo… you stink!” after riding 25 miles.

Special… working up a sweat, even if it’s not an appreciable quality for those who have to smell me.

Not so special… boob sweat. What’s up with that?

Special… reading a comment on my blog from my friend Joe-in-the-Netherlands.

Not so special… reading a comment about missing my Date in Delft with him online because of my shit Monday. I’ll make it up to you.

Special… getting the low down on where Mallory is all the time even though she’s 20 years old and doesn’t have to tell me.

Not so special… wondering if “Going fishing” or “Playing ultimate frisbee” is a euphamism for “Getting drunk.”

Special… having my family do all the laundry since Mommy is so busy with reading and writing and taking class.

Not so special… having my family ruin my expensive Victoria’s Secret bras by putting them in the dryer.

I’m grateful that I got up early and made coffee. I should have gone to the ATM for cash, gassed up my vehicle, and then come back home and crawled under the covers. It was that kind of day. Peet’s Sierra Dorada started me off well. It just didn’t tell me that my good day was going to last until 8:00a.m. It’s spicy and that helped. A little.

There are a myriad of things I wish people would have just told me so as to minimize the pain of dealing with crap later on.

For instance, couldn’t my mother have told me that I would have this coarse, black hair that would grow out of my face where no black hair should be?

That would have been nice.

It’s been a day of learning. Here are the results:

• When your laptop cancels all programs every time you open them up, it may have a virus. That’s entirely possible. Even on a Mac. Me and Jayne are not on speaking terms. It may have something to do with my calling her a bitch stupid Crapple when she refused to do what I said. I will apologize to her when she gets out of the shop.
• Quit always being the one who volunteers to put the Power Point slideshow together for group projects. See above.
• When your husband decides to go fishing in the evening and needs money to get some bait and you give him the last $10 bill from your purse, you won’t have any money for a snack during break from your class the next day. Asking the Type-A bitches for a loan is not advisable when you’ve alienated yourself.
• On your way to class, when your truck dings! at you and tells you that it’s low on gas, you should probably not curse the day you were born. God will take it as confirmation that you want to go to heaven right then and let you get in a near miss. With a train. To make His point, He might make you wait for another train on those same tracks on your way heading in the other direction. He’s funny that way.
• Don’t get upset about the zit on your face signaling the sloughing of the uterus. It’s better than the painful one on your thigh. Or your ass. I can neither confirm nor deny either of the latter zits. Sorry.
• When you’re trying to get sympathy for a crappy day and you visit your husband at his work, don’t underestimate his need to trump you on a shitty Monday. He will win.
• When your hair looks terrible and you decide to wrap it up in a scarf and look all urbane and hip, it’s best not to visit your husband’s job when he works at the hospital. People will think you’re a cancer victim who has lost her hair and give you sad, pathetic face each time they walk by you. Especially while waiting for him outside the Cancer Center. That would just be stupid.
• When the pedicure gal asks if you’ve been losing weight, don’t put too much faith in it. She’s really just been looking at your feet most of the time and may not have a good point of reference. Just remember that she’s crotch-level. Wait. Actually, that may be worth something.

I will just be happy for the crotch level compliment.