I’m not sure how or exactly when it happened but I am obsessed with the TV show ‘Supernatural’.
If you like funky horror, blood, violence and humor this show is the perfect alchemy.
I blame my daughters Sarah and Jenna for teasing me with owning all 4 of the full season DVD’s.
Whenever one of them is watching an episode they know I will inevitably sit down and watch.
Yeah, I am a sucka.
If you’ve seen my Facebook you already know of my unbridled love for Dean (Jensen Ackles).
As a happy and fully functional heterosexual male, I feel odd and a bit freakish telling you that.
Yeah, I got a Dean ‘thang’ happening.
By ‘thang’ I mean nothing whatsoever sexually although shock was probably your initial reaction.
Hey, listen . . .
I wouldn’t rub his back down with lavender oil or suck on his toes for a squillion dollars.
Maybe 2.
I just happen to think the man is quintessentially cool.
And if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, please, Dear God, bring me back in his body.
The man does things for a pair of blue jeans that some women lust for.
My daughters will read this post, roll their eyes and say, “Dad’s lost it.”
I think of it like this:
Women will look at another woman and say, “Good God, she’s beautiful!”
As guys, we don’t bat an eye, do we?
If it’s a girlfriend or a wife we understand that she hasn’t turned lesbo, she’s just admiring awesome beauty.
But if a guy happens to comment about the looks of another man (as I have done here) most will give you that ‘gee, you’re really queer, huh?’ stare.
Kind of a double standard there, capice?
Dean Winchester is one fine looking man.
There.
I’ve said it.
And I still love my wife.
And breasts.
And nice bums.
And flat tummies.
Writer’s block can really suck sometimes.
Holy freekin’ Moley.
Got salt?
It does a body good . . .

Sunday morning + Blues legend Calhoun Tubbs = Awesome

[youtube=http://youtube.com/watch?v=QfzDUpB88x4]

~m

My dear friend Annie left a writing prompt (idea) for me on her blog.
Your turn, kiddo. {{{{grin}}}}}

” You wake up to discover that all your daughters are sons & your wife is your husband – what happens?”

Here’s what transpired . . . I don’t really know if I even like this but here we go . . .

************************************************************************

You stare into the bathroom mirror and scream – OH! MY! GOD!
June Cleaver continues to stare back at you in horror. You watch your chest heaving up and down and think “Christ in a sidecar, I have breasts and wide hips and then no, no, dear God, no . . . yup, they’re gone.”
Your precious jewels are gone.
You scratch where they should be and look around the bathroom stunned by the realization that your world has turned to black and white and that you’re June Cleaver.

You pray that the kids have gone to school and Ward is at work before making your way to the kitchen when you see a handwritten note on the kitchen table;

June,

I decided to let you sleep in this morning and have taken the boys to school myself.

Don’t worry, I made them oatmeal and toast for breakfast.

Wally asked if you could get him some pimple cream. His acne is acting up again.

And Beaver is, well, the Beaver. You know how much I love the Beaver.
I’ll see you tonight for dinner, my dearest

Love,

Ward

Your world begins caving in when you realize and understand the sheer magnitude of the situation you’re currently in.
Boys?!
You think, “What Would June Do?” and laugh thinking the initials of the phrase would look great on a bracelet.
You desperately need some booze but it’s only 8:30 in the morning and you’ve no idea where Ward hides the hootch.

You think that 24 hours ago the world was a vastly different place, as was your gender.

The phone rings and you automatically answer it like a subservient Stepford wife.

“Hello?”

“Hi June! It’s Agnes Haskell. Have you seen my Eddie? He never showed up to school this morning and I think he’s up to no good and goshdarnit, I’m a bit worried.”

“Oh, Agnes! No, I haven’t seen Eddie. Ward let me sleep in this morning and he took Wally and Beaver to school. Boys will be boys! I’m sure it’s nothing serious, Agnes. If I see him I’ll be sure to tell him to call you, okay?”

“Are you okay, June? You sound . . . I don’t know, different.”

“Oh, if you only knew, Agnes. No, I’m fine. Gotta run, the milkman is here! Bye!”

You place the receiver into the cradle of the black rotary phone and catch a glimpse of yourself in the living room mirror and think: I’m going have to do something with this hair! It will never do!

You’ve never been ogled before in your life until you go out on the front steps to get your bottles of milk.

“Morning Mrs. Cleaver!”

“Good morning, Dan.”

“Hey, did I show you my new tattoo?”

“You have a tattoo, Dan?”

“Did I say tattoo? I meant to say my thick enormous tongue!” {laughing}

“Oh, Dan, you’re such a cut up!” {you’re laughing, and shaking your head because he’s such a freak}

You pinch yourself and repeatedly head butt the fireplace mantle hoping to wake yourself or ultimately pass out.
You somehow make it to 5PM when a bulb goes on above your nicely coiffed head.
You find a piece of paper and write:

Dearest Ward,

I must have come down with the flu because I’ve been sneezing all day.
(I must be contagious!)

I did manage to do some of the boy’s laundry. Please tell Beaver he needs to start wiping himself better or I may start calling him “General Beaver”!
Please take the boys for dinner. I just couldn’t cook in this condition.
I’ve taken two aspirin and plan on sleeping until my color returns.

I hope you understand, dear.

Love,

J

You lie down and close your eyes while praying for a Medjudgore miracle.
Your breasts are nice and quite perky but BIG DEAL.
You just want your junk back. {and rightly so – *authors note}

You accept the fact that you’d never make it in this world as a June . . . April or May could be a distant possibility though.
And though the hormone thing is just a killer . . . the nasty shaving business ain’t quite that bad.

~m