The word for today, boys and girls, is "inappropriate"

When I was Ellie's age, I had a cowgirl costume, complete with hat and fringed skirt. My mom even had my picture taken in it. And I must say, I was damn cute. But not NEARLY as cute as my little Asian cowgirl will be when she wears it this weekend.

Yes, that's right --Ellie is wearing one of my old Halloween costumes. Never mind that the belt has been chewed by mice and that there are stains that may or may not be mildew on the fake-suede skirt. She's gonna wear it, and she's gonna be adorable. Okay?! I will prove her adorable-ness with photos next week.

Anyway. I've been concerned that maybe I didn't put enough thought into this year's costume for my girl, or that maybe I'm a bad mom because I didn't ask Ellie what she wanted to be. I just saw the costume in her closet, realized that it would fit this year, and told her she was going to be a cowgirl. End of discussion.

So, even though I was really excited about her wearing my costume, I decided I'd look around on the interwebz to make sure there wasn't something better out there. This, I thought, might make me feel better about my decision to go with a costume that was basically right there, ready and waiting in our very own closet.

And all I can say is WOW. Some of the stuff that's out there is horrendous. Having seen some of these classy costumes, I can honestly say that I will be presenting myself with the Mother of the Year award later this fall. Because compared to moms who would let their kids wear this stuff? I am June Cleaver and Carol Brady all wrapped up in one big happy suburban housewife package.

First there's this little gem:Which, I might add, is out of stock on the website where I first saw it. That means there are a lot of kids going out trick-or-treating dressed as crappers. The website also suggests that it can be used as a "modern-day dunce cap" for potty-mouthed youngsters. Um, what?

Or how 'bout this one?

I don't even know what to say about this.

How old do you think this little princess is?


I have a friend who is a drag queen. Even he doesn't wear this much makeup. And according to the website, the costume's "peekaboo petticoat" is one of its best features. Lovely.

But I think this one is my favorite:


Yes, I know he should be wearing purple velvet, and the hat needs a very large feather. But still.

But at least I'm not THIS kid's mom:

I think the sippy cup really makes the outfit, don't you?

So, while I may not be the world's best mom, and my daughter may not be wearing the world's best costume, at least being a cowgirl won't put her on the therapist's couch for the rest of her life.

Get candy

If you've ever met me, you know that among my many talents is the ability to carry on entire conversations in movie quotes. You may also know that I am addicted to stand-up comedy to such an extent that I can quote entire routines. Yes, I am aware that this makes me a serious nerd. And you wonder why I'm still single?

So today I am posting something that makes me and my nerdy self happy, whether you like it or not. Actually, now that I think about it, I guess today is no different than any other day.

Anyway, for your holiday enjoyment, here's one of my favorite stand-up comedy bits: Jerry Seinfeld's take on Halloween, costumes and trick-or-treating. This clip is from Jerry's HBO special, I'm Telling You for the Last Time. If you're interested in sharing this with your kids, there's also a picture book based on this routine -- Ellie will be getting her copy from Santa Claus in a few weeks.

So. If you don't like stand-up comedy videos and photos of my adorable kid, you should maybe find another blog to read. Just sayin'.

Happy Halloween!

Bedhead

In honor of Halloween, I give you . . . Medusa.

Random Ramblings

As I write this, it's Thursday night at 11:30, and I'm sitting here contemplating what a long week it's been. The girlchild came down with a fever last Wednesday, which led to a few sleepless nights, and it's just gone downhill from there. Consequently I have no coherent thoughts about which to blog. So if you choose to keep reading, don't say I didn't warn you.

Random observation #1: I got lost on the way to work on Wednesday.

My drive to work involves 35 miles of two-lane road, most of it winding through the farmland of southwest Ohio. For the last few days, the country road in question has been closed for repair, and apparently no one thought it might be important to mark a detour.

I have a very good sense of direction, so I did a pretty good job of finding my own way around the closure. Yay me. But on the third day of this little adventure, I got distracted and missed the turn I should have taken to guide me on my self-detouring path.

No problem, I thought -- I'll turn at the next intersection instead and figure it out from there. So I did, which led to me winding my way through the sticks for about 15 minutes, looking for a left-hand turn that would bring me out onto the main road again, west of the closure. I finally found a road to the left, which I followed for about three miles, only to find that it did indeed deposit me back onto the main road. About 500 feet EAST of the closure. Geography FAIL. Needless to say I was VERY late for work.

Random observation #2: On Thursday I got lost in a neighborhood with three streets. While driving the college president around.

One of my coworkers has H1N1. So when I arrived at work on Wednesday after my little jaunt through the backwoods of Ohio, I was informed that I would be taking her place on a little excursion with the president of the college where I work.

The president does not like to be late, and he does not like to be lost. I wasn't worried, though -- the place I was responsible for driving him was local, and I'd been there many times. It's in a very small little community with three streets. The street I'd be looking for would be the first one on my left. Or so I thought.

It wasn't.

It was the first street OFF of the first street to my left. This I discovered AFTER I had missed my turn and been forced to turn around in the next cul-de-sac. At this point the president looked at me and said "Where exactly are we going?"

Probably not the impression my boss was hoping I would make.

Random observation #3: I learned this week that I can, when necessary, successfully change my clothes in a parking garage.

It's probably best if I don't go into detail about this one. Let's just say I hope there were no security cameras around. If there were, it might have been the biggest laugh the security guys have had in quite some time. But I'm sure they were very impressed by my Yummie Tummie shapewear, which I won from the girls over at Mommin' It Up. Thanks for making me look skinny on camera, ladies.

This post has been brought to you by the letter R (for Random) and by the number 3, which is the maximum number of rational thoughts I can put together right now. By Monday I will attempt to construct some sort of lucid thought process. Until then, carry on.

Wordless Wednesday: Cupcake

Wild . . . cows

My kid is agriculturally impaired.

Which is not surprising, I guess, seeing as how she's being raised by a city slicker like me.

But even I was a little surprised when we pulled up to my friend Susie's house yesterday and Ellie pointed to the horses and yelled "COWS!!"

I'm happy to say that by the time we left, she seemed to know the difference.

Susie introduced my baby to her baby yesterday -- a Rocky Mountain foal named Kismet, who is just six months old. Kismet is the cutest thing EVER -- she followed us around the pasture, put her head on Susie's shoulder, nibbled my jacket just to see if I had any treats in my pockets, and let Ellie sit on her back. Not normal behavior for a six-month-old horse. Her mama is raising her right.

Ellie got a lot of exposure to wildlife this weekend -- in addition to Kismet, Susie has two other horses, three dogs and two cats, all of whom Ellie had to get up close and personal with. And on Saturday, we went to a petting zoo where she encountered goats, cows, sheep, chickens, rabbits and llamas, which she called "mamas." Not sure what she's trying to tell me -- maybe I need a haircut?

Anyway, here's a little glimpse of our wildlife weekend. Thanks to Susie and her cute husband, Greg, for exposing us to wild cows . . . er, horses, and to Huber Family Farm and Winery in Indiana for letting us pick apples, choose pumpkins, pet goats and eat fried chicken. And also for letting Mama buy a much-needed bottle of spiced apple wine.

I love Hoosiers.

This week's sign of the apocalypse

For those of you who were fascinated/repulsed by Nax the sex android, I give you The Doggie Love Doll.

This, my friends, is a sex doll. For your dog.

Some guy in Brazil thought the world needed this product. Apparently his Maltese was:

a) tired of the dating scene in Sao Paulo.

b) single, lonely and about to sign up for eHarmony.

c) giving inappropriate attention to pillows, stufffed animals and the legs of guests.

I just really don't know what to say about this. Insert your own snarky comments here.

Carry on.

Wordless Wednesday: Future Mac User

Children of the Corn

The idea of a corn maze has always freaked me out a little. I know it's a very popular thing to do this time of year, but really, it just doesn't seem sensible to intentionally lose oneself in acres of six-foot-tall corn. Especially when one spent way too much time in college watching Stephen King movies.

However, at the age of almost-40, I am obviously still susceptible to peer pressure, because I spent Sunday afternoon wandering around in a corn maze with some local bloggers, their spouses and several small children.

And it was SO MUCH FUN.

Our good friends Emily and Amy are currently in the process of turning themselves into skinny bitches by following the Weight Watchers plan, which I've done in the past and highly recommend. Count a few points, drop some poundage. What could be easier?

Anyway, Emily has been working with the fine folks at Weight Watchers to promote their Lose for Good campaign, which has so far raised $3.5 million to fight hunger in this country. And since this group will use anything as an excuse for a party, we got together to enjoy the beautiful fall weather, help with a good cause, and lose ourselves in some corn.

Our little soiree was held at Tom's Maze and Pumpkin Farm, where we roasted some hot dogs, enjoyed some City Barbeque, ate some fantastic cookies and tried out some Weight Watchers snacks. And also some s'mores. Not sure how many points were in THOSE.

I've never done a corn maze, and wasn't too sure what to expect. I decided I'd stick close to Emily's group so as not to be the only one who didn't emerge from the maze at the end of the day. Although that could have its advantages: as Amy pointed out, I could get lost in there and starve my way to skinny. Or death.

So off we went, with Emily's husband in the lead.

Did I mention I was pushing a stroller with my two-year-old in it?

The maze is divided into twelve sections, and each one has a mailbox hidden in it somewhere. The goal is to find the mailbox, get out a copy of the puzzle piece within, tape it to the map you're carrying, and come out on the other end with all twelve pieces accounted for. I never did figure out if there was any method to the finding-mailboxes plan, or if we were just randomly stumbling across them, but in the end we found them all and got out alive, for which I was grateful.

You think I'm exaggerating when I say getting out of this thing was hard work? THIS is what it looks like from the air:

Little did I know it when we started, but apparently there's a top-secret aspect to the whole corn maze phenomenon. See, when you find a mailbox, you don't necessarily want others who may be lurking in the corn to KNOW you've found a mailbox. To overcome this little obstacle, Emily's husband invented a code word. When one of us spotted a mailbox, we were to yell out "hootchie mama" so that the others in our party would know. This led to hilarity as half a dozen grown men and women wandered around a cornfield yelling "hootchie mama" at the top of their lungs. It was sort of like Marco Polo:

"Hootchie."

"Mama."

It was also pretty funny when Emily's five-year-old asked her dad to sing a Phish song so that she could find him. How many five-year-olds do YOU know who are Phish fans?

So anyway, we picked out pumpkins, watched Tom's famous pumpkin-chucker cannon shoot a pumpkin half a mile, and generally had a ball.

And Ellie was asleep within seconds of getting in the car.

Thanks to Em, Amy and Weight Watchers for a great day!

Old dogs and new tricks

Opposable thumbs are useful for many things. Typing is not one of them.

This week my Palm Pilot AND my iPod both died. The elderly iPod had been on its deathbed for some time and finally passed away after a slow and painful illness. The Palm, however, came down with a bug and was gone in a matter of days. Maybe it was H1N1.

Not one to wallow in my sorrow, I immediately started looking around for replacements for both devices. I checked out BlackBerrys and new Palms, but it quickly became obvious that the iPod Touch was the only way to go.

So on Monday I got one. I love it, except for one thing. I can't type on it.

As I was sitting in Panera yesterday, checking my email and feeling very high-tech, I realized just how bad my thumb-typing skills are. I could not, for the life of me, type the name of this very website.

wwe.dorotisfrdonnew.con
wqw.dieiritsfordinnet.xom
www.dorotosfordinnew.cin

I think that last one was the closest I ever got.

My Palm Pilot had a stylus. My fingers had to be coordinated enough only to hold a pencil. My iPod had a click wheel -- no need for any typing whatsoever. I'm not sure I can adapt to sending emails with my thumbs.

But I guess it's time to learn. My Palm was six years old and was one of those models that won't let a mere amateur change the battery. It was cheaper to replace it than to pay someone to put a new battery in it. The iPod was second-generation -- the first model to have a click wheel instead of buttons. It was approximately the size of a brick, and was so prehistoric that the clerk at Best Buy actually laughed out loud when I pulled it out of my purse and asked about replacing it.

So now I have but one small device in my purse to replace the two rather large and heavy ones I was carrying around before. I may get cramps in my thumbs, but I think this may cure my lower back trouble.

Wordless Wednesday: The Cowgirl

Family Day Out

When I was a kid, my mom had a habit of planning these family outings that lasted all damn day. Not things like the zoo or a baseball game. Our little excursions usually involved a lot of driving for a dubious pay-off -- what I would call a long run for a short slide. Like having lunch at our favorite barbecue joint -- in Louisville. Or going to a farm to pick our own vegetables -- in southern Indiana. My sister and I started many Saturday mornings with groans of "Oh no! Not Family Day Out!" Even now, Family Day Out is a standing joke -- Mom (or more often, Dad) continues to plan these little adventures and we continue to complain about them. I'm sure it won't be long until our daughters join in the griping.

Then, this weekend, it happened -- my SISTER planned Family Day Out. And I thought she was on MY side.

Sarah arranged for us to go to a local amusement park for a fall festival, which, in spite of our jokes and complaints, was actually a lot of fun.

First we rode some rides:

Then we made friends with a donkey:

Then we rode ponies:

And got tattoos:

The tattoo process took a while -- Dad pointed out that they could have gotten it done faster in prison.

My mom is happy to have passed the Family Day Out crown to my sister, and I'm happy someone is still planning these silly outings. If there were no Family Day Out, what would Ellie and my nieces have to complain about?

BTW, my brother-in-law was sad that he missed the neighborhood block party in order to attend Family Day Out. I told him block parties were highly overrated and that he probably only missed out on being insulted by his neighbors.

Next week's outing: The Saurkraut Festival . . .

Watching the grass grow

As I have shared with you before, I live in a neighborhood where lawn care is a competitive sport, and I am losing. I moved into my house in March, got sod in May, and had a yard full of dead brown grass by July. Since then, sections of the yard have taken root and are now actually green. Other sections, not so much.

The entire strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb? Dead. And full of weeds. BIG weeds that are often mistaken for saplings. In addition to this lovely bit of landscaping, the rest of the front yard seems to grow in uneven spurts – a section of foot-high prairie grass next to something that looks like a transplanted strip of the Mohave Desert. It’s really quite a nice little ecosystem I’ve got going. Emily’s husband is a biology teacher – maybe he’s looking for a field trip destination for his students.

Anyway, remember the neighbor who was so appalled by my grass that he gave me a Leisure Lawn gift certificate? Well, a couple weeks ago that gift certificate assisted me in hiring some guys to poke holes all over my yard. I must admit I didn’t see the point of this little endeavor at the time – all it did was leave little dirt plug/faux turd things all over my yard, which only added to its great beauty. But now I’m beginning to see why a yard full of holes might have been a good idea.

My sick and sad little lawn is actually producing some grass.

Apparently the lawn guys put grass seed in those holes, and now my yard is sprouting tiny little hair plugs of grass. It looks disturbingly like the plastic head on a cheap doll. Or a bad hair transplant. But it’s GRASS, I tell you.

Since we’ve had a monsoon in my area recently, I decided I’d help things along by spreading some additional grass seed on the nice soggy ground. So now, when you look outside, there's a faint tinge of green over the mud-colored dead sod. You can't see actual grass between the hair plugs -- just a green haze. But I’m sure photosynthesis is taking place AS WE SPEAK.

So what prompted me to get all energetic and spread grass seed with my very own hands? A fine question, since you know how I loathe anything resembling yard work. Well, let me tell you exactly what drove me to the breaking point.

On Saturday, I attended a neighborhood block party. I know the people on my end of my street, but I thought it might be nice to meet some folks in the rest of the neighborhood. So I’m standing around, eating a hot dog and hobnobbing with all these people, and I introduce myself to a guy who lives a couple streets over and has a daughter Ellie’s age. He asks where I live.

“I’m up on Main Street,” I say, pointing vaguely in the direction of my house.

“Oh yeah,” he says, “on the corner as you enter the subdivision.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I say.

“You’re the one with the scrubby grass,” he says. “We ALL know who YOU are.”

Have I mentioned that I don’t plan to attend any more neighborhood functions?

So, being the fine example of a parent that I am, I have allowed peer pressure to push me into improving my lawn. When I really should have said “Just say NO to grass.”

I discussed this little incident with Emily, who said maybe I should consider some Brady-esque Astroturf, or perhaps a rock garden of some sort involving cactus and driftwood.

I don’t think the neighbors would approve.