In-Law Sex Day!

Even though your In-laws are well into their 60's, they still love sex and they can't stop fucking. They've been staying with you for two days now and you and your wife can't get a wink of sleep with that bed rocking back and forth all night long and the two of them screaming at each other, "Come on hit me. Yes. Now shove that thing in my hole. No the thing in your hand. Yes, the wooden thing. Get it in there. Hurry for God's sake hurry. Not so loud, you might wake up the kids."

You and your wife may be "the kids," but they're still the guests in the house. Tell them to keep it down tonight. Say, "Look I know you don't have long. God knows either of you could go any minute. In the blink of an eye. Just like that. So I don't want to tell you not to get everything you can out of your last hours together. I just want to ask you not to scream so loud when you come. And maybe don't throw the alarm clock at each other. That thing really makes a racket when it slams against the wall. Additionally, Howard, when you bellow at the ceiling it makes the dog think there's a predator in the house and we have to put him out in the garage. Finally, there's semen on the windows and I didn't put it there. That's in-law semen. Clean it up."

Your wife will sulk when you go back to your room. They never talked about sex in her family. The kids were just forced to listen to it and pretend nothing was happening. She was 100% against you going in there and telling them to quiet down.

"How am I going to face them at breakfast now that they know I know what they're doing?" she'll ask.

"You have no idea what they're doing," tell her.

"What do you mean?" she'll ask. "What are they doing?"

Don't tell her what you saw. Don't tell her that the guy who stands out front of the liquor store is upstairs with her parents in their bedroom. She doesn't need to know.

"Just trust me," tell her. "You can enjoy your breakfast just like any other morning because you haven't the slightest clue what might be going on up there."

Then just roll over on your side, clench your eyes shut tight and shiver yourself to sleep.

Happy In-Law Sex Day!

Burn A Book Day!

The other 364 days of the year can be as grand a celebration of knowledge and learning and free speech as you can afford to decorate. But today you have to burn a book. Just one. And do it privately and silently, and don't share with others which book you choose to burn. It's none of their business if you choose to burn a Paul Auster memoir because you don't see any point to it ever having been written. You don't even have to have read the book. You might choose to burn a Bulgakov novel simply because you think the cover is "dumb." It's no one else's business and it should stay that way. People get really critical of which books other people choose to burn. Almost as critical as they are regarding the books other people choose to read. If the book you burn was chosen solely for its girth, keep that fact to yourself. You don't want everyone to know that you chose your book based on its likelihood to keep your family warm for the longest period of time. You don't want everyone to find out you are homeless just because you can't keep your gums from flapping on Burn A Book Day.

Happy Burn A Book Day!

Your Dad Is The Patio Furniture King Of Dayton Day!

Your life is pretty empty because you travel a lot. You represent a company that has created a state-of-the-art traffic light technology that, between you and whomever happens to be drinking next to you at the motel bar, is not all that exciting (Instead of red-yellow-green, it uses red-burnt sienna-green). You know your wife has affairs while you're on the road, and you only hope that you can travel long enough for her to enjoy the full life of the affair and break it off before you come home. You hate it when she feels the need to confess and forces you to beg that she end it and stay.

You'll be arriving in Dayton today at three. By ten pm (seven Makers Marks later) you'll be propped up on your unyielding motor inn bed staring at a Murder She Wrote on the TV. That's when you'll meet the Patio Furniture King of Dayton.

"If you can find a cheaper patio set within 50 miles, I shall with grace and dignity abdicate my throne to thee. But not before I beat that price!"

The Patio Furniture King of Dayton is your Dad. He left your mother right before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. You and your sisters wrote him and told him to come back and make peace before she was gone, but he never responded. That was twelve years ago. You assumed he got a lot farther away than Dayton.

Now he's on your TV in a furry red cloak and a big plastic yellow crown screaming about remote controlled umbrellas. Tomorrow, after you meet the mayor and his comptroller, go pay a visit to the Kingdom of Patio Furniture and tell his highness that he's a goddamn son of a bitch.

Happy Your Dad Is The Patio Furniture King Of Dayton Day!

Underground Barbershop Day!

It's where some of the best barbers in the city rent a chair, and you can get the haircut of your life for pennies because they got nowhere else to go. No matter how talented a barber might be, there's a good chance he might one day have to go into hiding because old time criminals (top guys) can't help but flap their gums in the barber's chair. They'll yap away about which rat had it coming and where best to saw into which limb when you have to get rid of a body. They won't think twice about it, especially when the smock comes off and they get a look at that slick new trim.

It's when the indictment gets handed down that everyone takes a seat and makes a list of who could squeal. And that's the day that Ramon's chair goes cold, all those Polaroids of his daughters back in Cuba torn down from the mirror. The girl taking the phones doesn't even think twice. She just runs down the list and cancels all his appointments saying, "He had to leave the country and go home for a little while."

But you know where to find him. In the basement under the donut shop near the railyard is a 1200 square foot floor lined wall to wall with spinning leather highback chairs and mirrors crawling with cutouts of Brad Pitt's haircut. It's the Underground Barbershop, a sanctuary for some of the best barbers in town whose lives ain't worth spit for the months and months it takes for a federal inquiry to hit a brick wall and call off the dogs. They're doing what they love in the only place they're safe, and they don't charge extra for styling gel after. Go on. Drive 50 miles out of your way and spend only 15 bucks to get the smoothest fade of your young life.

Happy Underground Barbershop Day!

He Is A Scientist From The Past Day!

He built a time machine and is going to travel to the point in the future (today) when you have decided once and for all that you are giving up on men completely.

It will be very funny when the scientist turns on your blender and screams like a girl.

When the scientist appears in your living room, you'll be immediately struck by just how handsome he is. Then you'll run to the phone and call the police and have him arrested for attempted rape. While he's in prison, you'll wonder whether all that stuff he shouted about being from another time was true. Then you'll find something that he dropped that proves it's true. A gem or a vial of anti-syphilis cream or something. You'll run down to the station and (luckily, you're a hard-nosed prosecutor) get him set free with the charges dropped.

It will be very funny when the scientist sees an airplane and thinks it's a flying monster.

You and the scientist will make love for days and days and he'll treat you like a princess. Then he'll start to die because he can't handle the smog of modern times. You'll love him, but you'll have to lose him in order to keep him alive. Tell him to have many children in his time and maybe you'll meet one of his descendents in yours.

That's exactly what's going to happen this coming spring. You're going to be volunteering at an anti-air pollution organization and the man running the place will be the spitting image of the scientist. He'll ask whether he's met you before and you'll tell him, "In a way." Then you'll marry him and the two of you will devote your lives to cleaning up the air to make it safe for people from the past to time-travel to the present without dying of the carcinogens.

It will be very funny when the scientist tries to cross the street on a red light.

Happy He Is A Scientist From The Past Day!

You Got Hit By A Car Day!

Your girlfriend's not too excited about you not having the use of your legs anymore, so she's going to leave you today.

"For a guy who can walk?" you'll ask.

Of course. Maybe even for a guy who can run, she'll tell you. She didn't go out with you thinking, "I hope one day I'll have to run around the room fetching things for him."

You'll ask, "But didn't the last three years mean anything?"

Of course they did, she'll tell you. You were a completely mobile person over the last three years. She loved your laugh, your money, and most of all, she now realizes, she loved the way you could get up from a chair when you didn't want to be in a chair anymore.

You'll grow angry and shout, "Fine, just go then. Get out of my hospital room," which she'll be one hundred percent stoked about doing since she was afraid she'd have to explain some more stuff and you'd eventually find out that she's actually a government spy who's about to go back undercover and she was looking for a way to cut ties with you without having to kill you. You getting hit by that car actually saved your life, luckyface.

Happy You Got Hit By A Car Day!

Ask A Bookie What Kind Of Odds He'll Give You On You Getting Some Ass This Weekend Day!

Without even looking up from his computer he'll say, "Five to one."

Your mouth will drop. "Against?!"

The bookie will shrug and continue typing. He'll be IM'ing with customers of his online gambling site.

"Come on," you'll say. "I'm hotter than I've ever been. Look at this rack."

He'll look up at the shape of your bosom, which is very appealing in that blue sweater. Then he'll look up at your face. Then he'll go back to his typing. "Five to one," he'll say.

"How can my odds be that bad?" you'll ask. You'll be trying to hold back tears. You've been so lonely for so very long. "What's wrong with me?"

The bookie will stop typing. "There's nothing wrong with you physically. I lay out my odds based on what I hear from the street. And word on the street is you're in a weird place right now emotionally and it's gonna be a little while before you're able to let anyone in again. Sure, you'll go out there with the intent of bagging yourself a man. But as soon as someone makes an offer you'll turn tail."

You'll feel a big weight lift off your shoulders when he's done talking.

"Five to one?"

"Five to one," the bookie will repeat.

Say, "Too rich for my blood." Then go home and rent some movies. Don't bother with the gym tonight because you're not going to have to try to get laid this weekend!

Happy Ask A Bookie What Kind Of Odds He'll Give You On You Getting Some Ass This Weekend Day!

Everybody Wants A Piece Of You Day!

Today you should get away from all the groupies and the hangers on and the cousins looking for bail money and just go and live in a dumpy little apartment someplace in the middle of nowhere. Like Cincinnati. Anyone who ever made money off of you is gonna come looking for you, and if they made enough money, they'll find you most definitely. But when they get there, don't let them through the door. Just tell them to fly away if they ever want to make another dime out of your sweat. Don't watch the news because the broadcasts will feature people you thought were your friends brought on as guest experts to offer opinions on where you could be and whether you'll ever come out of hiding again. Just wait until the only one you still care about comes knocking. When she buzzes and you see her in the lobby's security camera, you're going to realize this was all for the best. She came looking for you. This was all for the best there ever could be. Of course, the minute you open your door around nine executives will burst through and kidnap you back to either New York or Los Angeles because the only one you ever cared about was bought by them to set a trap. Everybody wants a piece of you, and everybody can be bought.

Happy Everybody Wants A Piece Of You Day!

You Drive A Horse-Drawn Carriage For Money Day!

Every once in a while your father gets drunk and hops into the carriage to demand that you give him some money. The last time he did it you already had some passengers in the carriage. He made them run off and you had to chase them down to return their fare to avoid a citation on your license. You warned your father then to stay away from you forever. Today, he's going to ignore your warning.

You'll catch sight of him just a second before he jumps into the seat. Before he can even catch his breath you'll be landing a barrage of blows to his face and belly. He won't be drunk, apparently. And he'll just sit there and take the hits.

Your horse will be edging into other lanes of traffic so you'll grab the reins again and steer back towards the curb.

"I'm dying," your father will say.

You'll be yanking on the reins to get the buggy straight.

"My liver," he'll add. Then he'll pull a bottle from his pocket and drink.

"Serves you right," you'll say.

Your father will take a few more sips. Ask him, "So what do you want from me?"

He'll shrug. He'll be staring into the thick of the park on his right. "This is a nice ride. You got nice work here."

You'll let the clomping of the hooves fill the silence for a spell. Then you'll say, "The cold gets too much some days, but sure."

Your father won't say anything else. You'll spy him wiping at the blood pouring out of his nose and you'll hand him a napkin from your lunch. He'll sit in silence for half a turn around the park.

When you hit a red light, he'll say, "Kiss your mother for me." Then he'll hop out and start to walk away.

"That's it?" you'll ask.

He'll stop and turn around. He'll shrug again. You'll hand some twenties down to him and say, "Get warm."

He'll take the money, wave goodbye, and walk into the park. It might be a lie. It wouldn't be beyond him to pretend to be dying just to get his hands on sixty bucks. You won't know until you see him again. Some of the shelters have your name as a contact in the event of death, so maybe if he dies in a bed you'll get a call. Or one day he'll just run up and hop into your carriage again. If he does, he knows what he's got coming to him.

Happy You Drive A Horse-Drawn Carriage For Money Day!

Winter Beach Day!

The only people on the beach in the wintertime are Russian hookers and guys whose girlfriends just ran off. You're one of the latter. The winter beach is the perfect place where people who feel terrible can feel even worse. Just walk along the endless stretch of cold white sand and wonder what you could have done to make her leave. She's not a cruel person, and yet she felt it necessary to leave you in the middle of winter to try and find some way to stay warm on your own. The winter beach is great because it allows you to believe that staying warm on your own is impossible. There's nothing but icy wind ahead and the ceaseless pounding of the waves.

Your walk will lead you to a huddle of Russian hookers near the boardwalk. They'll be squatting in a circle around one hooker who was beaten by a customer. You'll lean in to watch as they use a scarf try to stop the bleeding from the hooker's head wound. One of the hookers near you will turn to you and say in Russian, "I don't think she's going to make it." You don't understand Russian, but you'll respond in English, "Why would she want to?"

Happy Winter Beach Day!

Day Of The Beekeeper Day!

You're an out of work beekeeper who hit the bottle pretty hard after your wife died (she was killed by bees). You decided that there's no point in continuing to keep bees if you can't even keep your own wife from getting stung to death (in fairness, she was highly allergic but kept that a secret from you because she was afraid you'd leave her for having weak blood).

Today your old boss is going to knock on your door. You'll be passed out under some whiskey bottles when he pushes his way into the unlocked apartment. The place will stink of vomit and honey. Your old boss will smack you awake and tell you what he needs.

"I need the best. I need you. These are some nasty bees and if they aren't kept by the end of the month, I can kiss my little girl goodbye."

You'll remind him that you're out of the game.

Your old boss will say, "The people who have my daughter. They don't mess around. And neither do I. I wouldn't have come to you if I didn't think it was the only way to get her back into my arms."

You'll pace a little. Then you'll pick up a picture frame. It will still contain the photo of the baby that was in it when you bought the frame from the drug store.

"You know," you'll tell your old boss. "We bought this frame thinking one day we'd replace that with a picture of our own baby."

Your old boss will tell you that if you do this beekeeping job and rescue his daughter from the Chechnyans, he'll help you get that baby you used to want.

Correct him. "No, we wanted to have a kid. Me and my wife. But she's dead now."

Your old boss will say that he's in a hurry and he needs to know if you'll do the job. Say yes. A little girl is tied to a whole bunch of hand grenades somewhere. Go keep those bees, beekeeper.

Happy Day Of The Beekeeper Day!

Your Father's Mustache Day!

You've been to open-casket funerals before and you know that the body never looks quite "right," but today when you kneel beside your father's casket to pray you'll be aware that something is very wrong. It will be as if his eye color had changed (if his eyes were open). When you finally nail it you'll let out a little yelp from the surprise that you didn't catch it sooner.

"I hated that thing," your stepmother will say when you drag her into the antechamber of the funeral home. "So shaggy and unkempt. Like an old pair of corduroy pants."

"My father was like an old pair of corduroy pants," you'll argue. Your voice will be louder than you'd intended, but you'll run with it. Maybe today's the day to have it out with the icy little interior designer your Dad was too lonely not to marry.

"Whether he was or not, there was no reason to hang a pair of corduroy pants from under his nose," she'll say. "I could never get him to shave it while he was alive, no matter how I'd harangued him. Honestly, he's probably watching this from someplace today and he's laughing over how I finally got him to shave the thing."

Your father's mustache was fat and gray and full of dandruff flakes. It was on his face for over thirty years. It was not hers to discard. Go get a disposable camera and take some photos of his face.

"I'm bringing these to the law office when we settle the estate," tell your stepmother. "If there are any terms to contest in that will, these photos might influence the proceedings."

Your stepmother will grow very smug. "Oh, I think you'll find the terms of that will are very clear."

Everyone on line to pay their respects will watch you snap your camera over and over again like a crime scene photographer. Ignore them. You're the daughter of the deceased and you can do whatever you want at the deceased's funeral. This is an advantage you have over your stepmother, who will grab the camera away from your face before too long.

"I am taking photographs of my father," tell her. "Please let me continue."

Your stepmother will tell you that your photos won't do any good and all you're doing is making a scene.

"Did he amend the will?" you'll ask without pausing your picture-taking.

Your stepmother will grab at the camera again. You'll turn around and scream, "Did he amend the fucking will?!"

Your stepmother will nod. That's it. You wanted the house, your mother's house, but she's getting it.

"She's your princess," you'll tell your father. Toss the camera into his coffin and walk out of the funeral home. You're the daughter of the deceased and you can play any game you want, but you're still going to walk away emptyhanded.

Happy Your Father's Mustache Day!

Now Your Coat Smells Like Her Coat Day!

Last night, you and your ex-girlfriend attended the same housewarming party of a friend who is as mutual as your decision to break up. You arrived at the same time and shared an elevator, which meant that you tossed your coats onto the bed one after the other.

On the walk home, you started to panic and you couldn't tell why. Your fa�ade of "I just feel like things are only going to get better" was falling apart, and you could feel the crumbling pieces pile into your belly. Your steps grew heavier as you climbed out of the subway and you wondered whether you could make it home or whether you should fall to the base of a building and just stop breathing.

Breathing. You were breathing in her scent. Your coats rested on top of each other, and now your coat smells like her coat. You slept with your coat in your arms last night.

Today, call in sick and stay in bed with your face buried in the meat of your coat. Pray to God that she's doing the same thing with her coat.

Happy Now Your Coat Smells Like Her Coat Day!

Don't Give Up The Dream Day!

When you were a little kid, you used to dream that one day you would dance on the stage at Lincoln Center. Today, that dream is going to seem more remote than ever. Today is your ten-year anniversary in maximum security prison, and you're going to undergo surgery to have a tumor removed from your brain. The cancer was diagnosed a year ago, but the doctor in the health ward waited way too long to slate you for surgery so that he could be sure the tumor had grown so big there would be no way it could be removed without damaging your faculties. It was his way of getting back at you for having once held a scalpel to his neck in a demand for codeine. A city health professional came to the jail last month and alerted you that it was time to get your affairs in order because after your surgery you would be alive only in a technical sense. Last week a priest came to your cell and invited you to pray with him. And your mother has been showing up at visiting hours every day in the hopes that you'll speak to her one last time.

"They can all lump it!" is your diagnosis. "I'm gonna dance on those boards at Lincoln Center, and anyone who says otherwise is just jealous!"

You allowed them to shave your head and mark the skin above your left ear with a large black dot. You'll go to the operating table without a fight and you'll let them perform their little surgery if it makes them happy. And heck, like you told the City doctor, "Having an eleven pound tumor removed will only make me lighter on my feet. I might really be able to fly after this."

The doctor reminded you that eleven pounds of tumor was to be removed, along with around two pounds of your cerebrum.

"I'm gonna weigh less than I did back in high school!" you shouted.

The doctor looked at your file and reminded you that you never went to high school because you were sentenced to a work camp for boys after being convicted of taking part in a gang rape at age thirteen.

"I don't look at the past, Doc. I only look where I can see myself performing a dance solo in front of thousands of people. That's in the future."

The doctor said you're never going to dance at Lincoln Center. Even if you weren't going to undergo brain surgery that was guaranteed to turn you into a vegetable, you still have fifteen years in prison before you're eligible for parole. Also, you have no training.

You said to the doctor, "You can't take away my dream."

The doctor said that if he was performing the brain surgery he could. But since he was not a brain surgeon, he could not. The brain surgeon who was scheduled to perform the brain surgery, however, would most certainly be taking away your dream.

You said to the doctor, "When I dance, I'm as free as a bird. No prison, no walls can contain me when I dance. Is there anything like that for you Doc? Is there anything that sets you free?"

The doctor said that last summer he learned how to water-ski and he felt pretty good.

"I hope no one ever tries to take the promise of another water skiing excursion away from you Doc," you said. Then you jumped up and down on the balls of your feet and pretended you knew ballet until the doctor finally got up and left.

Happy Don't Give Up The Dream Day!

The Prep School Kids Day!

After the Prep School Kids set fire to the house that you and your Dad share on the wrong side of the tracks, your Mom and Dad are going to spend the night in the same house for the first time in three and a half years. The fire will be in retribution against you for having successfully wooed Lindsay Carmichael, the prettiest Prep School Girl in town. Once it became clear that Lindsay had fallen for a boy whose father no one had heard of, the Prep School Kids knew they had to teach you a listen.

"Go find yourself a public school girl!" they'll shout at the burning house as you and your father gather the cat and whatever valuables you can salvage. "Even we assume that public school girls have more heart and, how do you say, joie de vivre, than any of the rich girls we hang out with! Why chase one of our kind?"

You won't be able to contain yourself. You'll smash open your bedroom window and shout out at the Prep School Kids, "Lindsay and I occupy a realm of the soul none of you will ever know!"

The Prep School Kids will respond by throwing more flaming bottles of kerosene at the house and screaming things like, "Why don't you go get an afterschool job and learn the value of a dollar!"

Once you get to your Mom's house, your parents will start fighting like they never split up.

"Did you teach him to chase girls out of his league?" your Mom will berate your Dad.

"I wanted him to do better than me, didn't I?" your Dad will answer.

Your Mom and Dad will continue fighting behind the study door. You'll sit with your grandfather in the kitchen. He'll tell you to never give up and only follow your heart. Then he'll call you by the wrong name.

Late tonight, Lindsay will come to the living room window at your Mom's house and tell you that she can't see you anymore. That she can't risk anyone else getting hurt on account of her reckless heart. Don't try to sweet-talk her into your bed, since you and your father are sharing the pull-out in the living room. Instead, just warn her to keep her head down tomorrow. Then stay awake and plans an act of vengeance to teach the Prep School Kids that all the money in the world is no match against a hard-luck kid's forbidden love for a pretty rich girl.

Happy The Prep School Kids Day!

Solitaire Day!

Today, your solitaire game is going to be interrupted when a beautiful woman comes up from behind you and seduces you. The lovemaking will be otherworldly and evidence that she is "the one," and when you sit back down at your kitchen table to continue your game of solitaire a man will pound on your front door. The beautiful woman will tell you that that must be her husband. Open the door and kill him or else he'll kill you first. The beautiful woman will thank you for setting her free. When you sit back down to play solitaire, you'll hear a car skid into a dull thud outside. A boy will be on the ground unable to breath. Run outside and perform a trach. Then go back inside to finish your game of solitaire. Once you've got all four kings laid out, men of science will stop by to ask if you can help them surmount the roadblock they've hit in their breast cancer research. Tweak the numbers and cure breast cancer, then start dropping those cards. Try to get as many down as you can before the beautiful woman tells you she's pregnant with your baby. Then take a break to marry her and raise your family. When the babies are off to college, drop a few more cards before outliving your wife. After she's gone you'll take your time with the game of solitaire, mistakenly thinking that you won't be interrupted again. Then your eldest will get in trouble with the law and you'll have to stand by his side and make statements to reporters. Once he's sentenced, you'll have some grandchildren to babysit. Just keep them away from the kitchen table. You'll only have a couple more months to finish that game before you hit the graveyard. Don't worry if you think you've lost the round. You'll be able to move all the bottom cards up to the aces and back again, pretending it'll make a difference right up to your very last breath.

Happy Solitaire Day!

Beauty School Dropout Day!

Another one of your students is going to drop out of beauty school today because someone will have offered her 700 dollars to sell drugs to kids. Every time one of your beauty school students gives up on her chance to become a beautician and turns to a life of crime, you feel like you're the one who should be thrown in jail.

"It's my job to keep these girls off the streets by showing them the kind of life they can lead if they just hang in there long enough to rent a chair in a salon," you'll explain to your mother, with whom you still live. "If I lose just one, I'm not doing my job. It's like I put the gun into my student's hand and told her to point it at a little kid and pull the trigger."

Your mother will say, "You think you feel like a failure? I'm the one who raised you. I deserve to die."

Tell your Mom that you're sick of her always making everything all about her.

Happy Beauty School Dropout Day!

You Are A High Priced Defense Attorney Day!

When you first started getting scumbags off on technicalities and putting them back on the streets, you did it for the principal of the thing.

"I will not stand by and let a guilty man be put in jail if there are technicalities!" you used to argue to relatives of murder and rape victims when they would throw drinks at you in restaurants.

Nowadays though, you seem to have misplaced all those principals you used to hold so tight. Your rates are too high for you to help the little guilty guy. Your business cards now read, "If you're rich and you just killed your wife, call me!"

"I think you're disgusting," your mistress tells you every time you visit her. You asked her to do that back in 2000 when your erection started to go. It's the only thing that makes it happen anymore.

"I think you should be ashamed of yourself," your daughter writes to you in her annual Christmas letter. She won't visit you anymore. Her grandson can't think she condones what you do.

"I think you're some kind of gift from God," your latest client, lobbyist Karl Montessi, wrote you this morning from Aruba. You got Karl off after he murdered his wife by plugging up her throat with hundred dollar bills. "If you were a chick I'd name my boat after you!"

You are a high priced defense attorney. Now go recline in a leather chair that's more expensive than a Cadillac and drink a glass of scotch that's more expensive than a black market baby. You've earned it.

Happy You Are A High Priced Defense Attorney Day!

Glass Truck Model Day!

You didn't know how to get out of Pittsburgh in 1998, so you faked your own kidnapping. You did it because you and your father had conflicting interests. Your father wanted a son and he wanted a wife that was still alive. You wanted to be a model and you wanted a mom that was still alive.

His father taught him that what a man does is he builds a business and he builds a family and when he's gone he gives his business to his family. Your Mom used to sit behind the counter and talk friendly to the customers while your father called around for necessary parts. You were fourteen when she died, and the day after the funeral it was expected that you would be filling her seat behind the counter. Throughout high school you spent every afternoon there, smiling disinterestedly at customers and telling them what grade you're in now when they asked.

Your dream was to go to New York and be on magazine covers. But if you mentioned pursuing anything but ceiling fan store management, your father would pretend you hadn't spoken and he'd just ask that you drive the truck to work that day because his eyes were bad (he had been battling a steadily worsening vision impediment for years but refused any sort of corrective surgery). The one time you actually cried and begged for the chance to go out on your own, he became enraged and didn't speak to you for the following week, only yielding after you'd apologized. But you only made your apology after you had already made your arrangements.

You were sleeping with an older boy who had graduated from high school a few years before you, and you continued sleeping with him long enough to get him to help you. His name was Michael and no one ever saw the two of you together. On a Thursday night in the summertime, when your father was at his weekly rummy game, you had Michael come to your house in new clothes and shoes that you bought for him and you told him to throw the furniture around. You kissed Michael goodbye and ran off to New York. But not before mailing a ransom note to your father. The police believed the note was credible since they'd found a man's footprints in the house. Plus, they had nothing else to go on. They waited with your father for the next communication from the kidnappers. It never came.

Today you're in New York City and you have work as a glass truck model. It's for a fat free snack promotion. You and another glass truck model will be wearing bikinis on a fake beach contained inside a heated glass cube on the back of a flatbed truck. Officeworkers in Manhattan will walk out to find lunch on this cold winter day and they'll be able to peer into your glass cube and watch two beautiful girls sitting at a plastic table on a sandy beach, enjoying an array of fat free snack cakes. The truck will travel twelve blocks every half hour and park outside of skyscrapers and invite people to think ahead to summertime, when girls in bikinis will be enjoying snack cakes that are not a threat to their figures. You're not to engage the onlookers. You're not to even acknowledge that they are there, no matter how hard they might pound on the glass and scream for you to remove your bikini tops. You are only required to sit at the table and smile while unwrapping snack cakes and keeping the packaging visible. You are also under orders not to actually eat any of the snack cakes.

Today your father is also in New York City. He's being taken to a Broadway show as a treat before he begins radiation treatment for prostate cancer after the weekend. You'll see him crossing the street, being led arm in arm by a woman you won't recognize. They'll come straight towards you. They'll stop near the truck and they'll peer into the glass cube and smile. The woman will spy a shoe store on the block and she'll leave your father on the sidewalk while she runs inside for a quick browse. Your father will stay there next to the truck and he'll stare inside your cube, smiling right at you. He'll smile the way tourists smile at the lights in Times Square. He'll look amused. You'll have turned to a mannequin, a snack cake held in the air right next to the look of terror on your face, and you'll stare back into those eyes that must by now have deteriorated to near-total blindness.

His smile will fade while his stare is still trained on you. You'll think he's recognized you, and you'll be ready to crash through the glass and run from the block when his ladyfriend returns and takes his arm. His smile will return at her touch and they'll walk away.

Maybe he'll think he saw you. Maybe he'll only be reminded of you. But he'll go. You'll see him there today, on the other side of the glass, and he'll look right at you. But he'll go.

Happy Glass Truck Model Day!

Renter's Insurance Day!

You and your girlfriend get into a good screaming fight around four times a week, and you both love to pelt each other with dishes and glassware and small appliances. The trouble is, money is tight these days since your girlfriend is getting ready to go back to school (Pharmacy) and you are being blackmailed by a college-age intern boy you seduced in your office (Craig). So lately, whenever you and your girlfriend fight you feel reined in, like you have to constantly second-guess yourselves before you launch fondue pots and champagne flutes at each other's faces. In short, you feel like your money worries are keeping you from expressing how you really feel for each other.

That's why today you should purchase renter's insurance. For less than 50 bucks a month you can insure nearly every item of value in your apartment. You'll notice a difference when you next fight. You're going to feel free to fling whatever knick-knack happens to be closest and most dangerous when your blood comes to a boil, just like when you two first met. Since your policy will only allow you to file a claim after a robbery or damage of some kind to the building (fire, flood, locusts), you'll have to file a police report after every fight and claim to have been robbed. The neighbors will have heard you fighting, so be sure to leave the apartment for a few hours after every scuffle. That way no one can tell the police you were in the apartment fighting immediately before calling 911 about a robbery. With renter's insurance, not only can anything you own be used as a weapon, when the claim is approved and you get that check it's going to feel like you just won a shopping spree at a store called, "Brand New Shit To Bury In Each Other's Big Wrong Heads."

So go get that policy. Or, break up. Fast. It's getting bad.

Happy Renter's Insurance Day!

The Ivy Began To Climb On The Day That He Died Day!

Today is the one-year anniversary of the day you and your husband murdered your former lover and buried him in the yard. He was your nutritionist during your pregnancy and you initiated the affair in your fifth month. You've since blamed your hormones.

For about a month and a half, those twice-weekly appointments were all you could look forward to. Your husband was not interested in anything physical while you were carrying his child, and he left you alone most of the time since he was throwing himself as much as he could into his work so as to take a lot of time off when the baby arrived.

In about the seventh month you were very big and you and the nutritionist cooled off, which is when things got weird. He turned from the seducer to the nurturer. His questions moved from the subject of your diet and your physical well-being to plans for the baby. He wanted to know if you had private or public schools picked out and what religion the baby would be raised. If he didn't like your decision, he tried to talk you out of it.

Your husband learned about the affair on the day little Frankie was born. Your nutritionist appeared at the hospital offering to assist in the delivery. When he was told he wasn't needed, he found himself some scrubs and just walked into the delivery room to stand by your bed. When he edged near you to hold your head and coach you, the doctor asked, "Who is this? Who are you?"

That's when your husband looked in your eyes and understood what had transpired. He grabbed the nutritionist by the throat and dragged him into the hallway, threatening to kill him if he ever shows his face again.

It wasn't really a threat. Your husband had immediately decided the nutritionist was going to die. The nutritionist had made love to you while you were carrying your husband's baby. You know your husband and you know he could never allow a man like that to live.

The nutritionist made it easy. His obsession over you brought him to your house several nights a week. He'd just stand outside watching the windows for signs of you holding your child, the child he was convinced he had fathered. He sent letters and made phone calls always demanding you let him see his son. So your husband set a trap. He had you invite the nutritionist in and once he had stepped on the sheet of plastic covering the living room floor, your husband stepped from the corner and drove a hammer into the nutritionist's skull.

You and your husband buried him in the backyard, and within a day the wall surrounding your yard was covered in beautiful, emerald green ivy. Inexplicably, white roses sprouted from the stems in places. You took one of the roses to a botanist, and he claimed that it was not exactly a rose, that he couldn't classify it. It was a flower that given its makeup should not be able to survive in your climate. You did not sleep with the botanist.

But you did conclude that the nutritionist was a saint of some kind, perhaps a son of God. And you and your husband had killed him. You've drained your bank accounts and quit your jobs in order to devote your life to honoring the nutritionist's memory. Your yard is the church where dozens of believers come to worship, more and more each week. They worship your son as well, since he is the son of the nutritionist. Yes, your husband conceived Frankie with you, but the nutritionist declared that Frankie was his. It must be so.

Today is the anniversary of the Nutritionist's death. The yard will be full from morning to night. You'll need to have snacks ready. Some vegetables and dip can go a long way.

Happy The Ivy Began To Climb On The Day That He Died Day!

Taking That Magician's Assistant Job Has Really Helped Your Marriage Day!

Every day before leaving for work your husband grabs you tight, peers deep into your eyes and says, "If anything happens to you today, if you get sawed in half or are made to disappear and never come back, I want you to know that when I married you I became the luckiest guy on the planet." Then he makes love to you as if for the last time.

It's cruel to him. The hours when you're at work might as well be hours you spend on an operating table. He sits at home waiting for word that you're okay. He searches internet medical sites for predictions of the likelihood of a person surviving six swords being driven through her body (it doesn't look good). Sometimes his parents come over to bring him food and keep him from going stir crazy.

You could just tell him about the fake legs in the box or the secret door in the back of the wardrobe, but then when you come home he might not run to take you in his arms and cover you in kisses. He might not make love to you like the very act is a celebration in honor of God allowing the two of you to have another day.

You see the difference on your nights off. He settles in on the couch and watches his TV and you open up your book. Any effort towards intimacy he'll usually thwart by saying he's too full from dinner. You used to have both your nights off back to back and by the second night he'd have aged twenty years. You switched up your schedule immediately. Making him think you knock on death's door every day is what keeps him young. It holds his attention squarely on you.

As long as the Amazing Ramon keeps raking them into the dinner theater, you'll be right there in his pine box pretending to be dismembered. And the crowd will walk out thrilled and warmed, because not only is the magician a dazzling wonder, but the magician's assistant is clearly a very happily married woman.

Happy Taking That Magician's Assistant Job Has Really Helped Your Marriage Day!

Make The Town Pay For Your Girlfriend's Murder Day!

Your girlfriend was a clairvoyant who helped the police rid the town of murder. Every time someone was killed, your girlfriend was summoned to the crime scene where she would take steps back and forth over the body until a vision of the murder itself appeared in her mind. Sometimes she would spend 36 sleepless hours stepping back and forth over the dead body, looking like a child playing a hopscotch game or an obsessive compulsive performing a ritual, before the vision would come to her. But the visions always came. And while she might not have been able to ID the murderer every time, she always provided information that was useful to the investigation.

Naturally, the town's murderers realized they were pretty much out of business as long as your girlfriend was still alive. So they pooled their resources and killed her. Since your girlfriend was clairvoyant, it was necessary that all of the town's murderers create his or her own private plan for killing your girlfriend and that each murderer try to carry out that plan. This way, there would be so many people trying to kill her in different ways that when the foreboding visions of her impending murders started to pop into her head, they'd be so confusing and cluttered that she couldn't possibly take steps to avoid them all. In the end, she was killed by Squashfingers, the deformed loner who lives out by the railroad tracks. Squashfingers (his fingers are fat and swirly, so he kills people) killed her by rigging the international airport with dynamite so that when she stepped into the terminal on Thanksgiving weekend, it would blow.

Your girlfriend never would have died if her talent hadn't been utilized by the police department to solve all those murders. The town used her so that they could feel safe. And for their peace of mind, she paid with her life. It's time for the town to pay her back.

(Yes, you could just exact your revenge on the town's community of murderers, but they're all really dangerous. Stick with the townsfolk.)

Tonight, go to each house in town one by one and close all the windows and cover the cracks in the doors with towels. Then blow out the pilot light on each stove so that the houses will fill with gas. By dawn, everyone in town will have died from the gas. When federal investigators are summoned, they'll find the preprinted index cards that you'll have left on every house's coffee table. They'll read:

A Debt Was Paid
This Town Is Square

For those houses that don't have gas stoves, you're going to have to strangle everyone in their beds with your bare hands. If you happen upon some residents that are bigger than you and who will probably kill you first if you try to kill them, just let them live. Your girlfriend would have wanted you to stay alive. And even if you kill everyone but those buffest townsfolk who happen to own electric stoves, you'll still get your point across.

Happy Make The Town Pay For Your Girlfriend's Murder Day!

Don't Blame The Whorehouse Day!

The whorehouse has been in operation since before your town was even named. It destroyed your parents' marriage, and it's now about to destroy your brother's after only two years. You've decided it's time to restore your town's legacy as a place where families can settle and be happy. It's time to take down the whorehouse.

Tonight, you're going to speak out at the city council meeting about what you feel is an infestation of immorality that the town has allowed to run rampant. You'll ask everyone in the audience to raise their hands if their relationships were destroyed by the whorehouse. Only one other person besides you will raise her hand, but she's a prostitute who was disowned by her family when it was discovered she was working at the whorehouse.

"Oh come on," you'll say. "None of your husbands have visited the whorehouse?"

A few women will raise their hands that their husbands had visited the whorehouse. The librarian's assistant, Michelle, will stand up and say, "My husband has patronized that house, yes. But he confessed it and we worked it out. That was many years ago, right after my miscarriage when we had decided that we wouldn't try to have any more children. Our sex life has been fine these past few years and if he's still going there, I'm none the wiser."

Karen, the town Milk Maid, will stand up and say, "My husband banged a whore. So what? He's got 960 days sober now and he did a hell of a lot more that was way worse than hitting up a cathouse."

Another woman will shout anonymously from her seat, "Maybe the men in your family are just a bunch of whoremongers."

That's when the Father Herlihy will come to the podium and read something from the Bible about how Christ dug hookers. As platonic friends only, but still.

"Let's put it to a vote," the chairperson will say. All will vote in favor of keeping the whorehouse open. You'll go home defeated, where your sister-in-law will be waiting to find out whether her husband will no longer have a place to go and pay for sex

"You married the wrong man," tell her. Your mother won't look up from her knitting. "So did you Mama."

She won't stop her knitting.

Sit down and take a breath. "Whoring is in our blood. I'm a carrier, ain't I mama?"

Your mother will suck in a pained breath. "If you ever get pregnant just find out the sex and abort the boys�"

"So I can deliver little girl carriers too?" you'll shout. "So I can curse my daughters to a family full of whoring little boys? I won't be responsible for the spread of venereal disease."

Your mother will return to her knitting. You'll go upstairs and check your coffee can full of savings from your babysitting jobs to see if you have enough money to have your tubes tied. Though your brother will have stolen some to pay for whores, you'll be close. Just a few more months of babysitting and your depraved family bloodline will finally be dammed.

Happy Don't Blame The Whorehouse Day!

The Man's At The Door Day!

Open it up. The Man is wearing a small white sweartshirt that reads: Varsity Muffdiving Champion. "If the muff's tough, we get ruff!"

"You're the Man?" ask him.

He'll nod. Then he'll punch you in the face.

"Where's the peanuts?!" he'll shout into the house. Your wife and daughter will run to find him the jar of peanuts from the cabinet. The Man will eat some of the peanuts. Then he'll watch a morning talk show and shout into the room that everyone on the talk show has got it wrong. Then he'll start to paint a wall. Then he'll ask you if you have a son.

Say, "Yes."

Then he'll ask if your son has a toy car racetrack.

Say, "Yes."

The Man will say, "Play me."

Stuff your nose up with tissue to stop the bleeding, then follow the Man into your son's bedroom and kneel down with him on either side of the small, oval electric car racetrack.

The Man will say, "Best of three. Winner buys dinner. I only race for meals."

You'll be the red car. The Man will be the blue. You'll win all three races. The man will complain that you cheated, and when you ask how one could cheat at racing a toy car around an electric track, the man will say that he's not going to buy you dinner and he'll deny ever having made the wager. Then he'll look at his watch.

"Your hour's up," he'll say. That's when you have to pay the Man his one hundred and seventy five dollars. The Man takes checks.

Happy The Man's At The Door Day!

The Boy On The Bridge Might Have Been Fun To Date Day!

Sometimes, you wish your boyfriend was someone else. Someone you haven't known for two years already. Someone who doesn't gargle with mouthwash before sex, perhaps. Maybe even someone who doesn't announce to you at the end of every month just how much of his credit card debt he's managed to pay off.

Someone like that boy on the bridge you're going to pass on the way home tonight. He'll stand out because he'll be the only one on the bridge who is neither in a couple nor on a bike. He'll just be standing by the railing at the very middle of the bridge, sobbing out into the expanse of the river below while he scribbles what is most likely a goodbye note onto the back of a Lost Dog flyer.

You'll look to your boyfriend. You'll listen to the song he'll have been whistling for the majority of the past three weeks. And then you'll look back at the boy on the bridge, who will be loading up the pockets of his jacket with heavy stones. Why couldn't you have been my boyfriend for the past two years? you'll wonder. You would have been exciting. I'm young and I need exciting right now. Anyone who finds himself sobbing off the side of the bridge in the middle of the night has to be fun in the sack too, right?

You'll keep walking, and it will be all you can do to keep from turning around to take one last look at the boy on the bridge. Maybe if he sees me looking at him he'll find in my eyes some reason to keep on living. Then I'll have to break it off with my boyfriend and go with the boy on the bridge because a life will be at stake.

"MAAAARTHA!!!" you'll hear him shout out at the cityscape. Good God what you wouldn't give for your name to be Martha. To have a boy so wrapped up in you that he's got nothing else to do but head to the middle of a bridge and scream your name as loud as he can.

"Think you'll ever scream my name like that?" you'll ask your boyfriend.

"Maybe if you're in danger. Like if you're standing in the bus lane while waiting for the crossing light to change. You should never do that you know."

You know. You know that even if you were to break it off with your boyfriend right then, you still wouldn't be able to run and make something happen with the boy on the bridge. You would have to have met him two years ago, right before Martha met him. Then you'd be the reason he's standing on the bridge summing things up on the back of a Lost Dog flyer. Then it would be your name he's screaming into the wind. And then he'd jump, and you'd run out and recover with someone safe. Someone like your current boyfriend of two years.

"Oh Gosh," your boyfriend will say. "Seinfeld reruns start in ten minutes. We have to book it. It's the 'Master of Your Domain' episode."

You and your boyfriend will trot the rest of the length of the bridge to make it home in time for him to watch Seinfeld reruns in bed. Only once will you look back at the boy on the bridge, when you're pretty far away. He'll be gone. Whether he jumped or just had a change of heart and walked home, you won't know. You'll only know that he's gone.

Happy The Boy On The Bridge Might Have Been Fun To Date Day!

Turn Your Home Into A Den Of Sin Day!

You haven't made love to a woman in many years, so you've decided it's time to get yourself a bearskin rug. When you get to your local discount furniture store, you'll discover not one but two bearskin rugs for sale.

"Which one will get me more babes?" you'll ask the salesman.

"That's for the babes to decide," the salesman will say. "You're going to have to try them out."

You'll bring home one bearskin rug, but after several weeks you'll find that it will fail to lure any women through your windows at night. So you'll return it before time runs out on the exchange policy.

"No babes?" the salesman will ask.

You'll shake your head no. "Let me try the other one."

When you bring that other bearskin rug home, you'll stretch it out on the floor and then retire to bed with your hopes low. But late that night you'll hear a rustling in your living room. You'll peek out your bedroom door and find eleven women writhing ecstatically in a large pile atop the bearskin rug. Go to them.

"Hi," you should say.

The women will stop writhing and compose themselves.

"Hello," one will say. "We're sorry. We couldn't control ourselves. The rug. Please don't phone the police."

You'll ask her if she is their leader and she'll nod.

"You like my rug?" ask her. She'll nod again. The others will nod as well.

Tell them how much it cost.

"Wow," the leader will say.

You'll all stand there a bit awkwardly, then when it's clear that none of the women are going to jump your bod, you'll again retire to bed. It will be difficult getting back to sleep when the women resume their writhing in the next room.

The following evening when you get home from work, there will be almost all new women on the rug. The one who was the leader the first night will be nowhere in sight. You'll try to talk to them, but they won't stop wriggling and writhing on the fur. Occasionally, you'll hear them whispering and giggling at you when you pass the pile. It will make you feel bad, so you'll stay in your bedroom for the rest of the night.

Over the next few days, more and more women will come through your windows. Soon, they'll start locking you out when you come home from work and you'll have to get the super to let you in. You won't want to throw them out, because it will have been a long time since you had a woman in your apartment, but you won't feel like they're being very respectful.

You'll try to throw a house meeting, and to make it convenient for them you'll schedule it to be held on the bearskin rug. But you'll end up being the only one to participate. No one else will bother to voice any concerns or pet peeves, and they won't appear to listen when you voice yours.

Finally, you'll decide you can't take it anymore. You'll tell the women that that rug is reserved for someone who thinks that you are special, and that they'll all have to go. They'll be disappointed, but they'll all file out the door.

Except for one.

"I told you that the rug is reserved for someone who thinks I'm special," you'll say.

The woman will smile and she'll say, "I know." Then she'll lie down on the rug. Whether she really cares about you or is just faking it because she doesn't want to leave the rug, you won't care. Because she'll smile up at you from the rug in a way that lets you believe that that bear did not die in vain.

Happy Turn Your Home Into A Den Of Sin Day!

Your Grandmom Banged Two Of Those Construction Workers Who Ate Lunch On That Skyscraper Day!

"They were big celebrities at the time," she'll tell you. "Everyone was giving them a piece."

You had decided to decorate her hospital room with some posters from the gift shop. When you put up the poster of those construction workers eating lunch on a steel girder high atop New York City, your Grandmom will say, "Second from the left. Also, the one without any shirt."

Then she'll think for a second and say, "Well, I'm certain about the second from the left. But the shirtless one was the one everyone was after. So I can't remember whether I actually had him or just wanted some."

You'll ask very delicately if she's saying what you think she's saying.

"Of course. I thought you knew and you brought that poster just to let me reminisce."

You'll ask how they were.

"The second from the left was very gentle," she'll say. "The shirtless one, as I said I'm not sure if I'm just remembering a fantasy I used to have. But I remember my feet never once touching the floor with him. He'd just lift me up and bounce me on his pelvis."

She'll tell you that they were able to get all the girls not just because they weren't scared of heights, but the photo was proof that they had jobs, which was very attractive in the 30's. Then she'll fall asleep.

Before she wakes up, replace the photo of the construction workers eating lunch with the photo of the soldiers raising the flag on Iwo Jima. She'll wake up and when she sees the little guy crouching in the front she'll shout, "Oh Georgie, back for more!"

You'll leave the room with a newfound understanding for why you keep sleeping with whoever is named Employee of the Month at the Friday's where you work. Starfucking is in your blood.

Happy Your Grandmom Banged Two Of Those Construction Workers Who Ate Lunch On That Skyscraper Day!

Mudfight Day!

Today your supervisor is going to tell you that you used up too much vacation time and you're going to have to wait for more time to accrue in your bank. Tell him that you're tired of him walking all over you and you want to settle this in the mud out back.

Due to poor landscaping, the lawn flanking the rear of your corporate plaza is turned into an expansive mud field with every rainfall. The company is in trouble so no funds can be allocated to better seed and shape the lawn. So it was decided 18 months ago that lemonade would have to be made from lemons.

"We'll use it to settle stuff," your CEO announced. "Like this budget measure. Ms. Loehmann, meet me in the mud."

Your CEO and his CFO had the first of many mudfights out there, and it was way hot. Ms. Loehmann even lost her white blouse and the blue bra underneath. But she beat the crap out of Mr. Grisham. The budget measure was voted in.

Mudfights seemed to take place at least once a week out there for a while, and it was suggested that a league be organized to rank the employees. That suggestion was scuttled as soon as a mail clerk was killed in a bout with a VP who was always calling down to the mailroom to see if his packages had arrived yet. The VP strangled the mail clerk with his tie. No charges were pressed (Code Of The Mud) but it was decided that no league should be instituted since the league would then have to regulate the fights and be responsible for deaths, whether accidental or intentional. The mud would only be used to resolve disputes.

The mud field is free at the moment, and you and your supervisor certainly have an issue in dispute.

"Let's go, Beancounter. I wanna bury your face in some brown," tell him.

"Think I'm scared?" he'll say.

Take a step closer and look directly in his eyes when you say, "You'd better be."

He really should be scared. You're so good in that mud puddle people have a nickname for you around the office. It's "Swamp Thing." Whenever you win they all sing the song "Wild Thing" as you walk back to the office, but they replace the word "Wild" with the word "Swamp." It's funny.

Happy Mudfight Day!

Negligee Knife Fight Day!

You and your Mom both look way hot in a negligee. It's hard to say who looks hotter, in fact. Since you moved back into the house, every morning it's like a Victoria's Secret fashion show as you and her traipse around the kitchen in little wisps of hip length silk that make you both look just like raindrops on long, long legs. Then your Mom asks you if you have any job interviews set up, and you run off crying and change into some jeans.

Today your Mom is going to pass along news to you about a very successful former high school classmate of yours. That's when you'll point your butter knife at her and say, "Careful girl. Another word out of you and I'll be opening up that saggy chest of yours."

Your Mom will go stock still for about three seconds as she searches your eyes for a killer. Then the two of you will spring back with butter knives in hand, sending your chairs out from the table to slide up against the kitchen cabinets. You and your Mom are gonna have a good old fashioned negligee knife fight.

As you circle the kitchen in your negligees, jabbing into the air between you, it'll look so hot your father and three younger brothers will swoon.

"I'm sick of you needling me," you'll say to your mom, dancing around her lunges and feints. "You're jealous of me."

"I'm sick of you walking around trying to be the hottest one in the house," your Mom will say. She'll bring the knife close enough to your ear you'll hear a wisp of air. "Go get your own house and be hot in that."

Then, no more talking. Just knifing. Since you're using butter knives, you'll end just having to slap each other with the flat of the blades because those things can't slice. But you'll leave a lot of oblong red marks on each other's arms and cheekbones. When all is said and done, you and your Mom will have a newfound respect for each other. Your father will serve large dishes of ice cream and sit you both down to arrange a truce. It's recommended that you both honor it, for the good of the household.

Happy Negligee Knife Fight Day!

Wake Up Covered In Broken Glass Day!

The bedsheets will be soaked in blood and gin and your face, neck, and upper body will be covered in a senseless pattern of lacerations. These last eighteen months, bottles of gin have been the only things you've been able to coax into your bed. They make you feel safe the way a strange man snoring on the next pillow never could. You used to complain when you'd go out with your friends to bars that all these men keep hitting on you, and the only thing you want to bring home is that bottle of Bombay Sapphire back there behind the bar. Your friends finally told you that maybe you should follow your instincts and see how sleeping with some gin works out.

"But maybe pour all the gin into an empty Evian bottle," your best friend Tracy once said. "You shouldn't fall asleep when there's glass in the bed."

Tracy is a pediatrician and she married an anesthesiologist when she was 28. She's very wealthy and though you and she are still close, she has a whole other set of friends who are all Moms and professionals. You are her mixed up friend. Her young friend is what some of her Mom friends call you. You have a brunch date with Tracy today but you're going to call and cancel. You don't feel like letting her know that she was right about sleeping with glass. Which means you're going to have to wait until all the cuts on your face and neck heal before you meet up with her again. That might take a while because that one cut looks pretty deep, and might call for a visit to a doctor.

You could maybe tell people you were attacked. Spend today thinking about how you want to deal with this. Then think about the fact that one of those shards of glass was stuck in your neck not too far from your jugular vein. Since you slept through the glass breaking and slept so deep you didn't even stir when you rolled into all the shards, you could easily have slept right through your own death. You need to get a strong plastic bottle with a secure cap. And you need some more gin. Yours is all over the bed. Though you could wring a lot out from the sheets, maybe enough to fill a highball glass, it will be mixed in with all your blood and months and months of bed-sweat, so it'll be really weak.

Happy Wake Up Covered In Broken Glass Day!