Science meets Sex Education.

My fourth graders were doing a mini-lesson on microscopes today. I asked Gabriel to answer the challenge question.

Staring intently at the answer written in his journal, he read loudly, "I think that the orgasms will be magnified by fifty times." After a pregnant silence, I quickly corrected, "That's organisms, Gabriel."

Afterwards, my twenty three naive students quizzically wondered why their para and I couldn't stop laughing for the longest.

Warning to All Choco-haters: Stop reading here. Fondue Party Ahead!

Pounds of chocolate. Five girls with an appetite. Things could get messy.

Our first fondue tastes. We were civilized, used forks, and strictly followed the no-double-dipping rule. Dipping: marshmallows, bananas, and strawberries.

...And slowly but surely, the forks start to disappear.

Along with our forks, our choice of toppings begin to disappear. We scrounge around the kitchen and in our desperate foraging, come across a handful of Rice Krispies, leftover crackers, and tomatoes.

Yes. You heard me. We tried dipping cherry tomatoes in chocolate. No, it wasn't good.

Hey, who needs toppings when you've got spoons?

My sister is still hungry. Look at that ravenous gleam in her eyes. No, I'm not edible!

"Augh! I dripped chocolate on my pants!" Erina screamed hysterically.

"Don't waste it!" my sister yelled back when she reached for a napkin.

Chocolate seems to erase any and all traces of civility and eating mannerisms in us.

Getting silly with chocolate. Oui, oui!

Is it the next Dr. Evil? No, it's just chocolate and a well-placed chin pimple.

Clean up is a snap.

"Who needs napkins?" shrugged Erina.

She learns quickly.

"No more chocolate?!"

Time to elapse into a well-induced chocolate coma.

Life is good.

But life with chocolate is bliss.

Boyfriend Beautification

"What?! No!" Calvin cried, his hands plastered over his unruly eyebrows. "Don't pluck them! Please!"

Ignoring his pleas, I delved into my bag of girly torture mechanisms and gleefully emerged with a shiny pair of tweezers. My boyfriend took one glance at the gleaming tool and started to run before I reminded him of the times I played tackle football with full-grown boys.

And won.

He dutifully took off his glasses and lay down on my pillow. "I trust you," he whispered almost tearfully, as if I were meaning to surgically replace his spleen with a Planters peanut. I saluted him with a kiss for his macho bravery and then proceeded to tackle the twin fields of hair above his eyes.

Before:                                                                                After:

"Not bad," Calvin remarked while looking into the mirror after I roused him from his bout of unconsciousness. "You see?" I replied sweetly, "I told you it wouldn't be so bad. Let's work on some more!"

When I excitedly brandished my body hair waxing kit, Calvin fainted quite promptly.

Calvin wants to kill my hairdresser.

He begged. He ranted. He tried to bribe me into leaving my hair alone. "Please, please, please, don't get it cut," my boyfriend pleaded with me while I fingered my locks complacently.

Calvin's a very easy-going man and in the near two years we've been together, I've found he's down for practically anything. He even suffered through my baking phase, when he happily complied with digging into a batch of runny, chocolate-ish brownies I'd made that no one else would touch.

The strangest thing is, he's obstinately adamant on a few choice things. For instance, by no means is my face allowed to touch makeup. "I love the way you look as you are," he'd shrug as an explanation for hiding my eyeliner. I could be gracing the covers of Food Lovers Illustrated and I wouldn't be surprised if he attacked any makeup artist who'd try prepare my face for the unforgiving cameras.

Second, no diets. "Look at this sofa hanging off my behind!" I'll scream while struggling with my zipper and he'd calmly inform me that I am the most beautiful person - both to him and to the tribes in Africa where La-Z-Boy butt cheeks and thunder thighs are considered gorgeous.

Lastly, no haircuts. Scissors haven't come in contact with my hair for about a year now because every time I make plans to go get my hair done, he suddenly gets excited about "that new movie we were planning on seeing ages ago!" Or "hey, how about a car wash?" And "wouldn't it be fun to fix the zippers you broke the last time you tried to fit your (ahem) beautiful behind into those pants?" He loves my long hair and nearly cries every time I talk about cutting it.

So I curled it instead.

Before:                                                                                       After:

I'm not pregnant, I'm just fat!

I was telling my sister about a coworker of mine who ditched happy hour plans with his buddies to go shopping for maternity clothes with his pregnant girlfriend.

"Oh gawsh," Hannah exclaimed when she heard it. "I would never want to be pregnant!"

"I know!" I exclaimed. But before I could vent my fears of toilet-embracing moments, pre-mommy emotional roller coasters, and laying what would probably feel like the biggest dump of my life in front of a roomful of strangers, my sister blurted, "Yeah! I have no idea what I could wear with such a big belly!"

As I rolled my eyes, she shrugged. "Oh well," she decided with a relieved sigh. "If I were pregnant, I could just wear your clothes."

 Oh no, you didn't, girlfriend.

When Hannah saw me getting my Erykah Badu on, complete with the bellicose catty claws, she must've done a quick mental rewind of her words.

"No!" she screeched when realizing why I was sucking in my stomach with sudden indignance. "I meant after you get pregnant, you can give me your maternity clothes!"

And people wonder why I wish I were a boy.