Confession: I’m reading the skankiest book right now, and I LOVE it.

Actually, I have three books in rotation right now, but the other two have been pushed aside because it turned out that their incest/murder quotient was simply not high enough to keep my interest. Before last summer’s adventure with the Outlander series, I had never read anything that could be classified as a romance novel. Forgive me, historical romance. Not that I wasn’t getting my daily recommended allowance of smut. It was just well disguised. You know, in novels by folks like Marquez or Kundera – some seriously dirty bird writers, who by virtue of maleness, managed to escape having their perversions labeled as romantic.

At book club the other night, we did a swap. My contribution was a book of short stories by Ursula Le Guin; my take home was Wideacre, by Philippa Gregory. Boy is that lady a degenerate of the most awesome kind! Her heroine (who I find myself pulling for despite her proclivity for evil) is a seductress, a murderess, a dominatrix and a super eager/willing participant in a steam incestuous relationship all while still in her teens. Does it get any better than this? Probably not, which is why when I finally pluck Three Junes off the nightstand to finish it, it’s going to seem a little bit like homework. Not in the way Tolstoy does, mind you, but the lack of riding crops and patricide? It will be keenly felt.

I don’t know how we got on the subject. Actually, I’m not sure how we get on most topics that we do, but Friday afternoon in the office, when the work is slow and we’re itching for freedom, my coworkers and I decided it was critical that we knew the origin of the word, “shorty.”

“Shorty?” John turned around in his ergonomic chair.

“Yeah,” I said,”it’s kinda like boo. As in, Michael Phelps is my boo.”

“Michael Phelps is MY boo!”

Before Laura and I could attack each other with letter openers and sharpies over the love of our aquatic god, Shawn had Urban Dictionary up on the screen.

“Wow,” he said, hovering his mouse over definition number 2. “Apparently, it originally meant someone new to the game – either rapping or… selling crack.”

“So, in essence, our interns are shorties,” I said. “But that doesn’t really explain how it applies to women now…”

Turns out, Urban Dictionary couldn’t be counted on to really clear that up. But the first definition of the word did provide some amusement, if not enlightenment.

1. Shorty: affectionate term for a girlfriend, attractive female or concubine.

Okay, hold on. CONCUBINE? Like, King David concubines, or is this some new-fangled hip hop concubine? The more I learn, the more it seems as though I have a lot of investigating to do if I’m ever going to truly understand the complexity of being a shorty. One thing’s for certain, though. The interchangeability of shorty and concubine has made my world a richer place.

Yo concubine, it’s your birthday! Drink Barcardi like it’s your birthday!

“Have I ever told you my son is an absolute angel?”

“Are you just saying that because you’re his mother?”

“He’s my reason for living.”

“Mine’s melted cheese.”

“What?”

“My reason for living – it’s melted cheese.”

“Like, fake cheese on nachos? Yeah, that’s a pretty good one.”

Today is my knocked up sister’s birthday.

I wonder if it says something not good about my personality that I vastly prefer calling her knocked up (or up the stick, or with fetus) to pregnant. Pregnant is boring and mature sounding. My sister is neither of those things. And me, well, I figure if I start saying that, I might as well incorporate “touch base” and “out of pocket” into my standard verbiage and pleated khakis into my wardrobe. Eeeech.

Likewise, it probably says something  that I kind of dig how uncomfortable the phrase “knocked up” seems to make other people. It makes me feel delightfully ornery. Kind of like the time John said, “It’s not a baby bump. It’s a people sack,” and then grinned in a way that suggested he got to put a gold star on the refrigerator chore chart every time he was responsible for setting people’s teeth on edge. Two more and he gets a new Nintendo game!

Anyway, I was glad someone asked to hear more about my… fine, I’ll say it… pregnant sister. Even though I only get to experience the process through phone calls and text message photos, I’ve been absolutely fascinated with the whole thing. That my beanpole baby sis has been gaining double-digit pounds weekly. That Nephetus kicks a lot now. That my other siblings get to put their greedy hands all over the tight skin of her belly and play with those tiny, mysterious feet. My brother actually pushed his recently knee-surgeried wife out of the way to get in on that action (now forever part of the family lore). And I’m jealous. Really jealous. Because I’m far away and missing everything.

I even miss it when my sister pulls her stomach taut to make her bellybutton pop out for everyone at family dinner. What passes for entertainment in Utah is deplorable, but still, I want to be there to get grossed out with everyone else.

Last night, with Laura’s Tivo acting as a safety net, I took a break from my Olympic binge and actually spent an evening outside of my apartment. When I say I took a break, I mean, when we arrived at the restaurant for dinner, I asked to be seated at a table near the bar, so I could keep an eye on the synchronized platform finals. Because I am weak. And I am addicted. Fortunately, my dinner partner is either just as gravely in need of an intervention or a truly gifted enabler, because not only put up with my constant TV glancing, he had a hefty supply of Michael Phelps trivia.  Oh, the depth of emotion I have experienced over swim cap layering!

When this is all over, I suspect that I’m going to feel very empty and sad. Maybe I will start caring about Heroes. Or Mad Men. Or, you know, humanity. But more than likely I will simply start watching my Little House on the Prairie DVDs all over again.

In a feat of remarkable self control, I did manage to separate myself from Olympic coverage completely last night for the couple hours it took to see Pineapple Express. Hysterical, I tell you. Worth missing the women’s gymnastics final? Well, like I said, I had Laura’s Tivo. Otherwise, crazy talk.

So, I know things have been slow around here, and so I’m going to open it up to requests. Wanna hear about something particular? Leave a comment! I warn you now that requests involving the words “intern” or “musician”  will be blatantly ignored.  Proceed!