Me: The Iowa State Fair is going to do a statue of Michael Jackson... made out of butter.
John: ... .....
Me: They want to commemorate his...
John: Butteriness? Savoriness? How much commemoration can you really do in a medium like butter?

• I keep having dreams in which the art on our walls is stolen and replaced by ugly art. And when I say "I keep having," I should maybe clarify that this has been going on nearly once a week for at least half a year. It's totally bizarre.
• It seems that I have to go back to the dentist, my filling from May still not quite working for me. I called today to make an appointment, and the dental assistant who helped me was anything but helpful. She told me that the dentist would put in a temporary filling, and when I asked her to elaborate she said, "Well, it's temporary." Thanks. I wasn't able to sort that out on my own.
• In an effort to know more about what goes into Luke's food, and to save a bit of cash, I made homemade dog treats this weekend. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I was fairly nervous that he would reject them. Instead, he loves them. Total savings: about $50 a month. No kidding.
• After my sex education post last week, two scantily clad women started following me on Twitter. (Yes, I blocked them.) It was the strangest thing, and while I've no proof that it was at all connected to my blog post, I can't quite shake the feeling that they're related.
• And finally, while I'm not one to give unsolicited advice, I have to say this: if your husband asks repeatedly for permission to go see his mistress, it might be time to cut and run. I'm just sayin'.

I've been trying to pull together a post about writing, but since my brain is all but blown out from having turned in another dissertation chapter yesterday, I'll just leave you with a post about a junior high health class I once endured.

I was, what, 14 years old? Sitting in health class, enduring a hugely embarrassing lecture on sex education. (Everything's embarrassing at that age, isn't it?) I remember the teacher started out by asking students to raise their hands if they were "sexual." DUDE. We were all confused by that one. Nobody raised their hands, and she pointed out to us that because we all had, erm, parts, we were all sexual. (This gets better, I promise.) That's how she eased us into a conversation about sex and reproduction, and the whole condom-on-the-banana thing. And eventually students relaxed a bit and started asking questions. And this one kid, whose name escapes me, bravely raised his hand. The teacher had just described how pregnancy occurred. The student cleared his throat. Is that the only way, he asked? Is that the only way for a woman to get pregnant? Yes, the teacher replied, it's the only way. The student persisted, and this part I remember perfectly: "So, she can't get pregnant through her stomach?" And suddenly the teacher understood something that the rest of us innocents did not, and she said very quickly that no, a woman couldn't get pregnant through her stomach, now let's move on. And I was SO confused. Through her stomach? Like, what, through her bellybutton? I'm pretty sure I missed the rest of that lecture, so baffled was I by what this kid had asked.

So, ah, clearly Governor Sanford has been having fun in his free time. As the story began to unravel yesterday, and as Sanford's wife released her statement saying that she would "welcome him back, in time," it made me wonder: in that situation, what would I do? I've always taken a pretty hard line on this one. I'd leave. No question. I wouldn't want to stick around after that for a number of reasons, not the least of which are that I don't think that I could trust my partner afterwards and I don't think I would have any self respect if I did stay. And yet. And yet so many women do stay. Why is that? Smart, strong women. Look at Hilary Clinton. I have a great deal of respect for her, though I really question why she stuck around after MonicaGate. One might argue that she herself had political aspirations and thought that her husband would be an asset, in time, but I think the truth is probably much more complicated than that. So, what about you? Would you stay or would you go?

I am the blog killer. You heard it here first. Here's how it usually goes: I stumble across someone's really good, wicked funny blog. I love their writing, which drives me to tears of laughter. I share the blog with John, reading bits of it out loud or, when I'm laughing too hard, forking over my laptop and having him read it himself. If it's really, really good, it drives him to tears of laughter as well. Then, I announce to my six readers (hi, guys!) that I've found this blog, extoll its virtues, and poke them with sticks until they go read it themselves. Aaaaand then the blogger stops blogging. This has happened at least three times now. That's three data points, which makes it significant, yes? First there was Schnozzfest. Ah, Schnozz, how I miss you. I wrote about Schnozz here, only to have her blog completely disappear shortly thereafter. RIP, Schnozzfest. Then there was Tiffany. In truth, this one doesn't count because while Tiffany did take a blogging sabbatical and while I did fret and fidget over the possibility that she wouldn't return, she did. Whew! But now. Now there's Whoopee. Whoopee is one of my more recent discoveries, and I've nearly wet my pants several times from reading her material. In particular, this one, this one, and this one. (To be honest, I can't tell you how hard it was to limit myself to only three links there. She's that funny.) And today, the dreaded words: blogging sabbatical. I was this close to poking you all with sticks and urging you to read her blog immediately, before heading to the bathroom, even! So I think the moral of this story is: if you have a good blog, or know of a good blog, keep it to yourself.

Me: "I'm going to put my headphones in, to try and find my inner muse."
John, not missing a beat: "Okay! Have fun looking!"

So! You know those weekends where you laze around and, come Sunday night, you don't feel like you've accomplished anything? Yeah. This was NOT one of those weekends for us, nossir! Friday I quit work at 5:00 (about two hours earlier than normal!) and promptly took an hour nap wherein I dreamed that Neil Patrick Harris came to our doorstep, armed with a bazooka, and demanded money and weapons. In my dream, I ran upstairs and climbed out the window, leaving John to deal with the situation. AM A GOOD WIFE. Ahem. Friday night we stayed up late playing Mario Kart Wii. Good times.

Saturday morning saw us up and at the dog park at a decent hour, trying to beat the heat. It's been around 100 degrees here for the last week, which is weather we don't usually see until August. Which begs the question: what do you have in store for us, August, hmmmmm? Then to market to market, where we filled an entire basket and canvas bag with fruit and veg: eggplants, peppers, tomatoes, basil, garlic, zucchini, a melon, and four pints of blueberries. Back at home, John hacked away at the lawn all afternoon while I cleaned the house. A late lunch followed by a quick grocery outing and the dog park, then Pesto Central. We washed and dried all the basil we bought at the market, plus some of our own, and made several batches of pesto. We froze them all, so that we can enjoy pesto meals this winter. Mmmmmm. I don't quite remember what we did Saturday night, but I assume we passed out smelling like basil.

Sunday morning I took Luke to the dog park while John worked on the yard. Scones for breakfast, then back at it again: John to the yard and I to the house. I primed the better part of three walls in our living room, in preparation for our windows being trimmed today. Sunday afternoon John wasted two hours of his life watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest while I talked to my dad and mended socks for the needy scraped primer off of myself. Dinner of homemade pizza, then blissfully off to bed after a long weekend. And what did you do?