Did somebody step on a duck?

When I was a little girl, my father used to say, "Did somebody step on a duck?" whenever he farted. When I was 6, this was hilarious. When I was 10, I realized that he stole it from some Burt Reynolds movie but still found it pretty funny. But by the teen years? Oh, yeah, it made me cringe. But in fairness, I was desperately trying to pretend that people didn't actually fart. I think all of the gas bottled up inside me made me cranky.

But I digress.

Today, Munchkin and I went to feed the ducks. This is a new afternoon pasttime of ours and he loves it. But when I went to get the old bread out of the fridge today, it was gone. Turns out, CPT Dick took some moldy bread with him to work. (Serves him right for taking his son's duck bread!) The only other thing that looked like might work were some really old bagels. But, people, they were everything bagels. Heavy on the garlic and onion.

We fed the duckies and they ate those everything bagels right up. And as my kid threw the last piece of bagel to them, I remembered my father's gaseous catch phrase and started cracking up. Because in the back of my mind, I had a strange suspicion that the Daddy Duck, feeling the full effects of all that garlic and onion, was going to be telling his ducklings later that someone, somewhere must have stepped on a human.

Can someone explain something to me?

So the GOP has come out hard and fast against gay marriage and, frankly, the gay lifestyle. They do not think it was God's intention that two members of the same gender build a life together.

But I guess where I'm not clear is why soliciting anonymous airport sex or using your position to pressure congressional aides to give you blowjobs is all right. Can someone explain this distinction?

My son, the magician.

For a two-year-old, my kid has quite the movie collection. Since we don't have television, the kid gets to occasionally (and sometimes more than occasionally) watch DVDs, usually of the Disney or Sesame Street variety.

Lately, some of the DVDs have gone missing. Munchkin likes to play DJ, putting in one disc and then catching sight of another and switching them out. Not all discs get put back in the cases. And so, right now, we have about three DVDs that have disappeared into the land of unmatched dryer socks and extra extension cords.

Today, Munchkin started doing the switcheroo game again. But this time, I was damned if he was going to lose another DVD. I watched him carefully and as he put down one DVD, I made him help me put it back on its case and then back on the shelf.

But, somehow, someway, one of the DVDs once again went missing. I searched high, I searched low. I opened every DVD case to make sure that we didn't put it in the wrong one. I went to his room to make sure he didn't take it there accidentally. And I was about to start pulling apart the adult DVD case (no, not that kind of adult -- we keep our porn in the bedroom because we're classy), the kid walks right up to the DVD player with the missing disc and pops it in.

I have no idea where he got it from since I was so busy looking for it. I'm imagining that every possible lost item is stashed there just waiting for him to take out at his leisure. I tell you, either my kid is a magician or he is much, much smarter than me.

I wonder how long it would take him to learn how to run his own shell game scam.

Please tell me he was punking the writer.

In September's Harper's Bazaar, Ashton Kutcher lets the ladies know how to dress a man.

"Make sure the look isn't too matchy-matchy. ... Your best bet is to match the man gear to that great new Balenciaga bag that you're planning to carry. If your bag works with your outfit, so will he."

When I first read the CNN article highlighting these great "tips," I thought, "Holy crap, this guy is dumber that Michael Kelso!"

But if he pronounced Balenciaga correctly, maybe the joke is on us.

Why I love poetry.

Yes, it was another war, another time. But I still can't help but feel that Josef Brodsky got some things right. The count grows higher and yet people seem to pay it smaller and smaller mind.

Bosnia Tune

As you pour yourself a scotch,
crush a roach, or check your watch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.

In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, cought in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.

In small places you don't know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say good-bye,
people die.

People die as you elect
new apostles of neglect,
self-restraint, etc. - whereby
people die.

Too far off to practice love
for thy neighbor/brother Slav,
where your cherubs dread to fly,
people die.

While the statues disagree,
Cain's version, history
for its fuel tends to buy
those who die.

As you watch the athletes score,
check your latest statement, or
sing your child a lullaby,
people die.

Time, whose sharp blood-thirsty quill
parts the killed from those who kill,
will pronounce the latter tribe
as your type.

My teenage years, revisited.

Many people think that it's very funny that my husband and I ended up together.

When we started dating, my hair was partially dyed purple and I was sporting both a nose and navel ring. I dressed to show my multiple tattoos and had been to see at least 6 Ani DiFranco concerts.

He, of course, was a soldier. No discernible punkness visible.

There is always more than meets the eye with pairings. And it's very true when it comes to me and CPT Dick. But if I'm being honest, I have to admit that I dated a lot more within my stereotype when I was a teenager.

And today, I completely remembered it when I happened along a youngish guy in a Misfits t-shirt.

He was probably early 20's, if that. And without his beret, his hair was gelled up into a faux mohawk. The t-shirt was obviously old -- maybe purchased that way, sure -- with little holes around the collar and the tell-tale fading of too many times through the wash. His Doc Martens were red and laced up to the top.

The teenage girl that still lives inside of me felt her heart skip a beat.

But then the effect was totally ruined when the Mom in me noticed that his jeans had holes in the butt.

This conversation again.

"I don't understand. Why would he choose to be in the military with all that is going on in the world right now?"

"Because he wants to be. There are a whole host of reasons. Listing them all could take hours."

"But there is so much more that he could do."

"Perhaps. But this is what he wants to do."

"I guess I'll never understand it."

"Maybe it's not for anyone but him to understand. Do you ever ask why someone wants to be a doctor? Or a lawyer? Or a priest, for Christ's sake? Or hell, what about your esthetician? Ever ask her why she chose to pop zits for a living?"

*pause*

"That's a good point. I'm going to make a point to ask her next time I go in for a facial."

My husband has passed out cold on the couch.

He's asleep, snoring away, and the only thing I can think of to do is to put make-up on him.

But it would be wrong of me to put mascara on him while he slept, wouldn't it? I mean, even though it would be hilarious to see him scamper around tomorrow not noticing it and then coming back from PT with raccoon eyes, I know it would be wrong. I could not betray his trust in such a manner. Could I?

No, I couldn't. It's wrong. And not just because I just put clean sheets on the bed and he'd probably mascara them all up.

A lazy Sunday.

One of the best things about living in Germany is fest season. From June until September, there is generally some kind of little town party somewhere within driving distance. There are a few shops, a lot of people and even more beers to be consumed.

Our little town had such a fest today. It was a horse-shoeing party, of all things, with local blacksmiths showing the world the old-fashioned way to shoe a horse. There were all kinds of wares, foods, animals and, yes, beer.

Munchkin was in heaven. It was so much fun watching him take it all in.