And so it begins. . . .

Fortunately, I actually managed to make it INTO the ladies' room at the Iconic American Company before horfing my breakfast.

Fucking estrogen.

Mango chutney

is so very yummy. 

As long as I can distract myself from the fact that it looks like ear wax.

Diva, are they hiring at your store?

I'm currently sporting the following ailments:

1. Matching bruises the size of fists on both my right and left thighs, from carrying a carseat through an airport.

2. A muscle spasm between my shoulders that feels like I'm being stabbed with a knife coated in salt.

3. A shooting pain through my ear, throat, and cheek that could be strep, but is probably just a clogged salivary gland.

Pity me. 

My day thus far. . . .

5:45  Small Child wakes up and crawls into bed with me.
5:47  Small Child kicks me.
5:47:30 Small Child whacks me in the head with her elbow.
5:52 Small Child pries my eyelids open with her fingernails.
5:53  Small Child settles in to watch Noggin while I try to sleep on the couch.
5:55  Small Child announces, "Me watch Dowa!"  Dora does not come on for several hours.
5:55:10 Small Child annouces, "Me watch Dowa!"
5:55:15 Small Child announces, "Me watch Dowa!"
5:55:20 Small Child announces, "Me watch Dowa!"

8:00 Dino Boy wakes up.
8:01  Small Child pitches a fit because Dino Boy is near her.
Repeat at random five-minute intervals until I stop snarling and start actively hating child.

12:01 Small Child eats lunch. 
12:01:30 Small Child announces she needs to "poop onna potty."
12:01:35  Small Child passes gas loudly, once.
12:10 Small Child has exhausted song repertoire.  Still has not pooped.  Announces, "Me all done."
12:20 Small Child goes down for nap.  I blog to keep from going insane.

WHY do I want to do this again?

At least I'm teaching her common sense.

So, I picked up the Small Child from school yesterday.  On our way home, two motorcyclists were at a stoplight in front of us.  They were wearing jeans, flip-flops, tank-tops, and no helmets (Wisconsin, land of idiots and Harley-Davidson, does not have a mandatory helmet law).

We had the following conversation:

SC: Mumma, what dose mans doin'?
VG: They're riding motorcycles.  But they're not being very safe.
SC: No safe, Mumma?
VG: Nope.  When you wear a motorcycle, you should always wear long pants, a heavy jacket, boots or thick shoes, and a helmet, so you don't get hurt.
SC: An' no fall down, Mumma.
VG: Right.  That would work too.

A mini-script with Small Child and Mother-in-Law

Scene: Mother-in-law's bathroom.  MIL is "putting on her face" while very blonde Small Child looks on.
 
Small Child: Dwamma, whatchoo doin?
MIL: I'm putting on lotion.
Small Child: Me put it on, too.
[MIL gives Small Child a miniscule quantity of lotion. Small Child rubs it into her face.]
Small Child: Dwamma, whatchoo doin?
MIL: I'm putting on powder.
SC: Me do it, too.
[MIL gives Small Child powder puff, sans powder. Small Child "applies" it.]
Small Child: Dwamma, whatchoo doin?
MIL: I'm plucking my eyebrows.
Small Child: Me pluck me eyebwows, too!
[MIL gives Small Child flat-edged tweezers.  Small Child stares into mirror for a good, long minute.]
Small Child: Dwamma?  Where me eyebrows?

Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair! Hair-hair-hair!

I have recently had a string of excellent luck with hair products, and wanted to share the excellent goodies I've come across with y'all.
 
1. L'Oreal Colour Experte hair color.  This stuff is a bit pricier than your standard superstore-wall-o-color product, but the color plus highlighting allows for damn-near-salon-quality results without my having to schedule a salon visit (and how totally sad is it that the time factor is the killer for me rather than the price?  I will tell you, my friends: very.).  I just applied the toasted coconut color last Friday, and have since had several people tell me that they can tell I've gotten some sun this summer.  The absolute perfect effect.
 
2. VO5 Nourishing Oasis "Soothe and Smooth" shampoo.  It's cheap (under $2), it smells summery (like Coppertone!), and, when used in conjunction with the following two products, it has made my hair a bajillion times softer in the space of ten days.
 
3.  Neutrogena Triple Moisture Daily Deep Conditioner.  Long ago, pre-marriage and pre-child, when I didn't feel a need to curtail my personal grooming budget, I used to use Redken All-Soft conditioner.  However, I couldn't justify paying beaucoup bucks for the smidge of conditioner that comes in the Redken package.  This conditioner works every bit as well, smells great, and is a fraction of the price.
 
4.  Neutrogena Triple Moisture Healing Shine Serum.  Tames my frizz issues and imparts a nice, subtle sheen.  I was afraid it might leave my hair a bit greasy, but it completely doesn't.  It has a light, clean scent, and although the package is small, a little goes a long way.
 
Note to those who have not seen my hair:  it's stick-straight and fine.  If you've got oodles of curls or coarse, thick stuff, your mileage may vary.
 
If any of you have beloved hair products, please share them.  I am a product whore. 
 
Happy styling!

Gratitudinous.

I am feeling very grateful today. I'd like to thank the Academy, and the following entities:

1. Starbucks. Thank you for making a light caramel frappuccino that fits into my diet. I realize that it is your evil mega-corporate-conglomerate status that makes this possible, and I salute you.

2. Tag Sales. Thank you for the opportunity to buy a cappuccino maker for $10, still in the unopened box.

3. My midwife. Thank you for reassurring me that the anatomical anomaly I pointed out to you is, in reality, completely normal. And also for being so pleasant.

4. My friends. This is a pre-emptive thank-you for all of the time that you're going to devote to getting my house painted this weekend. Right? RIGHT?

5. Toemi. For making the awesomest matted-rock tile, and I really wish I could find a picture of it online so I could show it to y'all, because it's pretty.

Puntin' Dogs.

I was out for a run this morning. About midway through mile three, I realized that I was overtaking an elderly gentleman who was walking a fat min-pin on one of those retractible leash things.

Even from a block away, I could see that the min-pin was spazzing out and acting aggressive toward every.damn.thing.he.could.see. But, there was another dog across the street, so I didn't think too much of it.

I had watched the guy retract the leash to about a 6-foot lead, and figured I had enough room to safely go around. I was about twenty feet behind him, when the little bastard dog noticed my approach, and charged at me, snarling and snapping and yipping his little pin head off.

Remember how the guy had his leash retracted? Yeah -- the idiot never looked behind him, but RELEASED THE CATCH ON THE LEASH, so his dog had greater freedom to try to eat my socks.

I stopped running, because the dog was an aggressive little fucker and even if he didn't bite me, I could tell that my chance of tripping on him was pretty damn good (my relative level of grace having been made quite apparent to most of you in previous posts).

So now, I'm just out of reach of Cuj-ette, who is straining against his collar so hard that his eyes are popping out of his head. I feel a familiar itching in my instep, because I am D-Y-I-N-G to punt this bad-tempered little badass wannabe. But, I figure his owner will take care of it.

Finally, his forward progress having been significantly impeded by an animal the size of a fat squirrel, the old guy turns around and sees me stopped there, with his ten pounds of piss-poor attitude wrapped in black fur snarling at me.

Most reasonably intelligent people would either pull the leash back in or yell at the dog, right? So what does the old guy do? Starts mumbling and walking toward me. Which means that the HellHoundlette can run at me again. For every step forward he takes, I have to take one backward, while looking down and trying not to let the damn dog get tangled in my feet.

I realize that the old guy is talking to me, so I stop my Mexican Perro-dancing long enough to give him my attention. He's saying: "Oh, he won't bite you." However, I find this difficult to believe, because by the time he's finished his sentence, the little fucker has buried his teeth into my right New Balance.

"Um, can you pull your dog off of me?" I inquire, not a little snottily, as I hold up a foot with the canis minor hanging off of it. He does, without apology, and I am on my way, my blood pumping more from pissed-off-ness than from my workout.

Now, I have one of those oh-so-vicious rottweilers. And I have to tell you, if my dog EVER acted like that to a pedestrian, the cops would be called so fast that it would make your head spin. And rightfully so.

So, tell me, why is it that little dogs get a free pass to act like total assholes?

Little-dog-owners, you've gotta put a stop to that shit right now. It is not funny. It is not cute. It is a pain in the ass, and if you don't want me to launch your dog high and hard off of one my size-eights, you'd better take a firmer hand with little Poopsie, mmkay?

Consider this your fair warning.

I Do Not Understand.

I was shopping at Target yesterday. I saw a pair of cute low-rise thongs. They had a little cartoon girl on them. Next to the words "Bad Hair Day."

What. The. Fuck?

WHY would anyone put that on their underwear? Maybe if you've got a healthy sense of irony and an upkept Brazilian. . . but this really seemed to be marketed at the 12-18 set.

Is there anyone in the whole world that would watch someone stripping down to their skivvies, note that they're wearing underwear, and then expect the emergence of a perfectly coiffed coochie? Does anyone even HAVE a perfectly coiffed coochie?

WHY would anyone wear these underwear? WHY?

An old conversation that still makes me laugh when I remember it.

VG: Hey, guys, come on over after class on Friday and we'll drink some beers on the deck and throw some steaks on the Hibachi.
Vix, the total ditz: What's a Hibachi?
VG: It's a little black grill.
Vix, TTD: Ohhhh! My parents used to have one of those in their front yard. But then my brother told them it was racist and they should take it down.
VG: Um. . . what?
Vix, TTD: Well, because they used to actually use little black kids to hold horses in front of houses.
VG: That's GRILL Vick. G-R-I-L-L.
Vix, TTD: Ohhhhhhhh. I get it! I was wondering why you'd put steak on her.

So.Much.Randomness.

See, this is what I get for not updating over the weekend: one long-ass, pointless entry. Virtual cookie bouquet to whoever can identify the source(s) of my subheadings first.

Back off, I’ll take you on. . . this is not where you belong
Friday night, I went to Summerfest with a bunch of friends to see Trapt. They put on a good show, and the crowd was decently-behaved. I spent about half of the show with my friend’s brother, Brian, up on my shoulders, because he was visiting from a small town; was super-excited about seeing the show; was celebrating his birthday; and was a bit on the small side, so didn’t have a great view of the stage.

Did I mention that Brian is 27?

Once the mosh pit started, though, Brian had to come down. Birthday boy or no, this chick chicken-fights for no man.

On our way out of the Fest, Brian was talking to The Weez about what a great night he’d had: “I got to see Trapt, I got three phone numbers, I got to ride your wife. . . .”

Dude, it’s not that kind of party.

Just like fashion, it’s a passion for the with-it and hip
My favorite part of Summerfest is checking out the latest in the awfulness in fashion. I was not disappointed. The teensy ruffle/flounce skirts? Are HORRID, ladies. They do no favors to anyone’s ass. They were not cute when Cyndi Lauper wore them. They are not cute now. Stop before you wind up with legwarmers and a fedora.

Also, can someone PLEASE pay off the fashion gods so the super-low-rise jeans craze ends soon? I am so tired of cringing when yet another slim-and-attractive girl ends up with an unsightly bulge of ass-fat from the low-rise pant/canvas belt combo.

Also, also, if you’re going to a music fest and want to pick up many boys? Wear this shirt.

Also to the third power, I tried on a pair of jeans in the junior’s section over the weekend. I’ve gone down a size. There was much rejoicing.

Yummy, yummy, yummy, I’ve got love in my tummy
And actually, those lyrics? Ew.

I made the Asian Melon Chicken salad from the current issue of Cooking Light this weekend (the Cooking Lessons section, w/ Charlie(?) Martin(?) WhatevahTheHellHisNameIs Yan). So.Damn.Good. It’s an absolutely perfect summer dinner. I highly advise it. If I can manage to remember, I will risk the wrath of Southern Whatever Publishing and post it. Yan really CAN cook!

So barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew. . .
My favorite virtual co-workers are coming into town on the 28th of this month for a meeting that will take place at 8:00 a.m. on the 29th. They have requested that I show them the best that my fair city has to offer. I’m not going to lie to you – I’m more than a little afeared. Leaving a meeting to puke is severely bad form.

. . . our castle and our keep
Case de Weez II is marching ever closer to completion. We might be able to get in to paint this weekend. I am crossing my fingers for this so hard that my fingernails are turning blue. Not just because I am anxious, but because the biggest volleyball tournament of the year is the following weekend, and I REALLY don't want to have to miss it. Think good thoughts for me, 'kay?

A piece of advice.

When you spend two hours looking through 37 different paint chips in order to find the brown paint that's the just the correct shade between "caramel" and "chocolate," and that doesn't make your tile look too pink-y, make sure you somehow MARK the chosen paint chip. Otherwise, you'll have to go through the whole.damn.process again.

Tart for Tart's sake.

Maybe I played with Barbies too much as a child. Maybe I watched one too many episodes of Silk Stalkings during late-night college drinking binges. Maybe I read an exorbitant number of bodice-rippers as an adolescent. Maybe my small-town upbringing skewed my sense of what’s “sexy.”

But whatever the reason, baby, I love getting my slut on.

Heels – the higher the better. Skirts – ditto. Add a low-cut blouse or a backless tank top, some fishnets, and I’m ready to tear it up. Paradoxically, I detest overly-made-up faces or big hair. I prefer to confine my skankiness solely to my apparel.

Sadly, the havoc that having a child wreaks on one’s body has done a significant disservice to my tartly ways. I love my “fuss and feathers,” but I realize that no one wants to see my dimpled thighs or flaccid belly. (And for that, I’m sure the greater Lake Michigan area is profoundly thankful.)

That said, I can’t quite find it within myself to give away my sequined bra tops or feathered tanks. I just can’t part with my teeny skirts, despite the fact that they no longer even come close to covering my ass.

The shoes, of course, can stay.

I don’t know why I keep these things. I don’t prance around the house in them, or use them as an enticement device for The Weez. They’re not at all the sort of thing that one passes down to their daughter. And even if I someday WERE able to fit into them again, I’d be well past the age where it would be anything less than a laughable fashion choice.

Maybe it’s just nostalgia. . . the same way that some men keep their letter jackets and football trophys, or mount the big buck and keep it in their den. When I run my hands over the slinky fabrics, I remember all of the good, carefree times I had, and I smile.