So I'm having my coffee while skimming the news and I come across an article in the Tampa Tribune, entitled "Voyeur Dorm Violates Zoning Laws". Apparently, a nice group of college girls have gotten together with a fabulous idea of which their parents must be so very proud. They've hooked up 34 video cameras throughout their house to capture their every move. For a modest charge of $34.00 per month, you can log on and catch them in a variety of scintillating activities, according to their ad campaign: "Come spy on us as we eat, cook, shower, clean, study, change our clothes, work out, sunbathe nude, do our makeup, date our boys, take bubble baths, watch TV, and even sleep."

I turned to my husband and asked "Hey honey...would you pay $34 a month to watch me do the laundry?"

He kept his eyes on his paper and mumbled something about wishing it were only $34. I promptly ignored him and continued reading my article.

But I got to thinking - this voyeurism thing is really paying off big bucks. The Peeping Tom sublimated throughout our daily lives and voila!, for a mere monetary transaction (which will probably appear as a discrete "Holy Ghost" Enterprises on your credit card) you can be at work entering statistics on a spreadsheet and quickly flip a screen to see Bambi and Holly at the breakfast table, engulfing a Chiquita banana "just for you".

I can see the payoff here.

Always looking for a way to capitalize on this internet craze, I sit and wonder how I can profit from this.

I can envision my webcam already, with the different cameras set up at various points in my home and garden.

[span to morning]

I'm sure the college coeds spring up from their beds wearing Harvard tee shirts with black lace panties, stretching sexily, lifting their hair and bending over to pick up a lukewarm can of Tab from the night before.

At Anjul's cam you can see me groan, grab my back and wonder for the 100th time when all these pains started before kicking off the covers to reveal my plaid boxer shorts, Peter Frampton "Do you doooo...feel like I do" tee shirt (vintage with holes of course). I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, smile at the camera and trip over the dog, falling against the statue of the Madonna sitting on my dresser.

Watch me recuperate from this, walk down the hallway and knock on my kids doors, getting them up and ready for school. My gentle soothing voice awakens them for the day - the first time.

Hear me come back up the fourth time screaming, "IF YOU DONT GET YOUR BUTTS OUTTA BED RIGHT NOW I'M COMING IN THERE AND CLEANING YOUR ROOMS." The angles get a bit blurred right here as they race to open and slam doors, push past me and grunt heading down for breakfast.

I smile, beckoning you to follow me out to the yard where I can see the neighborhood dogs have again attacked the garbage.

"Oh, I'd better go pick up that chicken bone." There I am bending over sexily amid the cat litter. Looking coyly backward, I try to flip my hair at the direction of the camera, until I remember its still in pink curlers from the night before. It's really hard to flip curlers so I wind up shaking my head all around like a spastic cocker spaniel and wink.

That's when I look down and realize my boxer shorts aren't really mine. I must have pulled my husband's out by mistake. The school bus arrives and I feel 50 pairs of eyes regarding me in my husband's BVDs - maybe it's time for a trip to Victoria's Secrets. The last time I shopped there I bought a really fabulous foot file - a grey sandstone thing - that I also use to clean tile grout.

The kids are finally off. I wink at the camera. Now its "me" time. "Come," I smile and crook my finger at the camera.

"Wanna come see me play in the grass," I coo.

Grabbing the pooper scooper firmly, I smile and, with practiced flair, whisk away the dog's evidence from the last two weeks. Watch me cautiously look over at my neighbor's house, ascertaining they indeed left for work before moving the conspicuous artifacts across the border.

"Time to primp." Here I am at my vanity applying makeup. I smile and lift my mascara wand and at the moment of application my Queen Anne chair breaks, spilling me and all my cosmetics to the floor, jamming the mascara wand directly into my retina. The loud curses are for my husband who promised to fix the $5.00 garage sale find two months ago.

See me stumble to the bathroom, black ooze running down my face and eyes with the dog barking and chasing me with one of my bra falsies stuffed in his mouth.

I swipe the shelf trying to find the emergency kit when the phone rings. I crawl down the stairs, blinded, and pick up the phone on the 20th ring. It's AOL calling for the fourteenth time this week, asking me if I'd love to get online and make new friends.

Hear me call them every name that I can possible conceive - including a description of where I'd like to insert and apply the mascara wand which has blinded me.

Ironically, I believe the caller has gotten a tad excited by my choice of adjectives and dangling modifiers.

Hmmmm... perhaps I should charge a little more than $34.00.

After all, what's more sexy than the real thing?

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