This will shock and alarm you.

Brace yourselves, for what I am about to tell you will at first be exceedingly painful, causing you to weep openly and then, over time, slip into a silent, slack-jawed haze. Gawd knows that's what happened to me at any rate.

Alas, I give you the truth: I did not win the Mega Millions lottery. I KNOW! How sucktacular is THAT?

In fact, not only did I NOT win, I only got one number correct. Clearly, something was clouding my inner eye; my psychic abilities were completely off by FIVE WHOLE NUMBERS.

I am devastated in that way that potential millionaires often get when they place all their hope in one basket, only to watch that same basket later be ripped to shreds by wild jungle beasts, their hopes hence squashed against the ground and intermixed with mud and manure. Stinky, dirty hope.

I think you know what I mean.

Barbara Boxer and I are like *that*

"Dear Ms. Schock:

Thank you for contacting me regarding recent reports of domestic spying. I appreciate the opportunity to review your comments on this important issue.

On December 16, 2005, the New York Times reported that President Bush had repeatedly authorized the National Security Agency (NSA) to eavesdrop on American citizens and others without the necessary approvals from Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Courts. Until this program, which began in 2002, no widespread wiretapping had been conducted within U.S. borders without a court warrant.

I have worked very hard to help provide our law enforcement and intelligence communities with the tools they need to effectively combat terrorism; at the same time, I have fought to protect the civil liberties and privacy protections that define our nation. It is unacceptable that the Bush Administration has sanctioned programs that so blatantly violate this balance.

Many of my colleagues - both Republicans and Democrats - share my shock and disappointment that President Bush went outside the law and subverted the system of checks and balances that is so vital to our democracy. The Senate Judiciary and Intelligence Committees are currently holding hearings on this matter.

Rest assured, I will do all I can to make sure that this matter is fully explored and resolved. The American people should not have to choose to between their security and their liberty.

Again, thank you for writing to me. Please do not hesitate to contact me about this or any other issue of concern to you.

Barbara Boxer
United States Senator"

I can smell you standing there.

What is with the lying about the brushing of the teeth?

It doesn't take a genius to notice the quarter-inch of cheese-like film enveloping your incisors, so why lie? When I ask you, "Have you brushed your teeth?" and you grow quiet, do you honestly believe that the brilliance of your silence will throw me so completely that it will halt my investigative techniques? Do you think that by holding completely still, my t-rex-like brain will be utterly confounded and conclude you have ceased to exist? That, magically, there is no longer a ten-year old before me, and therefore, no custard-encrusted dental issues of note?

No sir. I am sorry to inform you that rather than a t-rex, my puny brain is more like that of a suckerfish. It has latched onto the fact that your snaggle-toothed grin, in both scent and visage, bears a striking resemblance to a wedge of Camembert and I will continue to ask you, hound you-- nay, berate you-- to BRUSH YOUR TEETH. I'm not above pinning you down and getting in there myself with a blow torch. In fact, I think I would quite enjoy it.

Ahhh, the sound of the electric toothbrush. Music to my ears.

Miss you, old man.

It was two years ago, almost on this very day, that I was awakened by the phone call that would forever change my life.

I had spent the entirety of the night before performing calisthenics with my then ten-month old daughter. She was teething and couldn’t sleep; I would get up, nurse her, get gnawed on, stumble back to bed and crash. Twelve o’clock; one fifteen; two thirty-five. And so went my night.

When my phone rang at 8:15 a.m. I wanted to scream. Somehow my baby was still asleep; I sent out a little prayer that she would stay so. And I ignored the call. Let the machine get it.

The caller hung up.

It instantly rang again.

Hoisting my tired arse off the bed, I answered to hear my sister’s panicked voice. “Trace, mom called. There’s something wrong with dad. Mom thinks he’s had a heart attack.” Internally I rolled my eyes. My father had cardio myopathy and had done very little to keep himself healthy. His on-again, off-again health regime was in off-again mode. This might be the kick he needs to get him started again, I thought. After all, the past five years had been a clutter of similar calls; all turning out on a positive note. Nothing life-threatening, nothing more than a “Harry, you’ve got to address the problem” kind-of thing.

And so I was certain that I was facing the same issue I’d heard several times before. I got off the phone and started to dress myself when the phone rang again. It was my mother.

My mom is universally regarded as the rock of the family. While the rest of us were overly emotional, tending toward hot-headedness or the ability to weep openly over The Barney Song, my mother is like a calm port in a torrid storm. When I heard distress in her voice, I knew my previous eye-rolling was terribly, terribly wrong. “Traci, we’re taking daddy to the hospital. I’ve got to follow the ambulance. Please, I think this is very bad. Please call a priest.”

I was stunned. After spending a few moments convincing her to ride with the ambulance instead of following it, I got off the phone and attempted to dial out. Anything. Anyone. I needed a priest. I needed to find someone who could perform unction.

On reflection, I see that my inability to dial the phone, let alone read the numbers in the yellow pages, let alone find the appropriate section in the damn book was strangely connected to the fact that I hadn’t yet figured out how to put on my pants. I was in shock.

My father had the good graces to die on a Sunday. God love him, fifteen calls to every church and number in the diocese of Fresno revealed that apparently, on Sundays, most Catholic priests already had plans. That was so like my dad.

Nobody prepares for the sudden death of a loved one. Nobody knows that the last time you see them is that last time. Nobody knows the importance of saying I love you, or thank you for my life, thank you for all the support, for loving me and giving me strength, thank you for being the greatest father anyone could ever be blessed with… nobody knows the intense desire, the overwhelming need to say all of these things until the very moment you hear, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

For those that knew him, weren’t we lucky? Weren’t our lives richer for having that salty dog tell us those ribald jokes? For those big abrazos that no one else could ever, ever replicate? For those sweet, loving eyes, that could instantly smile or scold, depending on the occasion? And for that voice, that giant, larger than life baritone, so instantly recognizable and utterly unable to hold a whisper?

About two months before he passed, my father and I had one of those conversations that happens in movies, the turning point conversation where finally, after years of talking around an issue, everything hits the table and you just plain talk. Only our conversation was far-more simple and far-less dramatic than any movie would depict, and frankly, I don’t think either one of us realized we even needed to have it. At the end of our chat, however, I pointed to an old picture of my grandfather. He’d passed many, many years before, and I asked dad if he still thought of his father; moreover, if he missed him. “Every day, Trace. I miss him every day. It’s strange: You never get over the loss; you just eventually come to accept it.”

I understand what he meant. I really do.

Urp.

I got each of the kids a small, heart shaped box of See's Candy for Valentine's Day. I don't know if it was because she didn't want the candy, or because it was out of her reach, or because it was our of her reach AND slyly hidden under some old junk mail, but as of yesterday afternoon, Sydney had yet to open her box.

As I stared at it-- hormones raging, mind you, screaming for chocolate the entire time-- I was faced with an ethical dilemma. Would eating her candy make me a good, responsible mother, or a horrendous human being? She's just under 3 years old, and has beautiful baby white teeth. Did she need seven pieces of sugary cavity makers? I mean, come ON, she is so small-- think of the dammage it would do to her little body!

On the other hand, it's SEE'S frickin' CANDY! Food of the GODS! Ambrosia, if you will. What kind of horrendous person takes candy from a baby, let alone the greatest candy to ever grace the face of the earth?

I went for win-win. I went the route of the good mother. I ate the ones I knew she wouldn't like.

The fact that I found and scarfed down Harrison's box, however, I think that's the one that makes me a horrendous human being.