Friday, October 16, 2009


At some point we have all been required to answer the ubiquitous question "What's your superpower?" I usually roll my eyes and say something dumb like "being able to walk in my new cherry red hooker-heels." Most likely this is not the correct response as it doesn't accomplish the group ice-breaking goal. 

In reality superpowers make me a little uneasy. Not that I don't think they are super cool, but how do you know what someone's criteria is for unleashing their superpower on you? I mean it's great if the result is bringing you back to life, or saving you from a speeding train, but what if the superpower is putting a pox on you or shrinking your head?

A girlfriend and I recently had a conversation on this complicated subject. 

GF: Ah to have the power to telepathically stun someone without them knowing -- wouldn't that be great? Like my ex-husband or step-mother? Not kill them, but give them shingles or something. 
Me: Ewwww 
GF: Or bladder infections. That is the superpower I want to have when I am a superhero, when I run my own planet. 
Me: Will you use it indiscriminately or will you set up some criteria so when I visit I'm not suddenly stricken with shingles when I accidentally punch you in the mouth? 
GF: Oh, I would reserve my power for the good type of evil. 
Me: oh, very reassuring.
GF: Not like the twinkle of a nose or something. Someone would have to rack up some really bad karma points to qualify for my program. There would be a group review process....a very limited group.
ME: And that is why superpowers make me nervous.

Too Drunk

A couple of weeks ago we had a large party in honor of my hubby's band. By 1 a.m. when the last guests took their leave, I found that I may have had one whiskey too many and wasn't feeling too steady. By 2 a.m. when we finally went to bed I did an excellent impression of girl-passing-out. 

The next morning (which came a short 5 hours later) my mouth was glued shut, hair in disarray, and I was barely coherent, possibly still a little drunk. My daily goals were food, water, and couch. Unfortunately the last goal was not meant to be due to the fact that we had a million clean up errands to do. 

So although I brushed my teeth, unglued my mouth and managed to hydrate I had failed to find the shower. So smelling a bit like left over Jamesons, hair still somewhat matted with a light dusting of the inevitable party smoke, and wearing what could only be referred to as twenty-first century sweats, my husband turns to me and says, "You know, I was going to make a run at you last night, but I was too tired and you were too drunk".

That, my friends, is what masquerades as romance these days.