1. Gawk, ogle, whistle, beep, holler, or grin lasciviously at me from the cab of your shiny monster truck. I am not that hot. And, NEITHER ARE YOU.

2. Slow your vehicle and try to engage me in a romantic conversation while you are driving IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION.

3. Are you

4. Pull over and ask me for directions. No, really. I'm not doing anything. I just wear these special shoes so I can stand still and tell other people where to go.

I'm afraid I may need to become one of ...Those Women.

You know the ones I'm talking about.

When you ask them where they bought their shoes, scarf, bag, earrings, etc., they purse their lips in a bitchy little smile and say, "New York ... like three years ago."

This of course is a lie, designed to make you feel like a hillbilly fashion victim who will never get you none of them big-city fancies. It's a cruel and evil tactic. And I'm going to start using it before every woman in Nashville has my earrings.

You see, I recently expanded my earring collection to include some very large and, evidently, eye-catching specimens. Since then, complete strangers have been stopping me on a daily basis to ask me where I bought them. And every time someone stops me, my inner people pleaser practically leaps out of her school uniform to offer assistance.

"Really? My earrings? You like them? Really? Does that mean you think I'm sort of cool? And maybe someday I might even be popular? Really Really Really? Here, let me just jot down the directions to the store where I got them ... and here's the phone number in case you get lost ... and here's some pricing information ... better yet, I know! Why don't I just DRIVE you there, and you can pick some out right now! And then maybe we can have lunch together and talk about jewelry!"

It's the saddest thing you've ever seen.

But, come to think of it, they're probably so turned off by my personality that they wouldn't be caught dead wearing the same earrings.

Wah-Hah-Hah-Hah-Hah ... I shall call it Reverse Bitchcology.

Tomorrow is Gus's birthday, and my car is FILLED, just FILLED, with bright plastic toys for him to chew and destroy! Whoever said money doesn't buy happiness has obviously never shopped at Toys R Us, where pure glee is sold in colorful (and portable!) plastic units. Would you like to meet a genius? Let me introduce you to Mr. Toys R Us. Pretty much everything you want to buy in his store costs $20! Sponge Bob Squarepants Sofa? $20! Playskool Complete Barnyard Set? $20! Plasti-push lawnmower with fantastically irritating noisemaker pseudo-engine? $20! Jumbo Box of Building blocks? $20! Plastic container of edible bandaids? $20! But who cares? I'm on a roll! Incidentally, my Toys R Us shopping spree has coincided with Larry's post-graduate Taking Over of The O'Brien Bills and Checkbook. Yes. It's true. I, the Math Laureate of East Nashville, have been paying our bills and balancing our checkbook for the past five years. (I use the term "balancing" oh-so-very loosely.) And let me just say that finally .... F-I-N-A-L-L-Y ... life is as it should be. I have dreamed of the day when it would be me cowering at the foot of the stairs trying to script an explanation of why $20 seemed like a perfectly reasonable price for a container of bubblegum bandaids. ("But, baby, you don't understand! First you can stick it on a wound, and then you can eat it! And blow a bubble!") So, Ricky's upstairs learning what bills look like. And Lucy, very gladly, has some 'splaining to do.

I was just sitting here hunting and pecking for anything even moderately post-worthy when our smoke alarm went off. There are few things less alarming than our smoke alarm going off. It just means that it's steak night at Casa O'Brien.

Because we are planning to renovate our kitchen, we have put off installing a new fan for our oven. So, (Aghhh ... It's going off again! Be right back!)

Okay. I'm back. So, every time Larry broils a piece of meat, he opens the back door and takes his post beneath the smoke alarm, holding a broom to swat the smoke away. When the alarm sounds, I sprint down the stairs to the front door, open it, shut it, open it shut it, open it, shut it, fanning the fumes until the alarm stops. It's a wonderful exercise in (Holy crap! It's going off again! Be right back!)

I'm back. It's a wonderful exercise in teamwork. A precious time for spousal bonding. (Oh. My. God ... it doesn't usually happen this many times ... berightback.)

Okay. I'm back.

And Larry is in no mood to bond.

Not to be outdone by my husband, who will receive his Master's degree from that podunk, hillbilly Vanderbilt University tomorrow, I am now a proud graduate of Rockhurst University's Complete Course on Creating Killer Copy! I've spent the last two days earning this distinction in an alarmingly low-ceilinged room at the downtown Sheraton with 50 strangers, who also wish to wield words as weapons. (Alliteration is one of the Keys to Creating Killer Copy, Capice?)

I hate to engage in brazen stereotyping ... (like hell I do!) ... but all the usual seminar suspects were present and accounted for.

The Enthusiastic Extrovert:
"You work alone in the leaky basement office of a small INSURANCE COMPANY? That is so INTERESTING! You must LOVE it!"

The Giver of Boring Examples (who so clearly needs a good boinking): 
"One way I have fun at work is I keep a slinky on my desk!" 
No! You don't. Somebody STOP you!

The Restater: 
When the instructor says your headline must connect with your selling message, The Restater raises his hand and says, "In my experience, I've found that determining my selling message and making the headline have something to do with the selling message has been a really useful tool. Just something everyone here might want to keep in mind." (Thanks, Alan, I never would have thought of that!)

The Copilot:
The Copilot (Rhonda, in this case) believes she could easily teach this course, and she attempts to do so every chance she gets. She views herself not as pupil, but as valued counselor. She comes equipped with her own portfolio for the edification of the class, and offers us suggested reading. Her coworkers sit beside her and cringe. And did you know that Direct Mail is a monarchy? It is! Rhonda is the Queen of it! When she told us that, I just felt so honored to be in her presence.

So, there I sat on day one, doing what I always do: quietly, smugly judging. (And starving! You'd think for $900, they could toss you a muffin or something.) But I've got to hand it to the speaker. He was a Very Enthusiastic Man! And he did a stellar job of pretending to find everyone equally fascinating. Though, I sensed he was trying to steer clear of me. Because, let's face it: I'm poison. And he is a motivational speaker. This came to light on day two, during the segment on "letting creativity into your life." Evidently, the brooding artist concept is a myth. Creativity requires positivity! And negativity is a creativity killer! That is why, as a copywriter, you must strive to use (drumroll ...) Positive Affirmations.

You knew it was going to go there, right? Because it always goes there. It's not a seminar if you don't go down the hoodoo path of positive affirmations. It's what I'd been resisting all along. And here's why: I am a TOTAL SUCKER for the positive affirmations. I love those things. They get me every time.

So, our instructor starts in with his positive affirmations. He's pacing the room and chanting, "It's a great day! It's a great day! It's a great day! It's a great day! It's a great day! It's a great day! It's a great day!" And in less than 30 seconds, I was all, OH MY GOD! You're RIGHT! This day is EXCELLENT! None better than this day!

And then I gazed into his third eye and purchased a $495 copywriting "system" from the "resource table" at the back of the room.

Actually, I didn't. But I really wanted to. 
He was that good.

Note: For me, the definition of cooking is "combining two or more ingredients, and sticking them on a plate."

So, tonight I was cooking Gus a jelly sandwich for dinner, taking the time to roll it up and make it look all cute and appetizing, and Larry walked into the kitchen and grabbed himself a fine slice of American Cheese.

Gus was all, "Uh uh uh!!!!! Uggggh!, DADADADADA! Muh! Da!" Reaching out his grubby little jelly mitts for that piece of cheese.

This child is a believer. He bows down to the cheese. He worships no false idols. Only Cheesus. And it has been so for many weeks.

Praise Cheesus!

But then, for dessert, Larry introduced Cheesus's competition. The blue animal cracker. And the boy, he was happy. (Conflicted regarding his faith ...

But happy.

Me: Oh. God.

Larry: What?

Me: Oh! God! A real bird has defiled Sean's chicken!

Lare: You're kidding.

Me: No! I just witnessed a sparrow humping Sean's chicken!

Lare: A real bird? On the rubber chicken?

Me: There was a landing. A straddling. And a rhythmic bouncing.

Lare: I'm getting the camera.

Me: It's too late. It was a bounce and run.

Lare: You have to post about this.

Me: The poor chicken.

Lare: Could that bird have been that dumb? To believe it was a real chicken?

Me: Evidently, he was.

Lare: Although ... the chicken was kind of asking for it. Lying there in the middle of the pavement in a very compromising position like that.

Friday, 5:30 p.m.
In preparation for girls' night out, I dyed my hair the same color I always do. But, evidently, there's been a little reformulation at the Clairol factory. Clairol Auburn Brown is now Clairol Smoldering Clown. This photo does not do it justice:

Saturday, 12:30 p.m.
Lilies. Why plant anything else?

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
Wookie in the grass:

Saturday. 7:00 p.m.
An early mother's day surprise from the boys:

Last night, Larry and Gus attended Fajita Night at Vanderbilt, one of many University-sponsored, pre-graduation chowfests. Evidently, Gus became quite enamored with one of the girls in Larry's master's program, and Larry is convinced it's because Gus thought she was me! Isn't that CUTE and HILARIOUS??? He thought SHE was ME!

Hello, Moto?

What mother wants to hear that? That her child can not distinguish between HIS MOTHER WHO DID GIVE BIRTH TO HIM AND COMFORT HIM ALL OF HIS DAYS and a smiling stranger chewing on a fajita?

No mother. That's who.