The following is an excerpt from an extended text conversation between Cathy Benavides and myself. I needed help with an outfit for a family wedding. It should be noted that Cathy is a fashionista, and I am—well, clearly not. And… scene.

My poor dog has to play fetch with himself.  

On the eve of my 44th birthday, I find myself looking back on lessons learned over the years. Here are a few I thought I’d share… On keeping up with technology: Try staying one step ahead of your mother. On long hair: It’s lovely until you find it on your toes. On foreplay: Between cleaning toilets and rubbing lotion on my dry elbows, sometimes “Hey, wanna sex break?” is all you’re going to get. On lingerie: See number 3. On owning a business with your spouse: Two words: Separate offices. On marriage: See number 5 (and probably number 3). On cleaning house, I present an analogy: Macular degeneration is to housework what Spanx are to excercise. On gaining weight: See “Spanx.” On parenthood: Better you than me. On sentimentality: If you don’t have kids, there’s no need for fine china or scrapbooking. On cooking: Ketchup can fix many culinary missteps but usually not in baked goods. On not eating meat: You will miss bacon. Seriously. You will miss it a lot. On dressing appropriately for one’s age: Shoot for somewhere between Angela Lansbury and a hooker. On expectations: Sometimes you will be disappointed, and sometimes you won’t. On meeting Prince…

Let me start by making a simple request: As difficult as it might be, please try and resist the urge to picture me naked for the next five minutes. Normally I’d just refrain from telling my tale in such a public forum, but this is a story that begs to be told. Plus, let’s face it, I was lying about the normally refraining part. So rather than picturing me in my birthday suit, try imagining me in an entirely different kind of suit—maybe your grandmother’s swimsuit—the one with the ruffles and skirt. While you’re at it, go ahead and imagine copious amounts of cellulite on the backs of my thighs. That’s actually closer to reality and also serves as punishment for those of you who insist on picturing me without clothes. Okay, so it’s settled then: I am in the shower, wearing Granny’s swimsuit. And a shower cap. It all started when my dog gave the universal signal for “Mom needs a shower” by moving to the other end of the couch. As far as showers go, this one wasn’t anything special. I was unimpressed with the water pressure, and overall it was shaping up to be just your average…

In trying to come up with content for my blog, I polled my friends on Facebook to see which topic they’d be interested in hearing about. According to the pile of responses I received (I believe there were six), most folks wanted to hear about why I was locked out of my bedroom. As it turns out, the title of this story is more interesting than the reality of the situation. I don’t know what possessed me to commit to a topic that could’ve been summed up in a tweet, when the only commitments I’ve managed to keep over the past dozen years or so are to stay married and floss regularly—both of which have been challenging at times. While nobody really cares if I actually write on this topic, I’m determined to follow through. First, I present the perfectly tweetable summary in fewer than 140 characters: “Oh great, the door to my bedroom is screwed up, so I’m locked out. Fortunately, we have two bathrooms. Otherwise the neighbors would’ve gotten a frightening backyard show.” And now for the Weenified version: When I began writing this post, I was just glad to be locked out of the bedroom rather than…

Well, I skipped my writing challenge last night. Why? Because I was watching “Family Guy.” For those of you unfamiliar with this adults-only cartoon, it’s one that, on a scale of one to ten (with 1 being the lowest common denominator) rates somewhere in the neighborhood of zero. And yet it is one of the funniest shows on TV. Now, I wouldn’t recommend it to just anyone. For example, while my 11-year-old niece watches it (without her mom’s knowledge…until now), I won’t let my own mother see it to spare her the devastation of learning where all the college tuition went: right down the toilet (which is coincidentally one of the more common themes of the show, along with bestiality and pedophilia). Now before you judge me (as if), keep in mind that there is actually some reasonably well thought out humor here. I mean, what’s funnier than a talking dog who humps a babysitter voiced by Drew Barrymore? Right?? Classic stuff. In unrelated news, I’ve come to find there’s been a series of break-ins and assaults in my neighborhood, which has triggered some existentialist conversation here at Casa Weenie. In case you’ve never met me, you should know that…

Welcome to Day 2 of Ilene writing about nothing. The fine folks at 750words.com have informed me that my most recent entry was rated PG-13—apparently for swearing, violence and/or sexual content. I guess some people get turned on while grocery shopping. Who am I to judge? The stats also tell me I’m feeling upset and concerned mostly about death, which seems a bit extreme. I only killed a couple of shrubs for god’s sake—it’s not like I’m growing hemlock in the backyard. Sheesh… Okay, here is an excerpt from yesterday’s writing challenge: I think I’ll try writing on an actual topic today, rather than just letting my subconscious spew strange combinations of words. Today’s topic: Clutter. I’m not just talking about the brain clutter that encourages me to write about nothing. I’m talking about the fourteen water bottles I just pulled out of an overstuffed kitchen cabinet… The problem with clutter is that it’s everywhere. As soon as I finished one cabinet, I moved on to the light bulb/candles/dog treats area (because these things make sense together). Next will be my arch nemesis, the tupperware lair that almost caused a divorce back in 2006… Every time we need to get…