Third Time's a Charm would lead to Three Strikes and You're OUT!

I had this thought crash at me today…like a brick through my windshield…like a stream of urine from an uncovered newborn…like the ringtone I use for my ex-husband (WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH)…like…OH you get the picture!


I can get married. Again. If I wanted.

Don’t worry that I don’t have a steady male friend. Or non-steady male friend. Or semi-non-steady male acquaintance. Or a prison pen pal. By golly, by the laws set forth by the State of Illinois, I CAN get married tomorrow if I wanted. (Or however long it takes to get a license. Probably an hour or so if all the TV shows are right. Or if you know the right people. Wait! How long’s a flight to Vegas?!)

At the same time, I could:

• go diving with a hungry school of sharks just after I’ve shaved my legs with a new razor.
• get a job as an exotic dancer.
• eat a full meal before I get on the Corkscrew at Cedar Point.
• go looking for wildflowers in a field of rattlesnakes.
• shave my head, pierce my body (all over) and go by the name of “Spike.”
• bet big on the Cubs (or Indians or White Sox) winning the World Series.
• walk out of the house without wearing a bra.
• decide that the Heff is actually an attractive Octogenarian.
• think that I can be the next OCTOMOM.
• hit on Tiger Woods. And think it would mean something.