Mah Hairs

I am getting my hair cut this afternoon. So yesterday, in an effort to maintain my reputation as the fashion-forward gal that I am (HA!), I enlisted the help of Emily at Mommin’ It Up in seeking a new look. The following instant message conversation ensued (I’m the Emilie with the -ie, and Emily is the one . . . well, you’ll figure it out):

Emilie: I'm on the hunt for a new hairstyle before I get mine cut tomorrow. Suggestions?

Emily: What shape is your face?

Emilie: No idea. I've always wondered that, actually. Everything you read about hair says you have to match it to the shape of your face. I don't know what shape my face is. Face-shaped?

Emily: Yes, it is very face-shaped. Maybe round?

Emilie: I guess.

Emily: A perfect short cut is a very short pixie cut (no curls) with wisps around the face; allow wisps to fall close to the face, de-emphasizing roundness.

Emilie: Thank you, Vidal Sassoon.

Emily: I just came up with that off the top of my head.

Emilie: I just found something that says flat hair emphasizes roundness. Maybe that's why I've always hated my hair flat.

(Author’s note: it should be stated here that I was the queen of big, bouffy, un-flat, Aqua-Net 80s hair. See small grainy photo -- sorry, it was the best I could do. I loved it and I miss it, and I still do my very best to have the biggest, bouffiest, Aqua-Nettiest un-flat hair possible, even though my 2009 hair is a good deal smaller than my sorority girl hair. The brand of hairspray I use? Big Sexy Hair. Just so you know).

Emilie: What's the appropriate cut for the biggest freaking head ever made?

Conversation goes on to encompass the bowling-ball head of Emily’s younger child, the pinheadedness of my child and Emily’s husband, and a potential hairstyle that would make me look like Annie Lennox in her Eurythmics days.

Then my email dings at me to let me know that my bud Jenny has created the New Me:

As Emily so eloquently said, YIKES.

Emilie: Actually it's not bad, but I can't do bangs like that. Cowlick. I've tried and tried, but they just don't look right. I can't decide if my bangs are the problem, or my forehead. There's just so much of it.

Emily: It's a fivehead.

At that point, I stopped seeking Emily’s opinion.

Seriously, WHAT is the deal with hair and why do we put so much time and effort into it? My boss has a shaved head – I’m thinking of adopting his philosophy. Just comb it with a washcloth and you’re good to go. Pretty much every man I’ve ever met has encouraged me to grow my hair back out into some version of my 80s do. Which is easy for them to say – they’re not washing, drying, and styling it, much less getting a toddler dressed, all while trying to get out the door before 7:30. Who has time for hot rollers and flat irons? And besides, I’m nearly 40 years old. Do I really need hair that looks like it walked straight off a Farrah Fawcett poster?

Anyway, I'm sure my hair will end up being some version of what it is now, more or less, because that's where I am now. I have developed Mom-Hair. You know what I mean - your mom has had the same hairstyle since approximately 1975, hasn't she? Mine too. And that's where I am. I have arrived at the place where my hair will always be as it is now, and Ellie will remember it no other way, essentially. I always wondered how women got to this point, and now I know. They had kids, and they ran out of time. And in my case, they stopped caring what anyone else thought of it.

So I will not be posting a photo of the new haircut here. Because it will no doubt be just like the old one. At least it won't be this:

Wordless Wednesday: Is there anything better than an ice cream sandwich?

If you stab me in the butt with a scalpel, do I not bleed?

About five weeks ago, I had testosterone injected into my butt. Well, not injected, really. Inserted. Wait, no, that's not what I mean, either. Lemme 'splain.

In mid-June I went to see a doctor whose name is -- I kid you not -- Linda Evans. To my knowledge, she has never dated Yanni. Dr. Evans determined that my testosterone level was incredibly low, and offered to fix me up with some hormone replacement therapy. Yes, I've read all about the dangers, so please don't lecture me. Besides, testosterone replacement doesn't come with the same risks as estrogen replacement. But I digress. You can read all that stuff on the interwebz for yourself if you want to. Let's get back to discussing my butt.

Dr. Evans told me that there are several ways to administer estrogen, and all of them are fairly effective. Testosterone, however, works best if absorbed from tiny rice-grain-sized pellets inserted under the skin. Okay, I said. How bad can THAT be?

Wow. First there was a shot of lidocaine, which set my fields afire. Then came a small incision in my right butt cheek, into which Dr. Evans literally stuffed these little pellets. This led to a bruise the size of the former Soviet Union, as well as a perfectly round, itchy welt that made me walk around for days scratching my ass. Not attractive. But then again, with a shot of testosterone in me, it's probably normal to walk around scratching, no?

The good doctor informed me that the pellets would take effect in two to four weeks, and that when they did, I would find I had more energy, less desire to sleep constantly, more ability to focus, a higher sense of well-being, and a sex drive that would, well, go through the roof (hence the increased sense of well-being?). She said it might even be possible to get off the antidepressants I've been on since I was a fetus. What's not to like about all that?

So now I'm fast approaching the five-week anniversary of my relationship with these little pellets. I wish I could tell you I'm a new woman, but so far that doesn't seem to be the case. I'll know more this week after I have my testosterone level checked again. But right now it doesn't appear that the change has been worth repeating this little surgical procedure every four months or so. Maybe I just need a bigger dose or something.

Why, you ask, did I go see Dr. Evans in the first place? I went after discussing with my mom the fact that I'm tired all the time, I have no energy and no ability to concentrate, and that I would gladly sleep 18 hours a day if I didn't have this job and this kid. I hadn't really given any thought to fixing any of this -- I had chalked it up to age, lack of exercise and chasing around a two-year-old, and figured I better just get used to it.

So Mom tells me about something she saw on "Oprah," about how women my age and younger are finding that their hormone levels are seriously messed up -- like the kind of messed-up we thought was possible only in menopausal women. They were told by doctor after doctor that there was nothing wrong with them, that it was just the result of age and being moms. Until they found doctors who agreed to test their hormone levels. Turns out all of them were seriously deficient in estrogen, testosterone or both, and that this is far more common among young women than we've ever realized.

So to make a long story longer, these women did bio-identical hormone replacement -- no synthetic hormones, no estrogen made from horse pee. These hormones are made from plant extracts, and are molecularly identical to what we produce ourselves. These ladies got some injections and/or some hormone cream compounded especially for their individual needs, and now they claim they're cured. More ability to focus, more energy, a sex drive that's back to normal. Oprah and Dr. Phil's wife are patients, too, and they say it's the wonder drug. So I got on the interwebz and started the hunt for a doctor who knows about this stuff, which led me to Dr. Evans, who told me my testosterone level should be over 100, and it was 32. Enter needles, scalpels and hormone pellets in my ass.

So, while I've seen a slight improvement, I would not, at this point, encourage all my friends and sistahs to have this done. What I WOULD encourage you to do is have your hormone levels tested. Your OB/GYN will probably do this for you if you ask, even if he or she does not do hormone replacement. You need to know if this is something you could benefit from. Then you can decide if it's worth finding a doctor who will do it.

I'll write more about this after I have my blood test this week, and as the treatment wears on, I'll let you know if I continue to see an improvement. For now, look up bio-identical hormones on Oprah's website and read about it for yourselves. I know most of you are not in the habit of taking medical advice from Suzanne Sommers, but it's worth learning about. And if you decide to check this out, keep me posted! MWAH!!

My daughter the ogre

Maybe this makes me a terrible mom, but I let Ellie watch "Shrek." It's one of my favorite animated movies, and when I first let her see it, I really didn't think about the fact that there are some things in it that aren't quite acceptable for kids. So I let Ellie get attached to it (it's now one of her favorites, too), and then I realized that there are a lot of things in it I wouldn't want her to repeat. Like when Shrek tells Fiona that he has to save his ass.

But so far, Ellie hasn't started mimicking the stuff she hears in the film. I have yet to hear her refer to parfaits as being the most delicious things on the whole damn planet. She has not yet told me about the strong gasses eekin' out of her butt. She has not made reference to the dead broad on the table. So far, so good.

What she HAS started doing, which I did not anticipate, is mimicking some of the actions in the film. Like when Shrek hikes his leg and expresses great satisfaction at letting a huge fart. Or when Fiona burps loudly. Or when Shrek yells at the fairy-tale creatures to get out of his swamp. She sticks her finger in her ear and pretends to make candles out of what she finds there. She spits enthusiastically. I have realized I'm raising an ogre.

For all of my concern about the language in the film, it never occurred to me that the actions might be worse. Film quotes are usually recognizable for what they are -- most people would probably realize she's just repeating something she heard on TV. But when she pretends to fart, or makes fake burping noises, do people think this is something she learned from me?! Do they think I'm proud of the fact that she spits like a major league baseball player?

I am NOT, in fact, proud of this. I should work harder at teaching her that that sort of behavior is not appropriate. But I have a hard time restraining my laughter when she imitates Shrek -- the fact is, it's pretty funny to see my petite little lady-like girl hike her butt-cheek and let a huge pretend fart.

With a little help from my friends

Last night I was passing through Lexington, Ky., on business and had the chance to meet some old and dear friends for dinner. The four of us don't see each other very often, so when we do, we try to get in a lot of laughs, and typically a lot of food, in a very short time.

I've known these girls for more than 15 years. We've seen each other through two divorces, a house fire, two adoptions, four kids (soon to be five), the death of two parents, the illness of a couple more, and more job changes and bad breakups than I care to remember. They are one of the only reasons I remained sane during my dad's unfortunate incarceration. We've laughed and cried together, given and received advice, and practiced primal scream therapy on each other. We see each other only a few times a year, but when we get together, it's like we've never been apart. I love these girls like sisters.

We disturbed the peace in a Lexington steakhouse for more than two hours, laughing loud enough to attract the attention of the tables around us (well, okay, that was just me). As I headed for home, I was still laughing to myself about some of the best quotes of the night:

"If I had your life, I would just kill myself!"

"Let's go make a f#%&ing memory!!"

"Everyone has their cross to bear. My mother-in-law is mine."

Evenings like last night remind me of how blessed I am to have such good friends in my life, and how rare that kind of unconditional acceptance is. Not that long ago, most of the people I counted among my best friends turned their backs on me (funny what having a convicted felon for a father will do for your popularity). But these girls never did anything but love me and support me through the whole mess. What would I have done without them, and without the handful of other friends who stuck with me through it all?

I can't tell you how lost I felt when so many people I had loved turned away from me. Just when I needed them most, they were gone. I spent a long time feeling sorry for myself, counting up all the friends I didn't have. But somewhere along the way I realized that the few true friends I still have are worth far more than all those who had deserted me. It's a shame it took a crisis to make me see how valuable they are.

So, the point of this post is to say thanks to Em, Allison and Leigh Anne -- not just for the much-needed laughs last night, but for being there all along the way. You've loved me fat and thin, good hair and bad, bitchy or not. You've loved me when I didn't love myself, and most of all, you've made me laugh when I needed it. I love you, girls!

Who is this kid and what has she done with Ellie?

Dear kidnappers,

I don't know who you are or what you want -- God knows I have no money to pay a ransom. But whoever you are and whatever you're up to, please return my child. This wee fiend you have left in her place is killing me.

As I'm sure you've noticed in the two days you've had her, my daughter is a pretty agreeable kid. She generally listens, and is pretty quick to comply when asked to eat her dinner, pick up her toys, or stop picking her nose. She is affectionate, not one to defy Mama just for fun, and is quickly mastering the whole potty-training thing.

This kid you've left in her place, however, is NOT agreeable by any definition of that word. She seems to get a huge kick out of watching Mama turn several shades of purple with anger. She eats sand while I'm standing right next to her, snatching at the plastic shovel and yelling at her not to do it. She torments the family pets. She squishes her dinner between her fingers rather than eating it. She smears grape popsicle all over the front of her shirt, watching me all the while to see what I'm going to do about it. She laughs when I discipline her. I don't know where you found this kid whom you have left in place of my daughter, but she must have been raised by wolves. Or monkeys.

Luckily I was able to put the little monster to bed just a few minutes ago, and not a moment too soon. I was getting dangerously close to locking her in the garage. After spending a weekend with this demon child, I can understand why you wanted to trade her out for Ellie. But please please PLEASE bring her back. I miss my sweet girl. And I cannot take one more day of this holy terror with whom you've left me.

So drop me a line and let me know what your demands are. As I've said, I have no funds with which to pay a ransom, but I'm a coupon queen and could perhaps pay you in cheap groceries. Please just tell me what you want so we can make the trade. Cuz this kid you've left in Ellie's place? If anybody kidnapped HER, they'd bring her back within the hour.

Death Wish

I think my new personal trainer is trying to kill me.

It's 6:30 a.m. and I've just finished my third workout of the week. Every muscle I have aches. My legs are shaky and will barely hold me up. I'm so sweaty that the last time the air conditioner kicked on, I got the shivers.

My trainer is 23. He does not seem to realize that I am nearly old enough to be his . . . much older sister. He is ruthless. I am writing this post so that the world will know who is responsible if I should be found dead on my living room floor, covered in sweat and frumpy workout clothes.

This morning Ellie woke up halfway through my workout and insisted on "helping." She tried to sit on my chest while I did leg raises. She touched her toes when I did. She also felt the need to make funny grunting and groaning noises, which alerted me to the fact that I must be doing the same. The impossibly young trainer thought the whole thing was hilarious.

It feels really good to be doing something about my, um . . . excess baggage. But I may die in the process. Just sayin'.

In other news:

• I was on CNN's website the other night, and there was a picture of Michael Jackson on the screen. Ellie pointed to it and said "Mama." WTF?!
• I am happy to report that, since the poop in wa-wa debacle, Ellie's baths have come off without incident. But not without a few laughs. Last night while she was splashing around, I took advantage of having a moment to pee when she was NOT clinging to my leg. I didn't think Ellie was even paying attention, until I flushed the toilet and she began clapping wildly. "Yay, Mama!! Pee pee potty! Sticker!" Just so you know, I did reward myself with a sticker and congratulate myself on being such a good girl.
• Ellie now pats her nipples and informs me that they are her hoo-hoos.
• There have been no additional sightings of the Snooty Suburb Bear. Let's hope his GPS kicked in and he's found his way to West Virginia.
• If you're wondering why I didn't post on Wednesday, the truth is that I did, but I took it down. It was an open letter to Dr. Wonderful, and I decided that ticking him off intentionally was probably not a good idea. For those of you who saw it before I took it down and offered supportive comments, thanks so much -- I can't tell you how much I appreciate the moral support.
• I went on my much-anticipated date on Tuesday. I was going to blog about it, but I've decided it's really none of your business. So there.
• Today is my mom's birthday, and also Katie's at Domestic Debacle. Happy birthday Grandma and Katie!

That is all.

Biohazard

So it's Sunday night, and I'm all set to blog about how my workouts start in the morning, and how excited I am to be doing something about all my excess poundage. I'm thinking about this as I get Ellie in the bathtub -- writing the post in my head, organizing my thoughts. Ellie is splashing away in the tub while I throw a load of towels in the washer (my laundry room is across the hall from the bathroom), and I let her play for a few minutes while I separate whites from darks.

I go into the bathroom to prepare Ellie for her nightly scrubbing. I swish around in the bathwater, looking for the washcloth, which is somewhere under all the bubble-bath-induced foam. I find the washcloth, squirt a little soap on it, and soap up Ellie's face, ears and upper body. She has already transferred many of the bubbles to her head, so I finish washing her hair and prepare to move on to her legs, feet and backside.

That's when she looks at me and says "Butt. Poop."

I freeze, washcloth in hand, and try to decipher what she's telling me. "Poop? Where?" I ask. She points to the bathwater.

I swish aside some of the bubbles and am greeted by the sight of murky yellowish water with particles of some unknown substance floating in it. For the water to be that color, we're not talking about a little poop. We're talking a LOT.

I grab Ellie by the armpits and whisk her out of the water, standing her on the rug, where she drips poopy bathwater in little rivulets down her legs. I let the water out of the tub and start tossing toys to one end so that I can clean up the mess. I'm throwing poop-nuggets into the toilet when I realize that the grossness in the tub is the least of my worries.

My kid is standing there, blinking up at me, covered in soap suds and poop-water.

I hoist her back into the tub, where she promptly tries to sit down. "NO!" I yell. "Just stand there and let Mama clean you off."

While the poop-water continues to drain around Ellie's feet, I turn the water back on and set about washing her all over again. I'm waiting for the water to get hot, and Ellie is standing there, soaking wet and shivering, probably wondering what the hell the fuss is all about.

I wait and wait, but no hot water.

That's when I remember that the load of laundry I just did? Was towels. Which I wash in hot water.

So my kid takes a cold shower, including having cold water poured over her poop-infested hair. She is most unhappy about it. But not nearly as unhappy as I am about not having hot water with which to wash off the poop.

For a brief moment I think about driving her over to a neighbor's house and dipping her in their chlorinated pool.

I drag Ellie out of the tub for the second time, get her dried off and in her PJs, and send her to her playroom while I fill the tub with bleach water. I put all the toys in the bleach water, too, and somewhere during this process I splash water on my jeans, leaving a spatter of small white spots on the denim. Lovely.

I finally finish this disgusting little activity, and give Ellie a lecture about how we do NOT poop in the bath tub. "If you have to poop, you tell Mama and we'll get OUT of the tub, okay?" She nods and says "ah-ight" like a tiny Asian Jeff Foxworthy, but I have no idea if she knows what I'm talking about. I doubt it.

We climb into Mama's bed, which is where Ellie falls asleep each night before being carried to her own room. We get all snuggled under the blankets, and everything is quiet and peaceful. And then I hear this little voice: "Mama?"

"What, sweetpea?"

"No poop in wa-wa."

That's my girl.

Friday Funnies

After my incredibly depressing downer of a post on Wednesday, I figured I owed you something a little lighter. Emily and I were eating at a sub shop the other day, and noticed the following list posted on the wall. We were so entertained by it that we actually stood there reading it after we'd finished our lunch. The poster credited former Miami Herald columnist Dave Barry with coming up with this stuff, and thanks to the wonders of the interwebz, I am able to share it with you. Have a great weekend . . .

25 THINGS THAT IT TOOK ME 50 YEARS TO LEARN

1. Never under any circumstances take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
2. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."
3. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."
4. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
5. If there is a God who created the entire universe with all of its glories, and he decides to deliver a message to humanity, he WILL NOT use as his messenger a person on cable TV with a bad hairstyle.
6. You should not confuse your career with your life.
7. No matter what happens, somebody will find a way to take it too seriously.
8. When trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often, that individual is crazy.
9. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
10. Never lick a steak knife.
11. Take out the fortune before you eat the cookie.
12. The most destructive force in the universe is gossip.
13. You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.
14. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests that you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.
15. There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11.
16. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above-average drivers.
17. The main accomplishment of almost all organized protests is to annoy people who are not in them.
18. A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.
19. Never be afraid to try something new. Remember that a lone amateur built the ark. A large group of professionals built the Titanic.
20. The badness of a movie is directly proportional to the number of helicopters in it.
21. People who feel the need to tell you that they have an excellent sense of humor are telling you that they have no sense of humor.
22. The most valuable function performed by the federal government is entertainment.
23. They can hold all the peace talks they want, but there will never be peace in the Middle East. Billions of years from now, when Earth is hurtling toward the sun and there is nothing left alive on the planet except a few microorganisms, the microorganisms living in the Middle East will be bitter enemies.
24. Nobody is normal.
25. Your friends love you anyway.
    

Emilie and the terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day

As I sit here on my couch writing this post at 10:15 p.m., I can identify at least ten things I should be doing besides writing a blog post. The sink is full of dishes. The floor is covered with toys. There's a quarter-inch of dust on everything. I missed the trash run yesterday, so the kitchen can is overflowing. And there's a UPS delivery in the entryway that I have not yet had the energy to carry to the basement where it belongs.

Upstairs, a mountain of laundry awaits. The bed needs clean sheets. My bathroom is a disaster area. Ellie should have had a bath before she went to bed. The tub is grimy. I haven't fed my pets yet. The flowers and that damn lawn are dying before my eyes because I haven't had time to water them. And there are four more bags of mulch in the garage, waiting to be spread on the flowerbeds and under my nails.

I think that's actually 13 things. And that's just the beginning of the list.

People, I am tired. I'm tired of having all this stuff to do that will NEVER get done. I'm tired of being behind constantly. I'm tired of not having enough time to spend with my daughter, and having to choose between her and all these things that need to be accomplished. I know the simple answer is spend time with my kid -- all the other stuff can wait. But it CAN'T wait forever -- not if I intend to maintain my sanity. I find it difficult to enjoy time with my daughter when I have all this crap hanging over my head. If my time with her is to be quality time, I have to figure out a way to take care of some of this other stuff, too. But I'll be damned if I know how.

I added five or six things to my to-do list today and didn't cross A SINGLE THING off. Not one.

I guess I'm really just tired of being a grown-up. I don't want to have to be responsible for everything. I don't want to have to deal with high-maintenance people at the same time I'm trying to deal with my high-maintenance toddler. I have neither the time nor the energy for that. Could someone maybe take care of me sometime?

I know -- I'm an adult and a mommy and I have to be the caretaker now. And usually I'm totally okay with that. I chose to take on raising a child alone, and I went into it with my eyes wide open. I knew it wouldn't be easy, and most of the time I have no problem with that. I don't even agree when people talk about how difficult it must be -- I actually don't think I have it too tough. But right now I don't think I'm being a very good parent, daughter, sister, aunt, friend or employee. I'm not filling any of those roles the way they deserve to be filled. And I have no idea what to do about it.

I know I'm not the first person to feel this way, and I'm sure I won't be the last. I know things could be much worse (believe me, they HAVE been much worse) and I should quit bitching. I know there are a lot of people out there who have it WAY worse than I do -- people with sick kids or sick spouses, people who have lost their jobs. I know there are people who successfully manage to keep more balls in the air -- my sister works two jobs, for crying out loud, and still keeps up with a husband and two kids. I know I'm just being a melodramatic wimp. So please don't lecture me on how I should be grateful for what I have, or how I have it so much better than so many others. I already know all that, and I'm really not an ungrateful person in general. I've just had a really bad day, and I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. But for now, I just sort of feel like everything sucks and I needed to vent. Thanks for listening. I'll try to come up with something cheerier on Friday.

Pee pee in the potty

Last night my baby peed in the potty. I'm not sure how I feel about this milestone. I'm thrilled that we're making progress on the road to potty training -- being free of diapers is going to feel like getting a raise. But a housebroken baby means she's not a baby anymore.

Ellie peed in the potty at Miss Dee-Dee's a few weeks ago, but I wasn't there to see it, and it wasn't a phenomenon that lasted long. Ellie wasn't really ready yet, and Princess C, her partner in crime, was preparing to have tubes put in her ears -- what with recovery time and all, not a good time to tackle something like potty training. So I didn't get too excited about it.

But last night was different. We took her diaper off in preparation for bath time, and she said "pee pee" and pointed to her potty chair. This is nothing new -- she sits on the potty before bath time nearly every night, but nothing ever comes of it. It's just an excuse to play with the toilet paper roll. But last night, when she sat down, I immediately heard a tinkle. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So I settled for swooping her up in a hug (and dripping pee all over us both) and shouting "YAY!" while we danced around the bathroom like complete fools.

Maybe this was a fluke. Maybe it was just that the water was running in the tub, and it made her have to go, sort of like an old man with prostate issues. But I suspect it was NOT a fluke. I suspect it was the beginning of Ellie's "big girl" days. And while I'm delighted that she's growing up, I also hate it that she's growing up.

Who knew pee could conjure such mixed emotions?

Breaking news as it happens

I was looking over my posts from the last few days, and realized there are some things on which I need to update my dear readers. So here's some recent breaking news on topics about which you have, no doubt, been dying of curiosity.

First, my yard. My sick and sad little yard. Even after its haircut last weekend, it still looks so bad that the guy across the street offered me his $50 gift certificate to Leisure Lawn. I really don't have the extra money, but I actually scheduled four lawn treatments between now and fall -- I don't want to be the only house on the block with a yard in which a Trans Am up on blocks would be a suitable lawn ornament. When people start mistaking the sticker bushes for saplings, it's time to do something.

Second, the bear. Many of you have asked why the city officials in Snooty Suburb don't do something about the bear, such as CATCH HIM. Believe me, I have wondered the same thing myself. Turns out that state wildlife officials believe said bear will eventually migrate southeast into Kentucky or West Virginia and leave us alone. I happen to think this is a bunch of hooey. First of all, the bear is obviously a suburbanite. He's become accustomed to the close proximity of Super Wal-Mart, Costco and Target. Why would he want to move to the hills of eastern Kentucky? And secondly, bears do not come equipped with GPS. How in the HELL is he gonna know where West Virginia is?!

The wildlife officials may change their minds and make a plan to trap this bear and help him along on his journey. But I think somebody's dog is gonna get mauled first.

This is a photo of the actual bear, taken in my actual town, in someones' actual back yard.

Third, I have had a break-through in translating Ellie-speak. She's been referring to movies as "wah-dees" for a long time now, and I just figured out what she's saying. She's saying "wee-dee," which is short for "DVD." HA! I feel like a World War II code breaker. She has also been pointing to my eyes a lot lately and saying "poo poo." I have to admit I was a bit offended -- what does poo poo have to do with Mama's eyes? Turns out she's admiring my eye makeup, which is purple (poo poo -- get it?). The child is clearly a genius.

She's recently figured out what (almost) all of the little piggies do, and spends endless hours telling me about it. The first piggie went to martet; the second stayed hum. The third has roast beese, and she can't remember what the fourth one does. The littlest piggie goes "wee wee!!" all the way hum. Cutest thing EVAH.

And lastly, yes, I do still have a date coming up in the near future. Next week, actually. I even bought cute new shoes for it -- see? Rest assured I'll keep you posted. Did I mention that I'm a nervous wreck? I'm hoping the shoes will instill confidence.

That is all. Carry on.

Wordless Wednesday -- Speak No Evil, See No Evil

It's Wednesday, and for the first time in my short blogging life, I forgot to post. Just never even crossed my mind til this morning. Duh. So, with that in mind, here's a little (nearly) Wordless Wednesday action for you. This is Ellie (on the left) with her friend Princess C, also from Vietnam. I think you'll agree this is the cutest picture EVER. Anybody got an Asian kid who hears no evil?