Would I mind? Surely you jest! No, no, but I think it more likely that you would grow weary of rubbing my feet and pouring my wine, and I would start to nag you, and you would ask me why I wasn't getting a job, and I would say, "You don't really love me!" and you would say, "What's love got to do with it?" And I would say, "Don't bring Ike and Tina into this, they had a terrible relationship!" And you would say, "What the everlovingfeck are you talking about? Can't you just be happy with daily foot rubs and wine, for chrissakes?" And I would cry, and you would look at me with disgust, and I would secretly think that I'm a schmuck and that you secretly think I'm a schmuck, and I would say, "I never deserved foot rubs every day, anyway. I have always relied on the kindness of only once-in-a-great-while foot rubs." and then you'd say, "We'll always have feet." And I would say, "Here's looking at the top of yer head, kid."

See? These things always end tragically.

What exactly does this mean? I like to hit buttons, but I can't figure out how this benefits you. Or me. Or snails.

I'd like to believe in magic. It's magically delicious. However, I'm a scientist, and I know there is no such thing as magic, or Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, or string theory, or the Higgs Boson. Also, I think Canada is make-believe, but I have yet to empirically prove it.

This is a fascinating question, and one I might not have been able to answer with any certainty a few years ago, but with age comes wisdom, and a sex drive less prone to the upheaval from youthful trauma, etc., etc., blah di blah blah...

I have a strange brain. I used to have a lot of sex, but it wasn't libido, per se, that drove the train. It was a need to be loved, to be given attention, no matter how temporary. And there might have been some desire for power over men involved in that as well, but we'll save that for next session.

What I find now is that a routine life, the stresses of raising children and struggling with the mundane had dulled not only my sexual impulses, but also my creative ones. I had completely set aside any creative pursuits, and was paying a psychic price. My OCD had taken over my brain and left no room for thoughts of any kind, let alone creative ones.

I had to go through a serious, and I do mean SERIOUS, shake up to discover that I did still have the desire and (I'm going out on a limb here) the talent to write. In order to preserve my mental health, indeed my life, I can't afford another shake up of that magnitude, but what I can do is explore new things, change the routine, do unusual things, to get the brain going again. This holds true for sex as well, since aren't they really guided by the same drive? The drive to be immortal, to pass along one's genes/thoughts for future generations.

Here's another thought, sort of a two-for-one if you will: if you are in a passionate relationship (read: new), you will feel inspired beyond reason, but you'll be too busy rutting to do anything about it. You should also know I wrote this with a two-year-old sitting on my shoulders and Sponge Bob on in the background, so take it all with a grain of salt.

Now, what was the question again?

I think it's all about relationships, even if you are religious, although you might have a hard time convincing a religious person of that.

The idea is that we are supposed to be good to each other, either because this is all we ever get, or because we are supposed to be modeling Jesus or whomever (sorry, just feel the need to make clear that I think this holds true for everyone).

So I would say find meaning in being kind, doing remarkable things for others in secret, making someone smile, and appreciating that we only live here (or anywhere, for atheists or those unsure) for a tiny, little while. While we're here, we should try to make it as beautiful and hospitable a place as we can.

Oh, you know darn well I can't answer this one. So I'll do my best to obfuscate and amuse and just plain duck and cover.

I lost some good men, great men, even. I ruined them, broke them, and left them for no damn reason at all. I didn't understand myself and had no means of regulating my emotions for so many years; I did a lot of damage. A couple of them left me, likely seeing me as selfish, possessive, fearful, bratty.

I plead lost, broken, empty, full of self-loathing. I didn't understand when I had something good, or didn't think I deserved it, but just know, all of you who think I might be talking about you, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry. Forgive me. You were better than I thought I deserved.

Great Expectations, without question. I can barely remember it, but I know I found it unbearably dull. When I think of it, my head fills with gray and I feel my lungs squeezing themselves as if to cut short the pain of the memory.

Also, anything by Thomas Hardy. I'm not surprised by someone not liking a great book. These things are so personal, and based in part not only on our temperament and taste, but also the time of life we first encounter a book. Some books I have grown to appreciate more in a reread years later, like Pride and Prejudice. Others I adored at one point in life but can't fathom what I saw in them now. Don't worry about not liking Gatsby. He wasn't as great as Dean Moriarty anyway.

Really? This is what you want to know?

I was working at Shaker's restaurant waiting tables, and after work I went out with my fabulous and sadly-closeted friend Kip to T-Bones tavern, which used to be the biker bar the Windmill. Zima was new then, and I had no idea what I was doing and drank like eight of them because they tasted like Sprite. I was used to whiskey, not a delicious, lemon-lime, bubbly concoction. Anyway, I was a lightweight at that point, and they did me in.

What did I do? I danced. I danced with Kip, and probably with others, and flirted, and had a good time, and I have no idea what happened after that except that I'm fairly certain I had nothing to do with T-Bones Tavern burning down a few years later.

I was supposed to open the restaurant the next day, and I got to work on time and cleaned and set up and then begged to go home. I had never had a hangover before, for whatever reason.

There were definitely times I'd been more intoxicated (not necessarily via alcohol), but this one stands out because of the hangover. And because I apparently didn't do anything I regretted as best I recall.

I reserved those things for when I was sober.

I haven't had that experience, and likely won't. I don't think the hospital is conducive to it and since homebirthing women are so well supported already, they rarely hire doulas.

Also, good grief, thanks for the awkward question.

Yes. Yes I would.

I was thirteen. That's too young, I know, for a serious kiss, especially since he was older, eighteen. And he was so sweet and beautiful. We were on the bottom bunk of a friend's bunk bed, all of us hanging out in this bedroom, right near Christmas time. We were listening to George Winston's December album, which I think was fairly new at the time. I remember thinking, this is just like a movie, with a lovely soundtrack that makes you feel wistful and wishing for something you know might never come. And he held my hand, the room was so warm, cozy, and I had on my mother's wool sweater, the one she didn't want me to borrow, but it was soft wool, not scratchy at all, in a warm, buttery color, and I had on a hippie skirt, also my mother's, and long johns underneath, because that's the type of girl I was. My boots were already taken off, and were resting on the floor beside us.

He leaned in to kiss me, and I let him, not caring that our friends were in the room, it was all just a low hum of conversation in the background, and the piano music, and maybe snow outside, though I don't remember that clearly. Then everything was still, and it was just the kiss, the gentle kiss, long but innocent, the last innocent kiss I was ever to have. He kept saying, "You are so soft. So soft." I thought he might mean the sweater, and I wanted so much for him to mean me.

But then a few days later a friend called and told me that a boy I'd been intrigued by whom I thought looked like John Lennon with his round glasses and long hair wanted to talk to me, and would I call him? And he was only a little into drugs and only a short while from jail, but I didn't know.

I called the man child who'd kissed me so perfectly and explained, and he said, "You are going to fall in love with him and be lost to me."

And of course I said No! No, not that. It's just to talk.

But he was right, and now that kiss is the best, saddest thing I own.

Like, flying? Gosh golly, you know - I totally would! Where're we going?

What would *I*call it? I'd call it a job; one I'd like to have. Oh, you mean, like, a title?

I like clever, but it can't be cutesy. Damn. You know how to vex a gal, don't you?

I like "Come Fly With Me" but I googled it and there is apparently a Jonas brothers song by that name. Aren't they kind of like Hanson or something? Menudo? I don't know. I'm just partial to ol' Blue Eyes, but I'm a little anachronistic. I also like to say "bee's knees" and "cat's pajamas."

Destination Anywhere, The Moons of Titan. Hell. I'm a weirdo. Masculine things appeal to me. If it were called On the Road I'd be all over it. Since the farthest I've been from home is Indiana, I'd call it: Anywhere But Here.

p.s. Thanks for even remotely believing I might have a good answer.

It's a possibility. I'm slightly more likely to like you than the average person, since I'm kind of a snob about intellect and chances are better that you have one if you are in a scientific field. However, you could still be an ass.

In which case, the answer is no. You aren't wrong.

I once stood in a line to ride one of those carnival things that spins around and round until the floor drops away and nothing but centrifugal force is holding you against the wall. I got to the front of the line and couldn't do it. I cried like a kid (I was probably like 9) and then my mom came and got me and let my dad go on it by himself.

In short, I'm a pussy.

But I love whitewater rafting, driving way too fast, riding on the back of a motorcycle, and I've been known to take substances that aren't very good for me.

So, um. I don't know. Risk gene? I don't have it. Suicidal gene? Yup. That one I know. Some people's threshold is just higher than other's.

People are pretty frucked up. Sorry to be the one to tell you.

Parents, just like other people, have their own collection of issues and baggage that make them do all the wretched things they do. It's up to us to find a way to build a life worth living, regardless of what our parents did/do to us.

How about milktoast? *yawn*

It depends. If I'm making a cup, I'll add the milk after it brews. If I've made a pot, I'll put the milk in the cup first. I don't know what kind of philosophical revelations you expect to get with this question.

Next time, ask me about whiskey.

It's really hard to get a bad foot massage. And I can be doing other fun things while getting one, like reading. I'm a very busy woman, you know. And seriously, what's up with the potato chips? Give me chocolate or caramel popcorn or something worth the calories.

Okay, the question: well, one doesn't. I'm not actually. I have times of almost togetherness, then I tend to let it all fall apart. Normally, the answer might be medication, or foot massages. But really, the thought that I'm just collecting things to write about is what keeps me going. And the small people. I do it for the small people.

I need mountains. I need them to rest my eyes against, to make me believe I'm not so small, that the earth doesn't go on forever against all that blue.

And it's true, I did learn to love here, and maybe it's why I can't leave, why I'm chained to these foothills where I can set my sights on the towering tress above and know the winding roads will be there, drawn on my eyelids when I close them for sleep.

I came back for love and I'm here still and love or no love - I'll be here till I die.

Can I make it? Me personally? Well, frankly, I don't generally get my units of distance and time confused and then try to cover it up with a bunch of hooey about "it's really my badass navigation skills we're talking here."

Damn black holes.

Um...wha?

I like editing and good genetics. Also, not eating potato chips is better for the figure than sit-ups.