It's the Ides of March

as if that means anything to anyone anymore, anyway.
(that was a lot of "any"s--and it was no accident!)
all it really means is "it's the middle of the month".
the only reason we're still familiar with the term is an assassination.
fucking Julius Cesar.
what a punk.

once upon a time, there was a girl named headache.
no, wait, maybe that was two little boys--?
can you tell I'm ready for my weekend getaway??
AND ready for the mr. to be home from his second business trip in the past ten days.
I don't even know what day it is most of the time, lately.
I feel like someone backed over me with a bread delivery truck about a dozen times.

which reminds me--
I drove over a ratty-looking old shoe in the middle of the road, yesterday.
and it felt a little crunchy, so I started imagining that there was a severed human foot in it--
blood spurting out everywhere, followed by my screeching tires and a quick 911 call.
so many possibilities for where that foot could have come from, right?
first thought was of a bad car accident, but I quickly dismissed that, because they wouldn't leave behind the foot, for god's sake!
maybe a dog found it, where the body had been dumped, and dragged it around for a while?
or maybe the whole body was chopped up and thrown under a tarp in the bed of a pickup (with no tailgate), and the foot just sorta slid off.
also makes you wonder, if you were going to dice someone up, would you remove their clothing/shoes first?

Have I ever told you guys what my biggest involuntary creep-out fantasy is?
well, here goes:

I would have been out with some girlfriends for a couple of drinks and a lot of gossip. I would come in through the garage, to a dark and quiet house--nothing unusual, there. I would slip my shoes off and make my way through the dark. Up the stairs, with that familiar creak right in the middle, and past the kids' room, with its softly glowing night-light. My bedroom door might be slightly ajar, and as I closed it behind me, I would see my husband's sleeping shape. I would undress quietly, listening to his breathing, and slide in beside him. I would burrow into my pillow, and just as I was reaching for him--he would turn over. A smile would hit my lips and I would lean toward him. Just then, the moon would peek in through the gap in the curtains, illuminating--a face. Not his. A leering, dark, unshaven, red-splotched face. A rotten teeth and small hands, face. He would pin me with one burly arm and cover my mouth with the other hand. And I can never quite decide which would be worse--to be killed quickly, without ever knowing what had happened to my husband, or to be shown my husband's dead body first. Either way, it freaks me the HELL out. So, sometimes when I get home, after my husband's asleep? I turn on plenty of lights and make sure I see his face before I get within his reach. Just in case.

Beware the Ides of March, is right, fuckers!

have a happy day and please believe me when I tell you I'm not on drugs.
(but maybe I should be..?)

oooh, and start practicing up for St. Patrick's Day--
I'm Irish and I expect a lot of kisses.