I surmise you may be questioning the unmistakably obvious nature of the title. It may seem straightforward to you and me, nevertheless, this simple fact is not absolute in the mind of an innocent child who has no definitive proof of said claim. Demonstrating that human nature is often more powerful than knowledge, it was amusing that my son, who seems to be oblivious to the anatomy of the sexes, still possesses the innate desire to see the feminine form in all it’s glory.

As we were waiting in the doctor’s office today, I gave my five-year-old son a Coastal Living magazine to look at, hoping it would keep him entertained for at least a little while. The first thing that caught his eye was an ad for Vanilla Wafers which boasted an over-sized, picture-perfect presentation of two banana pudding parfaits, alongside the recipe. Wanting us to recreate this spectacular gastronomic delight at home (but unconvinced I could remember the three ingredients), he took it upon himself to phonetically write down the vital components for me: “venele wefers, petene, wapcram.”

(Vanilla wafers, pudding, whipped cream…He opted against the banana, therefore making it a plain old pudding parfait).

Satisfied with his grocery list, he flipped the page and continued browsing. Within moments, he let out a gasp followed by a giggle. You would have thought he had just come across his very first Playboy. Turning my attention to see what all the excitement was about, he pointed to the page and said, “Look, Mom! She’s naked!” He was, in fact, correct. There was a picture of a naked woman right there in the middle of this Coastal Living publication. But titillating, it was not. The strategically posed model was advertising milk, for crying out loud. Only her back, an arm, a shoulder, and part of a leg were visible. The photo lacked anything remotely resembling cleavage and was cropped to omit the mid-section all together. I casually acknowledged his finding, assuming that would dispel anything further on the subject.

Not ready to move on, he then approached my daughter to share a glimpse of this must-see image. After showcasing his newly discovered treasure, he eagerly inquired, “Why is she naked?” I explained that (contrary to his instincts) the picture was acceptable because her private parts weren’t showing. He then mischievously claimed to see one of her boobs and her pee-pee. Her pee-pee, naturally, meaning penis. I highly doubted he could see any part of a breast, and I was quite certain he did not see her penis, because even if she did have one, it wouldn’t have shown in that particular photo. I felt this would be a good time to reiterate to the little guy that women and girls do not sport penises. A penis is something far too special for God to have wasted on women. Well, that’s not exactly what I said–my actual words were significantly less sexist. But considering I had previously explained this bit of biology, I am not sure if he had just truly forgotten, or whether it’s because he simply can’t fathom someone not having a penis.

He eventually turned the pages and perused a little more, before returning, a number of times, to the milk advertisement. The child was literally giddy. Before flashing the infamous pose one last time, he presented us with the enticing offer, “wanna see something gross?” Laughing at the humor of the situation, I answered, “if you think it’s gross, why do you keep staring at it?” With a devilish little lopsided grin, he just rolled his eyes and proceeded to admire his first-ever dirty magazine.

From my archives (written Jan. 3) comes my very first anecdotal article:

I had intended to write about other matters today–matters that bare slightly more significance to report. Yet, due to some unforeseen circumstances that have befallen me, I have instead decided to squeeze the hell out of life’s lemons and make a tart, yet satisfying beverage, aka, this account. Ah, isn’t it refreshing?

Without electricity….

I am so dedicated to you, my only reader, that I went through hell and high water to make this post possible. I apologize that it is longer than it needs to be, but I am in no hurry to return to my home that is currently in a 19^th century state-of-being. Devoid of central heating the interior of my residence is currently more frigid than an embrace from Hilary Clinton. Before you doubt the plausibility of this claim, let me inform you that this is quite possibly the chilliest day to hit North America since the invention of the thermometer, registering a mere 17 degrees. Yes. Fahrenheit.

I had been looking forward to this day for the last week of my children’s 13-day winter break. At last, I would be able to resume my pre-holiday schedule including working out, tidying the house, reading, shopping, or frankly, whatever I wanted once I had accomplished my obligatory tasks. Today was the much-anticipated commencement of the second semester.

The morning began routinely enough, and with the youngest two already on the bus and en route to school, I had two down and only one to go! Nevertheless, just as seven o’clock struck, so did the first sign of trouble. My oldest daughter was almost finished with her morning ritual when the lights unexpectedly went out, leaving her in the dark as she was applying mascara. Within moments, my problems intensified when our security system realized it was functioning on energy generated from a battery and, therefore, implemented it’s ingenious design of sounding every-two-minutes as a “courteous” reminder. First of all, even if there was something you could do about it, it’s not as though you would need reminding every two minutes.

Without electricity…

I have taken this opportunity to patronize the local Panera, who’s gastronomic fare is about as good as fast-food gets, and who’s free internet service I never gave a second thought…until today. While I sit here typing away, recounting the ridiculous saga I’ve endured over the last few hours since awaking, I derive inspiration for which to entitle my blog. Meanwhile, I am secretly hoping not to bump into anyone I know, for I am experiencing a “bad hair day” so hideous, it was the likes of which that coined the term. Without any appliances such as, um, a blow dryer, to aid in my daily beautification routine I am left with flat, uncooperative locks. For the record, hairspray and other such products do not aid the process if you can’t get your style in a position you would like held in place!

Without electricity even getting here was no picnic. In fact, just trying to get out of the garage, I began to know the sense of urgency inmates must feel when they encounter a kink while putting their escape plan into motion. To disengage the garage door from the opener, I’ve been instructed to just “pull the cord”. Just pull the cord. My ass. For whatever reason, the garage door gave a great amount of resistance forcing me to endure a strenuous assault on my back. Alternatively, I could have given up and faced my failure to bust out of this joint. But without electricity I have been imprisoned in my own home which, if you recall, proves to be quite cold and lacking in modern conveniences. With that being said, I wasn’t giving up.

In spite of my determination, it was a great deal of frustration, a crippling back, and a rather long string of profanities later before I was on the outside. At last, there was only one thing left between me and my fantasies of warm food, electrical power, and the internet: the guilt of knowing that my children are sitting in a school doomed by the same fate as our home, possibly freezing, as this is the first day back from winter break. Unable to contact the school via phone to check the status of conditions, I felt obliged to stop in and make sure my children weren’t profusely suffering. The plan was to simply seek information about their classroom’s temperatures, and if even relatively close to the comfort zone, allow them to stay put. However, upon entering the long entrance hall and proceeding towards the office to make my inquiry, I was unexpectedly halted. The corridor was armed with staff members strategically placed so that no one could penetrate the building without being directed to the sign out sheet. Therefore, when asked, “are you here to pick up your child?” I knew it was rhetorical.

Off we (eventually) went, the three of us, to the place that was originally going to provide me not only food, power and internet, but solitude. The last of these mentioned was now out of the question. So much for packing my iPod. It would hardly be fair for me to enjoy what refuge the earplugs would provide while the very sources I was taking refuge from were irritating every other patron. The sources, of course, being the members of my entourage. We entered, ordered, and I selected a spot with a nearby outlet. It wasn’t long before I was regretting my decision to rescue them from school, and during the moment they relentlessly hollered across the restaurant to me from the drink station, I told them as such. When the incessant calls to my attention began, I attempted to ignore them, having taught them not to yell for me when they need something, but to come get me. Apparently, this lesson can be added to the litany of others they fail to heed. As one can imagine, I was less than thrilled about leaving my purse and laptop unattended to assess the crisis, and as a result, the excrement temporarily hit the fan. But after the beverage situation was under control, we returned to our haven near the fireplace and once lapping up our nourishing soup de jour, the calm of contentedness returned. That, to your misfortune, is when I began logging this insignificant day in my life.

Via cellular communication, I have just been informed that the outage is affecting a wide-spread region and the electricity is not likely to be reinstated before midnight. Apparently, Duke Power has the equipment necessary to fix the problem located in a neighboring state. No pun intended, but that is brilliant planning.

Before the day was over and the convenience of power we so often take for granted reinstated, my entourage and I had the privilege of patronizing yet another Panera. That’s right. One day. Two Paneras. Six hours. On the bright side, we did get out of a dentist appointment! Sadly, they had no power either.

The moral of the story? Let’s see…I guess it takes a whole lot of lemons for a satisfying outcome—and while no good will come until you squeeze the juice out of them, you mustn’t forget to add some sugar.