Can I get some of that?

In Colin Farrell's recent sex tape , he says to his girlfriend of the moment, Nicole Narain, while performing oral sex "I could do this breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Ok, Colin. I'm not greedy. I don't have to be a whole meal but can I at least be a snack? An hors d'oeuvre?

Dreaming while awake

It was 3 am and I was having a nightmare.

For some unknown reason, I am delivering a package - a book actually, wrapped in a box - to a house. Upon arriving at the house, I discover that the place has been abandoned and all of the windows were left open . I go up the stairs and stand on the porch where I can clearly see through the flapping curtains that the house is infested with insects. All different kinds of insects. And they are everywhere. Blanketing almost every surface.

I look over my left shoulder and see a huge spider web with a spider the size of a football guarding the porch entrance. How I managed to get past the spider without noticing it, I do not know. What I do know is that I am terrified. And I can now feel bugs crawling all over me. I wake up immediately swatting insects under the covers. I calm down after realizing that it was all just a nightmare.

As I am laying there, I groggily look above me where I see a HUGE spider perched on top of my headboard. I leap out of bed and turn on the light. There is nothing there. After staring for a few moments to be sure, I get back in bed and turn out the light. I look up again at the same spot and I see a HUGE water bug moving its tentacles. I leap out of bed a second time and turn on the light. There's still nothing there.

I come to the conclusion that even though I am awake and alert, that some part of my brain must still be dreaming. I get back in bed, turn out the light and take one more look at my headboard. Satisfied that the creepy crawlies are only in my dreams, I go back to sleep.

The effects of Brokeback Mountain or Why do I feel like such a loser?

I love movies. The movies I tend to gravitate towards are usually independent, edgy and controversial. It should be no surprise that I went to see Brokeback Mountain the weekend it opened. I expected to see a beautifully touching story about two cowboys who fall in love. The movie did not disappoint. What I was not prepared for were the emotions I felt afterwards.

Since seeing the movie, I had been experiencing a nagging melancholy and could not understand its source. As I sat at my desk today, it hit me. The reason I am so sad is because I fear that I will end up like the main character, Ennis Del Mar - lonely and pathetic with no one to love and no prospects of ever experiencing true love again.

As I let this realization pour over me, I start to tear up. Realizing that the office was not the place to have an emotional breakdown, I get up from my desk and head to the bathroom where I manage to choke back my tears and convince myself that my emotions are now in check. As I wash my hands, I look at my reflection in the mirror and I see Ennis Del Mar. I turn away because I can't stand to look anymore and proceed to sob uncontrollably.

Why has love chosen to pass me by? Am I destined to become a lonely, old spinster? My life sure seems to be heading that way. And I don't know how to stop it.

Here we go again

I unlocked the backseat passenger door so the two boys could get in and we could be on our way to school. They both stood there with the door open, arms folded, staring at each other.

"You get in!"

"No, you get in. I sat in the middle last time!"

"No you didn't. I did!"

Having all that I could stand, I barked at the younger one, "Get in the car!" No one moves. "Get...in...the car!"

"She's talking to you", the older one says.

"Fine, well I get to sit by the door two times" proclaimed the younger one.

As usual, the older one attempts to feign a higher level of maturity and says, "It doesn't matter to me. I'm not going to cry about it!"

Fed up with this transparent act, I decide to call it like I see it without mincing my words, "Quit saying it doesn't matter. Obviously it matters to you or else you would get in the freaking car!"

I must have hurt his feelings. He didn't speak to me the entire ride to school. Complete silence.

Finally.

Habitual Lateness

I work three jobs. I work three jobs because I have to not because I'm addicted to working. Because I work so much, I only have one day off a week - Sunday. On my day off, I like to sleep in, then get up and dawdle as I get ready for church. It's my little way of rejuvenating after a long work week. Church starts promptly at 10:30 am. I usually stroll in about.....well, let's put it this way, if my salvation depended upon me getting to church on time every Sunday, I would have been banished to hell a long time ago.

Next week, our service time is being moved up to 10:00am. While making this announcement, my pastor takes the opportunity to admonish The Punctually Challenged Club, of which I and my companion sitting next to me are charter members. He lovingly yet firmly explains that habitual tardiness to church is an indication of your attitude towards God and is inconsiderate of those around you - two points I will not argue.

The pastor's lateness rebuke started at 11:50am. My friend and I (the two tardy culprits inciting the rebuke) had agreed to leave church early to go to a basketball game downtown that started at 1pm. If we leave now, it looks like we were angry with his admonition and decided to storm out of the church in protest (an inaccurate, albeit comical, perception), so I make her sit there for 5 more minutes until he moved on to another topic.

Our pastor is a good man. He is the shepherd of the flock, a position I respect. If lateness to church is his pet peeve then I will honor his wishes by either being on time or by staying home on days I am feeling sluggish.

Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?

My friend, Anita, had been searching for years for a church to attend. She had visited many houses of worship but nothing ever seemed quite right. She was open to any denomination except Baptist. Anita swore to herself years ago that she would never, ever step foot in another Baptist church.

A co-worker recommended that she visit his church. Anita visited the church and fell in love with it immediately. The music was great, the sermons were uplifting and very biblically sound for a non-denominational church, she thought. And the people were hospitable. Finally, after all these years, she had found the church of her dreams.

She didn't join right away because she didn't want to make an impulsive decision. For two and a half months, she went to church every week, sometimes multiple times a week, and loved every minute of it. Each meeting was better than the last. It became so ridiculously obvious to Anita that this was the place for her that she eventually gave in to her emotions and became a member. My friend was pleased with her decision. It was the right one to make, or so she thought.

As a new member, Anita began receiving literature from the church that indicated that this was not a non-denominational church afterall; in fact, it was Baptist. How could this happen? The reason Anita waited so long to become a member was because she wanted to make an intelligent, well informed decision and she wanted no surprises. Of all the services she had attended, there was never any indication given that this was a Baptist church.

Anita went to church the following Sunday, still perplexed as to how something like this could have occured. As she pulls into the parking lot, Anita glances at the church sign she passed every week for almost three months. And there it was, right there in big, bold letters for all the world to see: Union Street Missionary BAPTIST Church. She could almost hear the Heavens erupt in laughter.

God does indeed have a sense of humor.

My Last Nerve

As usual, the morning trek to school started out with a fight.

8 Year-old boy: "I want to sit on that side."

9 Year-old boy: "You sat there last time."

8 Year-old: "Did not!"

9 Year-old: "Did too!"

8 Year-old: "No, I didn't!"

9 Year-old: "Fine. You sit there. I'm not gonna cry about it." (mumbling) "I don't see why he..."

Me: "I thought you said you weren't going to cry about it."

9 Year-old: "I'm not! I just don't understand..."

Me: "You're cryin' about it!"