Oh, Poop.

I had the Morning From Hell today. And it started out so well. That's always when your day can crash the hardest - when it starts out well. Really, where else is there for it to go but down?

I got up early (for once!), I had time to shower, eat a breakfast (!!!), style my hair, put on makeup, wash the bottles I had neglected last night. I ironed my work pants, which I almost never do. I even got bored enough to put on the shirt that I planned to wear. But I put on pj bottoms instead of my freshly pressed pants. After all, I'm not a madwoman. I know what can go wrong with work clothes if you have small children to deal with.

After all this? The girls were still sleeping. I was going to have to wake them up if we were going to leave the house on time. People? Waking up your children? It never bodes well. Never.

I got Sosie up, changed her, dressed her, fed her, burped her. I woke Scarlett up. She stumbled through going potty in her groggy, punch-drunk way. She needs time to fully wake up, much like myself. While I was supervising Scarlett's pottying? Sosie made a dirty diaper. For the past few days she has gotten into an annoying schedule of pooping right before we have to leave, which means I have to stop everything and change her, and leave later than I hoped to. Ugh.

I decided since no poop appeared to be spilling out of her diaper, she could wait until Scarlett was all finished and wiped and clean-hands...ded. After a few minutes, though, Sosie grew pretty heavy in my arms and she started to slide down. I had to pull her back up to a more comfortable grip. All that maneuvering was making me nervous for her diaper, most likely precariously full. I decided to go change her after all, and leave Scarlett to her own devices.

When I laid Sosie down to change her? There was big green smear of poop up the front of her onesie. So that meant... I looked down. Yep. An identical smear. On me. On the shirt I was planning to wear today. Sigh.

I strip her, change her. It requires a lot of baby wipes. Pretty soon after I start? I realize that I have to go to the bathroom now. Like, desperately have to. Now.

But I have way more Sosie-wiping to do. I can't leave her in a mess, or without a new diaper, or she'll pee all over the floor, or worse. But if I don't get to the bathroom in T-minus-five seconds? I might pee all over the floor. Or worse.

I manage to rush through getting her into a fresh diaper just fast enough that I make it to the bathroom. Then, Scarlett, sensing vulnerability the way only a toddler can, bursts into the bathroom to see what Mommy is up to. She is up in my face, asking me questions and trying to sneak a peek at my lady business to see what I'm doing on the potty. I have a rather hostile conversation with her about how people like privacy in the bathroom. Of course, she has no idea what privacy is. Because I have none. So I have to explain that to her, too. Sigh.

The rest of the morning? Occurs in a complete shambles. Once you've had a poop-smear situation? It is way hard to reclaim your day. Sigh.

Since we are talking about poop anyway? I have another story for you. All fresh!

The other night, Michael and I are sitting on the couches. I have Sosie, I think I have just fed her, and now she is happily sitting in my lap. Scarlett is off playing. A happy family tableau.

I notice Sosie is pooping. I am all smiles. Sometimes she worries me, makes me wonder if she might be constipated and cranky. When she poops? That means she will sleep great. All smiles.

All of a sudden? I notice that her diaper is not containing this awesome bowel effort. Not at all. There is baby poop making a trail from her diaper, down my pants, and onto the couch. Lovely.

I start laughing and going, "Uhhh... babe?" Michael notices what is happening. Michael cannot abide the thought of bodily fluids of any kind. He makes horrified, revolted faces and leaves the room. I'm all, "Hey! I need some help here!" I can't move for fear of spreading the stuff everywhere.

Michael's all, "I know!" and reappears to toss me a towel.

I have to clean it up, but the towel is not really... containing the mess. Then there's Michael, helpfully pointing out that the poop is the exact same color as my shirt. Suddenly he is obsessed with getting a picture of this weird natural phenomenon. He flashes away with the camera on his phone. I'm like, "You are not publishing those."

Finally I am able to get up and take Sosie to the bathroom, for a bath. While I am in there? I am burst in upon, with children hoping to sneak a peek at whether there is still poop all over both of us. I may or may not scream something about going to your room, minding your own business, and shutting the damn door.

Sheesh. When did pooping become such a spectator sport? And please, god... when will it end?

How to Treat Your Library Book

1. Go ahead and write in it.

Librarians love to see you take pride in your borrowed books by branding your name in them. Also, those witty little comments and drawings really improve the reading experience. And if you're using the book to study? All of that underlining and highlighting will be super helpful to whoever reads the book after you. They're bound to find the same passages useful, aren't they? Really, you're providing a service. Keep doing it.

2. Take it in the tub with you.

We all like to unwind after a long, hard day with a hot bath and a good book. Why worry about getting your library book sudsy? It's not like anybody's going to notice that all of the pages have dried looking like someone crumpled them up into a ball and then smoothed them out again all while they were still attached to the spine. Borrowed books get a lot of wear and tear, right? It's not like you can't still read it.

3. Give it to your dog as a chew toy.

Librarians get it; new chew toys are a hard-to-justify expense these days. Plus they're annoyingly squeaky. Never fear - your dog can have oodles of fun chewing the corners of a library book! And if anybody gets all huffy when you turn it in with tiny holes in all four corners? Just be like, "Duuuude. Only the cover is chewed. The cover's the least important part!" They'll be so impressed with your logic, they'll totally waive those pesky replacement fees. Probably.

4. Don't bother with a bookmark.

Who uses bookmarks anymore? Lame! It's so much easier to dog-ear/fold the entire right-hand flap/fold the whole page in half. Or you could just like, circle the page number in pen. Other people can use your stopping points as theirs, too. Plus also? You should definitely lick your finger every time you turn a page. Those little wrinkly perfect circles your slobbery digits leave behind? Just prove that it's worth it to finish the book. If one person bothered to read it all the way through, then everyone should, right?

5. Use them to store your loose photos, opened mail, receipts, and notes you and your friend passed back-and-forth during Social Studies.

Books are the perfect place to stash all those loose papers that you just don't know what to do with right at that moment. You probably won't completely forget that you put them there and then return all of those personal things to the library along with your book.

And the librarians probably won't find all of those things and then be privy to that photo someone took of you while you were dressed up like a chicken and getting bombed out of your mind (Please say that was Halloween. Even though no one else in the picture seems to be in costume. Please?) or that note you were writing with your friend where you talk about how Amber is such a slut because she hooked up with Casey at that party and someone should totally kick her ass.

And probably no one would think to take those amusing, forgotten things and post them up somewhere like, say, FOUND, for all to see. Probably they would just put them in Lost and Found box. You're totally golden! Phew.

Your Daily Dose of Scarlett

In the car, after picking up the girls from my sister's house.

Me, noting that Scarlett is still wearing the Little House on the Prairie-inspired dress that she begged me to wear this morning but that my sister declared was ugly: "Did Manda try to make you change your dress?"

Scarlett: "Change my dress?"

Me: "Yeah. Did she ask you to put on a different outfit?"

Scarlett: "No. I wouldn't want to change myself."



At home, Scarlett comes strolling into the living room with her little art desk stool, which I have previously confiscated because she won't stop standing on it to get to things that should be out of her reach.

Me: "Where did you get that?"

Scarlett freezes in that wide-eyed look that suggests she knows she is about to get in trouble and perhaps should have engaged in sneakier methods. "Um, I got it." Classic evasion.

Me: "Who told you you could get that? Did you ask Mommy if you could have it?"

Scarlett: "Um, I'm asking now?"



At home, Scarlett is mad because she has been told it's time to get ready for bed. She is all mean eyebrows and frowny. Michael is being silly with her, trying to get her in a better mood about getting ready for bed.

Michael: "Let's see your happy face! Happy face, Scarlett!"

Scarlett: "No!"

Michael: "Why are you so mad? Why are you making a mad face?"

Scarlett: Sigh. "Because I'm frustrated!"

Michael and Me: **snorting and giggling**

Scarlett gets up and stomps down the hallway toward the bathroom. "You guys are making me so frustrated!"

Michael and Me: **Snort. Giggle!**

AVON Ladies Are Full of Sorcery. Fact.

One of our customers is an Avon lady. She likes to bring us her catalogs and occasionally, a free sample. The other day? She brought us exactly that. Catalogs, and a free sample. Score!

I took the pile of goodies back to the workroom, where New Person (hereafter referred to as "NP") was working. I set the stuff on the counter and opened the free sample box to see what delights it had to offer. Two kinds of face creams! Yesssss! I dug out a tiny vacuum-sealed pouch of each to take home.

Before I could stash it all in my purse? I noticed a different customer needed assistance, and went out to, you know, work. When I came back? I didn't see the freebies on the counter anymore. I started looking around, all puzzled.

Suddenly NP, who was looking through one of the catalogs, asked me: "Do you know who the Avon lady is?"

Me: "Sure, it's ________."

NP: "Have you seen her?"

Me: "Uh... yes."

Other Coworker who had joined us in the workroom: "Oh, I knew her name but I don't know who she is."

Me: "She comes in all the time."

NP: "Do y'all know..." (drops her voice to a whisper) "...she's a witch?"

Me: "Snort."

NP, all wide-eyed: "I mean, that's what somebody else told me. That she practices witchcraft."

Me, with not much conviction: "Well, I don't know. Maybe she does."

Meanwhile, I am thinking how very unlikely this is. And also? I am wondering why there is such scandalized belief that a witch might be among us. Do people really believe in witches?

I am suddenly remembering how, around the fifth grade that (awesome!) movie The Craft came out, and a friend and I went to go see it and decided it would be funny to claim that we were witches, and how it seemed to be a big deal to the other kids in our school that we might be practicing sorcery on them, and that still to this day if one of those former classmates in particular sees me, he will whisper-scream "Wiiiiiiitch!" into my ear while no one else is paying attention.

Then I reconsider. How does the Avon lady always seem to know when I am wishing for a free sample? And an entire box of said free samples completely vanished when I left them alone for five seconds. Freaky.

The verdict? Avon ladies are full of sorcery. Fact.

I Write Like...

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Hunh. I had never heard of this Cory Doctorow. But if I write like him? And he has, according to Amazon, many published novels? I am way encouraged. And also? He must be an awesome writer. Snort.

"I Enjoy 'Erotica' If That's What You Mean." UPDATED!

I have tried to write this post so many times. But it always came off weird and creepy. So I always ended up deleting it. But it always has that title. Because that is an awesome quote from one of the awesomest shows ever made.

If you know where it comes from, and you have not cheated with Google and your name is not Heather? You are so awesome. Well, Heather is awesome, too. But I know that she knows the answer. She is like that annoying kid in class, when the teacher asks a question, and she is waving her arm around wildly because she knows it. And everyone knows that she knows it, including the teacher. But the teacher is looking for someone else to contribute, and the waving goes on, ignored. (Heather? You are not annoying. That kid? Way annoying. Just to be clear.)

So why am I posting it this time? Why is it not sitting forlornly in the Recycle Bin, wishing bitterly that it was just as pretty as all my other posts? Because I thought of a new angle. An angle which I am hoping is much less weird and creepy.

I recently started another attempt at a novel. I never tell people what my stories are about while I'm writing them. When I have made this mistake in the past? It always came out sounding incredibly stupid. And then? Because I had told someone the story? That powerful urge to write the story, to get it out on paper and really make it come alive, just sort of fades away.

But I was daydreaming, as I always do, about completing this novel. And getting it published. And having people buy it. And having things like an author website, and signings, and Q & A's with my eager readers. People always want to know where you get your ideas. Especially where you got the idea for that particular book. Errr... next question, please?

I got the idea for my story from an erotic fiction book. Yep. My tame, young adult-oriented story. From erotica. Yep.

I don't usually read that genre of books. But lots of people do. I have worked with books before. And those books? They fly off the shelves. So a couple weeks ago, I saw one of these books on a shelf. I wondered what all the fuss was about, so I read the back cover. The summary sounded interesting enough. So I got it, took it home, and read it.

The story? Really pissed me off. Basically, it's about this guy and this girl. They are stepbrother and stepsister (their parents married when they were older, like teenagers, but they had known each other for a long time.) The guy and the girl were attracted to each other, but the guy was inappropriately older than the girl, so he went into the Navy to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. This is all backstory, by the way. When the book begins, the guy is finally coming home from the Navy, and he expects to finally "claim" his girl, who is no longer jailbait. Except that while he was gone, the girl was victimized by a crazy stalker dude, and is now terrified of men in general. Which really puts a kink in the guy's manly claiming plans.

So the guy decides that the way to cure her of her fear? Is to get her to have a foursome with him and his cousins. Snort. Are you kidding me?! Really? REALLY??? I'm not even sure why I finished reading it. Oh, wait. I know why. Because if you dangle the possibility of a "devil's foursome" involving blood-related cousins in front of me? I am so going to find out whether it happens.

So, back to my original problem. Since there is no possible way I can explain that book, or even mention that book, in any sort of combination with my book (if it ever gets published, or heck, completed)? I will have to lie. I will go with that whole spiel about how ideas come from everywhere and you can find inspirations wherever you look. Maybe that's why authors have come up with that stock response. So that their readers don't know that the first, small kernel of their story came from a book with a WARNING label on the back of it.

The book that I read is part of a series. And even though it really pissed me off, with its incredibly asinine plot? I had to really stop myself from reading the other books the next time I saw them. You know, just to see if they were all that terrible.

Does anyone else have these kinds of imaginary problems?

[Editor's Note: I have no idea whether "Devil's Foursome" is the correct term for an orgy involving one girl and three guys. I know a Devil's Threesome is two guys and one girl, so I thought it would follow that the addition of one more penis would still be devilish. But when I Googled all these terms, the Urban Dictionary contradicted me with a term that, when I Googled it, did not match their definition. Eventually I grew weary of Googling pornographic terms and left my post the way it was. Italic sighs.]

UPDATE: If y'all have not been reading the comments? You so should. My genius friend Amanda just schooled me on coining pornographic terms (but to be fair, she reads a lot more, uh, "erotica" than I do.) From here forth? A sex orgy involving three guys and one girl will be called a "Devil's Pitchfork." I'm sure I'll find a reason to use it. 

The Kitchen Sink, Vol. Seven: Excuses, Excuses

So... I haven't posted much this past week. I wish I had a really concrete reason. Something like, I was incapacitated due to a coma and the first thing I thought of when I woke up was that I had to get back here and publish a new post. That would be pretty hard to get upset with me about. I was in a coma. You can't argue with comas.

But that isn't really the reason I've been silent. It's a combination of lots of stupid, small things - crying babies, sassy toddlers, general ineptitude, poor time management... things like that.

So one of my coworkers was asking me the name of my blog yesterday. And I was all, "What? Why?" And she told me that another one of my coworkers had been raving about it and that she wanted to go check it out. First of all? That is way sweet. Second of all? Ack!

I love getting new readers. Love. But when they know me in some other capacity? It is way nerve-wracking. Suddenly I was wishing I had listened to Michael about the swearing. Oops.

So the Old Spice Guy? He is way popular. He's been taking questions on Twitter and answering them via short, personalized videos. Since y'all are more "with it" than I am (especially since the cool kids don't say "with it") you probably already know about all this. But it gives me an excuse to post up a video. Yessssss!



I'm not sure who Kevin Rose is, but "aplusk" is Twitter legend Ashton Kutcher. The bad news? Apparently, Old Spice Guy won't be answering any more questions. Bummer.

This morning? Scarlett asked me if she could have some "chocolate penises." I was like, "What?" And she repeated it. Penises. Hmmm. "Do you mean peanut butter cookies?" I asked. She nodded enthusiastically. See, I bought this box of assorted snack pack cookies. There are mini Oreos, mini Chips Ahoy, and mini Nutter Butters. Scarlett usually asked for chocolate cookies (hierarchy being Oreo, then Chips Ahoy) but sadly we had run out of chocolate, and only had Nutter Butter left. So she had started to ask me for chocolate cookies, then realized she needed to ask for peanut butter, and somehow that all added up to "chocolate penises." Freud? Your thoughts?

I sorta kinda promise to get back to my regular posting schedule, which involved making at least three posts a week on completely random days and then Sunday. You're welcome.

Memory Keeper's Daughters

I keep two journals. Neither one is for me.

They are for my daughters. In them, I talk about their milestones, their personalities, what they do that makes me laugh - all of those special things that a baby book can't capture (although we have those, too.) I have this idea of giving these journals to them when they've reached a certain age - what that age is, I still haven't decided - so that they can read not only what they were like when they were little, but also what I was like. The things I want them to know. Morbidly, if I were to pass away, it would be a way for them to remember me and hear my voice.

I was writing in those journals at least once a month. And then? I started this blog. And recently I began yet another attempt at a novel. I'm sure you can guess what I'm going to say next... Time is money, an illusion, the fire in which we burn. There is never enough of it and it can never be caught. Blah, blah, blah.

It's probably been two months since I wrote something in either one of those journals. Always, in the back of my mind, there is guilt. It seeps into the edges of everything, turning them sulfury yellow. Guilt burns.

A few days ago, Scarlett started singing. She had dragged out the microphones that we have that connect to the Xbox, and she was singing every song she knew. And when I looked at her I thought, I want to remember this forever. I didn't want to ruin it by trying to capture it on video. I wanted to burn it into a permanent spot in my brain, sear it there so well that I would see it when I closed my eyes, an afterimage of a moment that shone bright enough to hurt my eyes.

I memorized the way she looked: pajamas, shorts and a shirt, decorated with birds, stars, hearts. There was a blue and white-striped barrette in her hair, and she had plastic "jewel" rings on her fingers, and her tiny toenails were painted soft pink. She was like me at her age, but already bolder, singing out with no background tape, and so proud of herself.

Already I have lost so much of this memory. It's dull now; I had to think hard to remember the small details, like the barrette and the rings. I just remembered she had on a plastic necklace with pearls and a blue high heel (Cinderella's glass slipper) that had a little button and you would hear, "Hello! I'm Cinderella" whenever you pressed it. See? Little pieces are just slipping away.

I wonder how much I will remember of that moment in two weeks? A month? And I made a conscious effort to remember. By the time I get around to writing in those journals again, I will have forgotten whole months, I'm sure. When exactly did Sosie start smiling? When did she first sleep through the night? Those moments are blanks to me now; mysteries that can't be solved, only conjectured.

I know how fast this time goes. I want desperately to hold onto it. I'll need these memories when the girls are older, absorbed in friends and boys, no longer begging me to stay home from work because they don't want me to go but, more probably, hoping I would just go and get out of their faces, already. Sigh.

At least I will have something tangible, something to hold in my hands and read and remember. Those journals? They are for me. They're for them, of course - but they're also for me.

The Kitchen Sink, Vol. Six

Right now? I am having lemonade and chocolate birthday cake. Mmm. The cake says, "Happy Birthday Boss!" Obviously, the cake is not for me. But it is the perfect cake for the hubs, whose childhood ambition was to be "the boss." Not a doctor, lawyer, veterinarian... just "the boss."

I spent the weekend with my mom and baby sister, who had driven all the way from Ohio to see my girls. I really wish we lived closer to my parents, but I so do not want to live in a state where they actually have winter. Here? It can snow one day, and be back up to seventy degrees three days later. Now that's what I call weather!

My new mix CD includes a couple of songs that made me feel uber-young again, and scarily, I remembered nearly every word of them. What else is stored in the nether regions of my brain? Heh. Nether regions. Heh, heh. I have read a funny mystery series set in England, and in these books? Whenever the main character goes into the back of her house to look for something, leaving another person in the front room? She is described as going into "the nether regions" of the house. It always makes me giggle and highly anticipate seeing just what she is going to come out of those nether regions with. A flashlight? A rain slicker? Matches?

On a similar note, my husband is cheering on the Netherlands in the World Cup. Why? Not because he really cares about soccer. But because it's the nether lands. This sort of thing really affirms my belief that I married my best friend. I am way lucky! Happy Birthday again, babe!

Now here are those two songs I was rocking out to on my way home. Please don't judge me. I was young. Ish.


Unfortunately (???) I couldn't post the "official video" because I couldn't find one with the "embed" code enabled. Sigh. (It's "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls, in case you don't know.)


"No Scrubs" by TLC. This song? Way fun to blast with your windows down when you are out cruising for guys. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

"Los Liiiiiiinks!!!" or, Choosing a New Blog Theme

Since discovering my younger sister's blog, I have watched her change her blog theme about a bajillion times. (So like, five.) I decided I wanted to change my theme, too. This split-second decision? Resulted in hours of Internet surfing and tinkering for me. Hours.

I scanned lists of "the best" downloadable blog themes. I spent a lot of time going, "Ooooh, pretty!" If "pretty" had been my only criteria? I would have been done with the whole thing in five minutes. Sometimes being superficial is an asset, y'all.

1. Your Theme Should "Match" Your Blog Content

This is kind of a biggie. It's what caused me the most grief when deciding which theme I wanted. The themes with simple color blocking and lots of white space seemed best suited for business or news blogs. The ones with lots of color and edgy designs seemed like they were for fashion or music blogs. The ones with lots of pink and swirls and stars seemed too cutesy for a blog that includes swearing.

Which led me to the bigger question - what is my blog really about? It definitely isn't business-like or newsworthy. It isn't just about parenting. It isn't a humor blog despite my sporadic success at being humorous. What kind of blog is this? What am I doing? Why am I here?

Existential crises are not pretty at two in the morning.

2. Black Background and White Writing? No. Just, No.

Yes, those themes look cool. Way cool. But they can get really tedious to read. Eyestrain is a problem, y'all. I feel your hipster pain, though. I totally fell in love with this theme when I first saw it.

But unless you are an actual vampire? Blogging about how hard it is to find quality blood? No. Just, no.

3. Does It Have All of the Features You Need?

How I wish that Future Me had gone back in time to warn me about this. Sigh.

You don't want to download a theme, download an archiver, unzip your theme file, upload it to your site, and then find out that the theme doesn't have all the stuff you want. Sure you can add widgets and tweak the HTML, but unless you're programming-savvy? You'll be doing lots of Googling and lots of sighing. Or groaning. Or whining. Or growling. Or shaking your fist in the air and screaming, "Los liiiinks!" like that guy in the "Yo tengo Bing" commercials. Or all of the above.

In short, take some things into consideration before you go all willy-nilly changing your blog. Unless, you know, you're my sister. Ha!

Thumbsucker

I am pretty sure Sosie is teething.

How do I know, you ask? Because she keeps gnawing on my hands like a new puppy. Every time I am holding her, she chews and chews and chews on my hand - fingers, sidepalm, knuckles, whatever - and makes little dissatisfied growly noises when her gums aren't gnawing to her satisfaction and she has to readjust. After about five seconds of this my hand is dripping with slobber. Awesome.

We have teethers. But Sosie is so not interested. I don't think Scarlett ever was either. She would much rather chew her fists, her blankets, or Mommy's hands. I was holding Sosie the other night, giggling at her hand-gnawing growliness, when I said to Michael, "Hey. They should make a fake hand teether. So babies can gnaw on hands without it being your actual hand."

Michael gave me that smirk and nod, the one that is supposed to convey to me that I am an adorable genius while he is really thinking I am such a moron that I must be humored or I might fly into a rage. I am all pleased at my adorable geniosity. I think about my... Finger-Teether? Hand-Gnawer? GnawPalm? Whatever, that's what people hire marketing firms for.

I imagine little babies clutching their teethers happily. They will look like they have their very own Thing from The Addams Family. Goth parents will go wild. I'll win over the masses with a glowing review in Parents magazine.

Only one thing is left to do on my path to inventive greatness: Google it and make sure it doesn't already exist.

Damn.

Why?

Why am I always the one who has to "pull ahead" and wait for my fries? I know all those people behind me ordered fries. Why do they get their fries on time? That is not how "first come, first served" works.

Why would I rather run the same dish through the dishwasher five times than put in the five seconds of actual work it would take for me to scrub off the dried-on food by hand?

Why when I decide to get up earlier to get things done without the kids do the kids magically wake up earlier too?

Why does having a new haircut and starting to wear makeup make me more self-conscious about my looks than when I didn't make any effort?

Why does my car break down/a huge bill comes up/all hell breaks loose right before tax time?

Stylin'

The downside of having a cute new haircut? Not knowing how to friggin' style it.

I come from the hair school of Fuck-I-Have-Five-Minutes-to-Shower-and-Get-Dressed-How-About-Braided-Pigtails. Sometimes I liked to mix it up with a bun. When I envisioned having short hair? I thought, Hey. It will be shorter. It won't take so long to dry. I will have plenty of time to blow-dry it and it will look awesome!

But somehow I always forget that the "awesome" I leave the salon with? I will not be able to recreate. I will manage something that looks more like "probably a monkey did not style my hair today."

I remember several years ago, the last time that I got a cute, shorter haircut. I went to work fresh from the salon. My coworkers were in awe. "Look at her! She looks like a rock star! Doesn't she look like a rock star?" I was all aw-shucks-shrugs, but secretly I was way self-congratulatory. I do look like a rock star, I thought. I will have rock star hair every day! I am so money!

The next day, when I went to work? There was silence. See, I had woken up with all the product in my hair making it stick up like Goku from Dragonball Z. I'd had no choice but to wash it. I thought I had approximated my salon look pretty well, but I was soon corrected. A girl we'll call Serena took one look at my hair and snorted. "Jesus. You'd think when they gave you a new haircut they would have shown you how to fucking style it."

I burned with shame. The fact that Serena herself had hair like a meth head who'd just been busted on COPS only made me feel slightly better. Sigh.

So this time? I went as long as possible without washing my hair, so that I could keep that just-styled flavah. Then came the moment of truth. I had to style it myself. Even though I did not have the round brush and the two extra hands I really needed? It seemed to turn out okay.

By the end of the day, though, my hair had started to puff up like a Q-tip. My "side bangs" were not staying to the side. After sleeping on it? I looked like a hot mess. But as so often happens to a mother of multiple young children? I did not have time to wash and re-style before I had to leave the house to run errands. I spent my entire trip to Walmart furiously brushing my bangs to the side, smoothing my hair, and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. I probably looked like I had OCD. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So today, I knew I had to try again. I broke out the smoothing cream, the heat styling serum, the hair spray, the hair dryer, and the flat iron. And I have to say? I totally redeemed myself. I guess that's what I needed five years ago - four more styling products.

The Kitchen Sink, Vol. Five

After last week's Kitchen Sink? I told myself that I was going to start the next post and just keep adding to it as the week went on, whenever I thought of something funny, so that it wouldn't turn out all lame. Yeah. That didn't happen.

Things I Should Have Named My Blog But Wasn't Smart Enough to Come Up With:

1. Fuck yeah, motherhood!

2. Didn't I Feed You Yesterday?

3. MuffintopLess (Except that that would be a lie.)


StumbleUpon showed me Sketch Swap, where you draw a picture on the screen (just like MS Paint), and then you get a new picture drawn by someone else. My picture? Way lame. The picture I got? Awesome! (Sorry, Internet stranger. I draw like an elephant on crack... not very well.)

These new Geico commercials, where they compare the likelihood that their company can save you money to some other well-known certainty, are getting really clever. This one featuring Abraham Lincoln? So funny.


 I wish I had more, but as I said, I procrastinated yet again, and now I'm trying to hurry out the door to enjoy some Fourth of July fun with my friends. I'll miss y'all so much - but I hope you're having fun, too!

Happy Fourth of July, everyone!

Short Cuts

It's funny how much a woman's self-confidence is tied up in her hair. If you are having a good hair day? You feel awesome. Even just a t-shirt and jeans makes you feel sexy. You are gorgeois. If you are having a bad hair day? The cutest outfit in the world will not make you feel pretty. It's all about the hair.

I've even noticed a difference in how customers respond to me at work based on how I have styled my hair. Ponytail? Meh. All down, like a blanket around my face? Meh. Half-up, half-down? More smiles, more small talk, more sales. Braided pigtails? They love me. "You look so cute with your hair like that," they'll say. "I just love your hair!" Braided pigtails it is, then! Besides, it means I can roll out of bed at the very last minute.

When I was little? Mom kept my hair short. Chin-length (or shorter) with blunt bangs. Possibly the worst haircut someone with a square face could have. And she would curl my bangs for special occasions, and my forehead would always get burned. Every. Time. The day Mom got married, when I was fiveish? I had a curling Iiron barrel-shaped burn so bad that it scabbed over. Thank goodness my fluff of hairsprayed bangs covered it for the pictures! To this day, I cannot see a curling iron without getting a little nervous.

As a teen and now adult [Yeah, I think you better put that in quotes.] okay, "adult," I have kept my hair long, no bangs, with a few, sometimes disastrous exceptions. I get bored, I get the urge to get it cut, I pore over hairstyle magazines, looking for one shortish cut that will look perfect on me. I usually got it wrong. I would leave the hair salon with a smile plastered on my face so the stylist wouldn't feel bad. After all, they had given me what I asked for. But I would hate it and feel ugly until it started to grow out.

Summers in the South? Will make you yearn for short hair no matter how bad it looks on you. Around the end of May, I was dying to get my hair cut. I made the appointment. I perused magazines. Glamour came to me in the mail with an article titled, "The Haircut That Will Change Your Life." Yessss. It was like an omen.

I chose my haircut, but I was nervous. It was a bit shorter than I wanted to go. It had bangs. There were opportunities for disaster. But when I showed my hairdresser? She gasped. "Megan, I love that! It is so cute!" Sold.

And she was right. It is cute. I love it. My history with short cuts? Rewritten. And I am so saving that magazine picture.

You Down With O.P.P.P.? (Other People's Pee-Pees)

Since Scarlett has shown so much interest in other people's pee-pees, I thought the time was right to give her her first lesson in Stranger Danger. The "No One But You and Mommy Are Allowed to Touch Your Pee-Pee" lesson.

She seemed to "get it" right away. When I question her, she proudly shouts out the answers.

Me: "What do you say if someone wants to touch your pee-pee?"

Scarlett: "Noooooooo!"

Me: "Right! And then what do you do?"

Scarlett: "I run and tell Mommy and Daddy."

Awesome! But I still wondered how much it was really sinking in. She just turned three. How much can she really understand? Would she really tell us if, God forbid, it happened? I worried. Until last night.

I was sitting on the living room floor, changing Sosie's diaper, and Scarlett was right next to me. She was talking, as she always is, and then she said, "Mommy, somebody touched my pee-pee."

I froze. "Who touched your pee-pee?" I held my breath. Was it really possible the worst had happened? Already?

"Um, baby sister."

Wait, what? Then I realized. Sosie had been windmilling her hands around, the way she always does, and her little baby hand must have brushed against Scarlett. "She didn't mean to, honey," I said, fighting back giggles. I looked up at Michael, that smirking, raised-eyebrow look we give each other when Scarlett has no idea how cute or funny something she's just said is.

"That's very good that you told us," Michael managed to say.

Oh. Right. Praise. "Yes, very good," I said. Inward giggles.

Recently, she has been asking to see Michael's pee-pee again. I finally did what I've been promising her, and got her a book that would show her the difference between boys and girls. I read it to her this afternoon, and it could not have been a bigger hit. She proudly pointed out the pee-pees and booties, and repeated new words, like "testicles." She wasn't too interested in the part about how babies are made, so we skipped over that part.

"Mommy, can you read my pee-pee story?"
"You have to read my pee-pee story!"
"Mommy, read me my pee-pee story!!!"

Apparently, I have to go now. Someone wants to learn about pee-pees.