So today I'll talk about les femmes. Since yesterday I talked about bon hommes.

Here's some shocking news, to which I say, Um, duh.

When I saw this, I fell off my sweet seat twice because somehow during the first glance I missed the part where it was girl-on-hawt-girl kissing. Living the dream, my friends.

I have been revising my List of Five (meaning the list of five celebs that you get a free pass from your mate for if you ever bump into them on the street). I actually have a list of five men and five women. These lists evolve with my tastes. I don't have an official mate just now, but I still like to keep my lists sharp.

List of Five (femme):







The longest running member of this list is, of course, Kate. Alicia Keyes is the newest member, after I saw her in Smokin' Aces. Eliza Dushku narrowly misses making this list, especially after I just revisited Season 7 of Buffy. She's smokin' hot. Seriously. I have to put her on as Honorable Mention. Two more Honorable Mentions: Christina Hendricks (but only as Joan Holloway) and Morena Baccarin (but only as Inara Serra).

All of this must make me sound like I should change teams. I do love women. The texture of their hair and skin, the look of their lips glistening with color and gloss, the sound of them laughing or singing or feeling uncertain, and the smell of their soaps and lotions.

Still I don't know how to explain it, but I can give last night for an example: I was laying in my bed and thinking about what I really really wanted just before I slipped into sleep, and I thought about that six foot oneish frame tuckled up around me, with his big, strong hands gently cupping my sore breasts, his forehead nuzzling into my neck, lips kissing my shoulders, and the smell of his hair on my pillows. That's what I want when I go to sleep at night.

I've got a lot to say here (I've been thinking a lot, but not blogging a lot, so I have some catching up to do. Don't worry. It will happen in increments and I will try to keep similar concepts separate to their own entries.) and it will be mostly about men.

I've found a new website called The Frisky which at first glance looks like a total chick site and mostly is. However, they have a "Guys" section with The Mind of Man section, which has some AWESOME articles written by men. I've been loving on that all week.

They also had this poll which made me laugh because Denver and Colorado always make the best-of lists. Elitist town. Bursting with man-country that I enjoy rediscovering again and again and again.

Speaking of manhood and countries, my brownskin twin overheard a poll that surveyed the best and worst male lovers in the world. France, Ireland, Brazil, and two others were the best. Americans were among the five worst (for being too rough, I believe was the reason).

To be fair, there was no poll of the best female lovers. I would imagine American women to be among the worst as well, because we're always too busy trying to be superwomen and multi-tasking and thinking about what's next on our to-do list. Granted, there are exceptions to every rule, but I could totally see this as a reason. Either that or being too body-conscious to enjoy it because we might be thinking, "Oh my god, does his penis make me look fat????"

Aside from all of this nonsense, I watched two movies that don't seem alike at first but toward the middle of the second one I began to see a lot of shared themes. The first was Lars and the Real Girl (which I have raved about before) and the second was Stranger Than Fiction. I guess the similarities feel terribly obvious now. Two men who have completed isolated themselves within their own small worlds, without any human contact that has substance or feel to it. I love the ways in which they both work out of their shells and open up to human touch. I think I needed to watch these movies because my body is constantly hurting in some way, and even the sight of someone being touched gives me relief because I can almost feel it myself. Bone-crunching empathy does come in handy from time to time.

The top of my top three holidays is close upon us, and to welcome the onslaught of ghoulies and ghosties, the little voice in my head and I went to the annual Monster Ball at her school. The highlights included my daughter turning to me in her matter-of-fact voice (the one that always makes me laugh because no matter what interesting information she is imparting, she sounds like she could just be describing the weather) reported that this year: Zombie Cheerleaders are really big this year.

Also, she has a kick-ASS pirate costume this year, so she entered the contest for her grade. But I knew as soon as I saw this little sparkly Marilyn in a custom-made dress (whom I hoped with my whole heart was NOT in the fourth grade - I'll admit it) that she could not win against THAT.

Imagine my whole heart bursting with maternal love and devotion when my daughter unexpectedly and without any affectation ran up to her and told Marilyn that she was glad she'd won, and that she had been rooting for her the whole time they were on stage. (It made me completely forget that Marilyn's mom had been a pageant mom the whole time and I'd wanted to kick her in the crotch.)

Ahhh. Motherhood.

It was an end to a day that started with a rain of righteous parental fury that provoked me to write a two page letter regarding the front office manager of my daughter's school who also almost got one in the babymaker which resulted in a speaker-phone call with the principal and the offending party who both told me I was completely right and had a lot of constructive ideas for the discipline of children. I accepted the apology from the offending party, but also suggested that she apologize to my daughter as well, since she was the victim of her harsh and unwarranted reprimand.

Auntie Sis read the letter and said it was so good I should frame it and hang it on the wall to prove that I could be as KICK ASS as Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2. Actually, she said everything up to and including the ass-kicking part. I added the Linda Hamilton analogy.

To close out the night, my sweet little voice said that we should watch "Michael Jackson's Thriller mini-movie" and we had an interesting discussion ranking the scary, scarier, and scariest types of zombies.

Scary: Slow-moving zombies that want to eat your brains. At least you have the time to run away or shoot them in the head with a shotgun.

Scarier: Fast-moving zombies that want to eat your brains. Can't get away from those as easily.

Scariest: Zombies that dance really cool and want to eat your brains. They distract you with the cool dancing so that you're mesmerized and suddenly you realize that they've danced right up to your face and they're about to eat your brains.

Again, a toast to motherhood...Ahhhhh....

I am dying to see An Education. DYING.

The other day the Coldstone gods dropped a $5 gift certificate into my lap, so I took the wee bit to the local shop. It was time for me to reward her for an excellent progress report, and what better way than the Platonic ideal of ice cream before which all other lesser ice creams humble themselves.

I told her what her options were: she could either have the medium size with a mix-in, or a large size (which she could combine two different flavors, for excitement). It was a big decision, and she doesn't spend her money lightly. She first sampled different flavors of ice cream. She did not like the cheesecake. She liked the mint and said that if you mixed it with chocolate, it would taste like a Christmas mint. She went with her standby favorite, Cake Batter. But she opted for a new mix-in, dropping the usual sprinkles for the new and improved M&M's.

The whole process took about twenty minutes. It was fantastic, and I mean that with absolutely no sarcasm. I find it so interesting that my girl, who has impulse control issues in social situations, is totally pragmatic when it comes to shopping. I can just see her later on in life, when and if she buys a vehicle. She'll test drive at least three, and probably more than once.

Later that night I let her watch a new eppie of Buffy, in which the slayer was fighting in very stylish yet practical boots. We had an in-depth discussion about the pros and cons of wearing stiletto heels for slaying purposes.

Her: I think she should wear stilettos when she fights. She could really stab the vamp in the face and then stake him with the same heel.

Me: Yeah, but Buffy has to do a lot of running, and you can't do that in stilettos. Plus, that style of fighting requires a lot of balance. Also a problem in stilettos.