Keep your bias to yourself, please

It must be really hard to be a racist here in America right now.

Think about it. To have to sit around watching large numbers of people rejoice over the first black president when you think people like him should still be picking cotton in chains. Tough times, right?

To see a black man become president and the country - hell, the whole world rejoice. You must feel pretty dejected and out of sorts right about now, hey?

Just to be clear, I don’t feel even an ounce of sympathy for America’s racists. It’s their own problem that they’ve opted to cocoon themselves in hate and bigotry while the rest of the world inches toward acceptance and equality (not that we’re there yet - I realize that - but any progress is good progress).

It’s just that lately I’ve seen some really malicious, racist stuff shuttled around the net and I have to assume it stems from all those disappointed racists trying to find a way to cope. Some examples:

- An image of the “new” dollar featuring a smiling man in black face in the center and “fitty cent” written in the corner.
- The Obama trap – again – this time from someone else.
- An e-mail pondering if it can still legitimately be called the White House and if legalizing marijuana and/or making fried chicken America’s official food will be among Obama’s first acts.

I have to scratch my head when I get stuff like this, especially when it comes from otherwise smart, respectable people that I know. People, who I’m pretty sure aren’t racist, but still seem unable to avoid hitting the “forward” button on their e-mail when this type of bigotry lands in their inbox.

I have to ask: Do you really find this stuff funny? Amusing? Entertaining?

Because honestly, I don’t.

And if you think I think like that, you’re really very, very mistaken. It’s not just about Obama for me. I was raised in a home where I learned, in the famous words of Martin Luther King Jr., people are to be judged, “not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”

So please – PLEASE – stop sending me your hate. I don’t like it, I don’t want it. It doesn’t make me smile or laugh for even one fraction of a second, in fact, it makes me nauseous. Furthermore, it makes you look like an asshole.

If you do send it to me, you can be pretty sure I’m going to, 1. Respond to you with some choice words, and 2. Delete it immediately. The buck bias stops here.

And besides? I’m sure there are plenty of dejected racists in this country looking for something to laugh about right now. Go find them and you can console each other.

Don't expect any sympathy from me.

Demoted

Dear Age 3:

I am writing to let you know that I am officially revoking your title of, “Most Annoying Childhood Age Ever.”

I know you worked really hard to get that title, but at the time I bestowed it on you I was a naïve mother who thought the worst she’d face (pre-teenage years) would come in the form of some of your most irritating qualities, these being (but not limited to): tantrums, whining, assertions of independence, public meltdowns and defiance.

However, in recent weeks, I have come to better know the back-talking, belligerent, full-of-piss and ATTITUDE that is Age 5. To be frank, I now understand that in terms of exasperating characteristics, you, Age 3 are an amateur. Sorry.

I have been especially impressed with Age 5’s ‘Tude. I must say, I thought you gave me a good run for your money with the, “NOs!” and the, “You can’t make me’s,” but at least these statements were said in somewhat normal tones of voice and not in the snotty, “I. Don’t. WANT. To,” inflection that Age 5 has mastered, complete with hands on hips and a healthy "HUMPH!" at the end for good measure.

And I can’t even begin to guess where Age 5 learned such a horrendous manner of speaking. Oh! Wait! Yes I can. OTHER SNOTTY FIVE YEAR OLDS.

While you have been officially demoted, I must note that I am impressed with your ability to learn. Since hanging around with Age 5, you have started picking up some of Age 5’s more maddening qualities, including the aforementioned ‘Tude.

I was especially amazed by yesterday’s 20-minute tantrum featuring repetition of Age 5’s trademark, “I. Don’t. WANT. To.” 139 times. Awesome.

I hope you are not angry over this demotion and that you will take it in stride. I think we both must chalk this up to a learning experience. I’m sure there will be many more in the next few years.

I will say, Age 3, while you are no longer the Most Annoying Childhood Age Ever, I still will not be sad to see you exit my home in a few months. For the most part, Age 4 was a happy reprieve and I’m thrilled to note that the transition from Age 3 to Age 4 is already beginning. Perhaps, in light of this demotion, you’d like to completely fade from the scene now instead of hanging out until April. I think that would be best for everyone involved. Why beat a dead mom horse, if you know what I mean?

Good luck and godspeed to you.

Sincerely,

Kimberly

PS – Age 5, don’t go getting too much of an ego over this. You may be tough, but you’re still no match for me. And besides? Who knows what Age 6 has in store . . .

Halloween is over: Want to hear something really scary?

Friday was Halloween – the time when ghosts and goblins roam the earth and the souls of the departed return to frolic with (and frighten) the living. Oooh. Spooky.

But here in the Gav household we have our own version of fright fest ’08 going on.

Peanut is a notoriously early riser. I can probably count on one hand the number of times she’s slept past 6:30 a.m. in her entire life and on most of those days she was sick. But lately, the problem has gotten decidedly worse.

For the last 10 days or so, she’s been waking before 5 a.m. ←That is not a typo. This morning, I wandered down the hall at 5:03 a.m. and noticed her light was on. Peeking through the crack of her closed door, I saw her sitting on her bed surrounded by Barbie dolls and clothes, deep in an elaborate pretend scenario. In other words, she’d been up for quite a while.

Then it hit me, it wasn’t really 5:03 a.m. We didn’t change the clocks before bed last night, so it was actually 4:03 a.m., which – HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING UP?

Every year, it is the same story. I dread with every fiber of my being the fall changing of the clocks. Unlike the rest of the world, Peanut never adjusts. Her internal “wake up now” clock stays set at the same time of day all year. She rises at 4 a.m., succumbs to exhaustion becoming utterly unbearable around 4:30 or 5 p.m. and can barely stay awake to eat dinner.

It’s a vicious cycle: wake early, zombie walk through the late afternoon, meltdown, pass out before dinner. Repeat. All. Winter. Long.

Tonight — after a meltdown of EPIC proportions where I actually contemplated calling in an exorcist to rid my home of the demon child thrashing, screeching and kicking at me in the bathroom for well over 15 minutes — she crashed face down on the chair in our bedroom and is still there.

I have no doubt she’ll be up around 4 a.m.

Kill. Me. Now.

The only hope I have is that maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to keep her up until 8:30 or 9 a.m. one night and if so, maybe (fingers crossed) she’ll get pushed back to waking up at 5 a.m. (And you know it’s bad when you’re hoping your child “sleeps in” until 5 a.m.)

I fully blame her father for this. Mark is also a ridiculously early riser. Many a morning I roll over at 4:30 or 5 a.m. to find him already out of bed and if I listen carefully, I can hear him clicking away on the computer down the hall.

At least for the next several months, he’ll have someone to hang out with.

Last I checked, Palin was not Hillary. Let's accept that and move on.

I have to admit, I wasn’t a Hillary supporter. I voted in the primary for Obama even declaring myself a Democrat to do so.

However, I knew when I cast my vote for Obama - knew with all my heart and soul – that if the Democratic nod went to Hillary, I would vote for her without hesitation in November. Which is why I am so friggen confused about what’s happening and what I’m hearing about right now.

Are disgruntled Hillary voters – mostly women – really, honestly, truly considering voting for the McCain ticket just because he chose a woman as VP? Really?

To those who are in that camp I really have to ask: what the fuck? (And I don’t throw that word around lightly).

But seriously: What the fuck?

Yeah, OK. Palin has a vagina and apparently there is a whole crowd of people (mostly women) who desperately want to see a vagina-owner in the White House come January 2009.

But Palin? Really? Palin?

Not only is her experience level questionable, but more importantly, she is the diametric opposite of Hillary on just about every single issue. She’s staunchly pro-life, pro-gun, pro-captial punishment, wants a Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, thinks creationism should be taught in schools alongside evolution, and is an environmentalist’s worst nightmare.

And let’s not forget who her main man is: John McCain.

Don't get me wrong. If you agree with what the McCain/Palin ticket stands for - then of course, obviously vote your conscience. That's the American way. But voting for this ticket simply because it now includes a woman is no different than a white man refusing to vote for Obama simply because he's black.

But for Democrats and uncommitted voters who supported Hillary during the primary, voting for McCain/Palin is exactly the opposite of what Hillary would want. She said so herself in what I thought was one of the most fantastic speeches she’s ever given.

The GOP is counting on the fact that desperate Hillary supporters are going to look past Palin’s beliefs and see only her motherhood, her womanhood – put bluntly – her vagina - and blindly cast their votes based solely on these traits.

The GOP thinks we’re all a bunch of mindless, brainless, incapable, emotionally driven ninnies who are going to get caught up in Palin’s biology without really examining her politics.

It thinks we can all be manipulated into abandoning the principles we believe in – that Hillary believes in – with no serious thought because, after all, women do what men tell them to do - either directly or subtly.

Quite frankly, I have to agree with Tree on this one.

I’m insulted. Infuriated.

Is that really who we are? Is the GOP right? Are we really just a bunch of nail-biting sheep who will fall into line and overlook – or not think about at all – our principles simply to get “one of our own” in power?

I hope not. Because this woman is no Hillary Clinton. Anyone with a brain (or a vagina) should be able to see that.

This post has been brought to you by the letter A for Annoying

OK.

I'm just going to say it.

I hate Sesame Place.

I really, really do.

Last Friday, we made our fourth trip to that little sliver of hell childhood paradise tucked away in Eastern Pennsylvania. And the reality is, we could potentially go back again next year? Why?

Because we are insane our kids love it. They love it. Their little faces light up at the sight of Elmo, Bert, Ernie and the others. Their eyes double in size and they don huge smiles. They run up to the characters with their arms outstretched, wrapping them tightly around the characters' legs, barely able to contain their delight.

Meanwhile, we stand around cursing the heat and the lines for EVERYTHING (is that place ever not crowded?) and the never-ending rape and pillage of our wallets ($15 for parking? $2.79 for bottled water? C'mon!) Not to mention the constant stress of keeping an eagle eye on the girls in a loud, confusing, crowded environment.

I always leave there 1. thanking God that we still have two kids and 2. exhausted to the bone both mentally and physically.

Though I will say that this year, for the first time ever, we actually got to ride some of the rides (as crowded as it was, it seemed not quite as packed as previous years and some of the lines were actually palatable. Also, both girls finally meet the height requirement for the roller coaster and many of the water slides).

And let me tell you - a roller coaster is fun. A roller coaster with your favorite five-year-old snuggled up next to you laughing and shrieking with joy is pure ecstasy. That was the highlight. The hook that will bring us back again (probably) for another round. I know it, and the park's planners know it. But I don't have to be happy about it.

Here are a few of my (grainy, cellphone) pictures:



Loaf before the Abby Cadabby Treasure Hunt show. See? Happy, happy. How can I resist?



"The roof! The roof! The roof is on fire . . . " OK, not really. But wouldn't that be funny?



Elmo and Abby Cadabby: the equivalent of a yapping dog at 3 a.m. to adults; crack cocaine for kids.



Peanut is enthralled.



Loaf is either awestruck or is thinking, "What the f*@#!!?" Tough call.

"Mom! She's blinking at me!"

Ever since my daughters were old enough to understand basic concepts, I have repeatedly told them, "Honey, you can tell me anything. Anything that's bothering you - you can tell me. I'm always here for you."

And it seems they were listening. Lately, my house is full of information.

"MOM! She's poking me!"

"MOM! She took the doll I was playing with!"

"MOM! She's playing with the door again!"

"MOM! She's sitting on the book I want to read!"

"MOM! She won't let me sit on the bed with her!"

"MOM! She's LOOKING AT ME!"

The crowning jewel came Saturday at my mom's house. After telling them both repeatedly that they were not allowed upstairs, I realized that they'd snuck up there without permission again. I stomped up the stairs and before I even lay eyes on them yelled out, "You aren't supposed to be up here and you know it!"

When I entered the room in which they'd holed up, Peanut looked at me, eyes filled with guilt, and said earnestly, "MOM! Loaf is upstairs."

"You're upstairs," I answered back matter of factly.

Without missing a beat Loaf declared, "Mom, Peanut upstairs first."

Oh. My. GAWD.

Today, I actually told them, "unless someone is bleeding, I don't want to hear it," which goes completely and utterly against my previous you-can-tell-me-anything stance.

Then, about ten minutes after I talked with them about tattling, Loaf tattled on Peanut. Peanut's response? "MOM! Loaf is telling on me."

I used to read about tattling and wonder why it got so much ink in parenting books and blogs. It seemed like a pretty insignificant problem in the world of parenting. BOY WAS I WRONG. It is a huge deal. Enormous. It is the size deal that drives parents slowly insane and makes them long for the days when they did not have to deal with such petty, ridiculous crap.

Seriously, what am I supposed to do with this? Do you have any ideas? Come on, you can tell me. So long as your suggestion doesn't start with a whiny "MOM!" I'm open.

Health care in America: Big benefits, but not for us

I work for a small company that does not have the buying power of large firms when it comes to health insurance. And since Mark is self-employed, we must get our health insurance through my company.

To insure our little family of four, each month we pay a whooping $1,163.02 to Oxford Health Care. I understand from talking to other families in our boat that this is about average.

Each year in December, I brace myself for the inevitable news that health insurance costs are rising again. I hope against hope that they will not rise significantly, but each year without fail they go up. I have accepted that.

What I find unacceptable is the additional “out-of-pocket” (isn’t it all out-of-pocket?) we must to pay to receive benefits. For example, we must fork over a $40 co-pay each and every time we walk into a doctor’s office. In the last two months alone, we’ve paid out an additional $160 because every member of the family has had to go to the doctor for one thing or another.

Another example: prescriptions. Look at this picture:



That teeny tiny vial of medicine cost us $80 on Tuesday. Oxford was gracious enough to pick up $20 of its cost. Wow, Oxford. Thanks a lot. That’s really . . . something.

And what, you may ask, is that prescription for? Some strange or rare affliction? Is it an experimental new drug? Is it a vanity prescription like wrinkle cream?

Oh no. That itty bitty 3 milliliter bottle holds eye drops to treat my daughter’s pink eye.

Pink eye. An extremely common childhood infection.

Eighty. Dollars.

Honestly, I’m not sure how some families do it. I don’t know what the answer is, but something’s got to change. How much blood are we all expected to give to a broken system?

How much money do these greedy insurance companies need to collect? And let’s not even get into the topic of legitimate claims that are habitually denied, forcing you to fight tooth and nail with the bureaucracy to get them paid. That’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish and another post for another time.

People are in an uproar about oil company profits; what about the record profits recently being reported by health care companies?

They are making money hand over fist and at whose expense? Ours, my friends. All of ours.

Wordless Wednesday: Well, crap.

Click here to see more cool Wordless Wednesday posts.

Statistics from a bad commute home

Time I left the office: 5:15 p.m.
Miles traveled: 38
Average time commute home takes: 49 minutes
Snowfall by 5:15 p.m. last night: about 3 inches, and still coming hard.
Number of stops to clean ice off windshield wipers: 2
Average speed on drive home: 29 mph
Number of Cokes consumed: 1
Number of cars seen stuck on hills: 4
Number of accidents seen off on shoulder: 3
Number of tractor trailers that flew by me at normal speed: at least 10
Number of times I prayed out loud: 638
Actual commuting time last night: 2 hours, 43 minutes
Number of plows/sanders seen over course of entire trip: ZERO

Nice job, NJ.
Really well executed.

Internal conflict

I have two gorgeous children.

I do not want a third.

I am sure of this.

I do not want to go back to square one: diaper blow outs, nursing, bottles, pacifiers, hourly feedings, crying for no known reason (though there are moments when I find myself still dealing with this), weaning, sleep training, having to do everything with one hand, etc., etc., etc.

I have given away all of my baby goods—from the bassinet to the infant car seat to onesies and infant toys—as Loaf outgrows them.

I do not wish to subject myself to another pregnancy—the nausea, the weight gain, the bloating, the insomnia, the back pain, the sciatica, the cramps, the dry skin, the itchiness, the sore boobs, the heartburn, the acid reflux, the bleeding gums and the cankles. I do not wish to spend nine months in a constant state of anxiety worrying about about something – everything – going wrong. Not to mention I have no desire to relive labor, birth and post-birth recovery.

I am nearly 39 years old.

I do not even particularly enjoy the needy infant stage that much.

I am 100 percent sure that I do not want a third baby.

So why – WHY— is it that lately every time I see a newborn baby, my heart clinches up and my uterus actually aches with a pain that can only be described as emptiness?

Why do I find myself eagerly drinking in every word of the slew of newly pregnant bloggers who, even as they write about the inconveniences and annoyances of pregnancy, make me secretly wish I could join them?

Why do I find myself feeling what can only be described as jealousy when friends tell me they are pregnant? Why does it suddenly seem like 50 percent of the women at my gym are hugely pregnant (and glowing and fit to boot)? Why could I not take my eyes off the sweet gurgling three-month-old at the new playgroup I joined last week? And why did I tear up the other night while wistfully thinking back on soft baby skin, fuzzy heads, a tiny warm body sleeping on my chest, sweet, grunty baby noises and early toothless smiles?

Can anyone please answer this for me? Because this sappy maternal craving shit is really starting to piss me off.

Dear YMCA:

I would like to suggest that next year you have the trees for your annual Christmas sale delivered on a day other than the Monday after Thanksgiving, which aside from the first week of January, is probably the busiest gym day of the year. The two giant tractor trailer trucks that delivered the trees took up well over two dozen parking spots and caused a huge traffic jam as people tried to get in and out of the lot.

Minimally, how about having them delivered in the afternoon when the gym is less busy instead of at the peak hour of 9:30 a.m.? It just seems like common sense to me.

Signed,

Cranky lady who got stuck in a huge traffic snafu, then had to park two blocks away and only had 45 minutes to work out today as a result

Government for the people? What people?

I try, generally, not to get too political on this blog. But every now and then there is an issue that is so near and dear to my heart that I simply cannot resist stepping up on my soapbox for a minute. So bear with me.

Yesterday, I read this article in the New York Times that talks about Pennsylvania’s recent decision to ban labels on milk and dairy products that say it comes from cows that haven’t been treated with artificial bovine growth hormone, which is sometimes known as rBGH or rBST.

The PA Department of Agriculture’s reason for the ban? Basically, that consumers are too dumb to understand the distinction, and that labeling dairy products as rBGH or rBSt free implies that dairy products produced with the use of these artificial hormones are inferior.

Those ridiculous arguments aside, the problem with this ban is that it eliminates a clear and important choice for consumers.

Despite what the federal government says about artificial hormones, not every one feels comfortable having them in their food (myself and Mark included). Quite frankly, I don’t give a rat’s butt what the FDA says. The FDA, in my opinion, is so deeply embedded with hosts of special interest groups and lobbyists that I take a fraction of what they say to heart.

Now, organic milk does not contain rBGH or rBStT, so anyone in Pennsylvania looking to avoid the hormones can still buy organic. However, organic milk is expensive—beyond the means of a lot of families—and if avoiding the hormones is your biggest concern, you have a viable and more affordable option in dairy products labeled “hormone free.” Or at least you did. Now, the government in Pennsylvania has taken that choice from you. And that, to put it plainly, sucks.

I have to assume that someone at the PA Department of Agriculture just got his or her pockets lined by ultra-profitable Monsanto (biggest producer of the artificial hormones) or some other lobbyist representing hormone-using dairy farmers. There doesn’t seem to be any other viable reason.

Why should I, or you, care about this ban if you don’t live in Pennsylvania (as I do not)? Well, Ohio is considering a similar ban. If there’s one thing I’ve observed in my lifetime, stupid government ideas seem to catch hold like wildfire spreading faster than lice at a sleepover.

So I’m just putting this out there, for anyone who is thinking of trying to slip this through the New Jersey legislature. Don’t. Even. Try. It.

Annoying

Driving to work today, I suddenly noticed a sea of flashing brake lights as the four lanes of traffic in front of me started slowing down. Since I was a good distance from most of these cars, I simply let up on the accelerator, but I started thinking: OH CRAP. What now? What horrible traffic nightmare lies ahead of me? An accident? A jack-knifed truck?

As my speedometer slowly inched downward—66, 65, 63, 62—I kept my eyes peeled for what was going on.

And then, I saw it.

Up ahead, a police officer had pulled over another driver. Both cars were well into the right-hand breakdown lane, the lights on the police car flashing continuously. By the time I reached them, I had caught up to the cars ahead of me and was doing just barely 55/mph (the speed limit is 65/mph on this particular road).

Good shit, why do people hit their brakes when they see this? People—Here is a tip: The cop already pulled someone over. He can't get you! He is busy. There may actually be no better time to speed and contrary to what you may think, you do not get extra credit for slowing down at this point.

Yes, I am really cranky today.

Damn you, Ben Franklin

So here we are on day four since the clocks went back and, just like last year, we are in hell.

Peanut woke up this morning at 4:57 a.m.

So guess what happened tonight? This:





Actual time of photograph: 6:49 p.m.

I.Am.So.Fucked.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Mr. Ben "hey-let's-screw-with-the-clocks-twice-a-year" Franklin for making my life hell for six months a year (though according to Wikipedia some guy named William Willet {whoever the fuck that is} was the one who actually foisted it upon the rest of us. Jerkoff.)

I'm sure Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willet didn't intend to cause utter chaos in the Gav household when they conceived of their idea. I'm sure they had no idea that decades later some poor mother would be dealing with a small child at her bedside every morning between 4 and 5 a.m. demanding breakfast because the night before she fell asleep before dinner. I'm sure none of that crossed their minds and they were genuinely all about getting people to go out and enjoy the sunshine and feel alive and be happy and all that other bullshit.

But you know what? Right now, none of that is making me feel much better. So thank you Mr. Franklin and Mr. Willett (both MEN by the way, who probably never ONCE in their lives had to get up with a child). I wish I could wake you up tomorrow morning when my child wakes and make you drag your sorry ass out of bed before the heat has even kicked on to fetch her some cereal, but unfortunately, you are both dead and getting all the sleep you want. How convenient.

A dog's life

I am an animal lover.

I have always had pets and I treat my pets well.

Most pets in this country receive better medical care, have better homes, and even if they consume the really cheap, generic dog food in the white and black bag from Wal-Mart, eat better than millions of people living in third world countries.

That said? Anyone going out and spending $60 on doggie perfume or $25 on dog shampoo from Juicy Couture has rocks in their fucking head. What the hell? Maybe, just maybe, if you have that much money burning a hole in your pocket you ought to consider putting it to better use.

Like UNICEF or maybe CARE or hell, if you want to spend your money to help animals, how about the ASPCA?

Wanted: One good wig. Or hitman to rough up hairdresser. Or both.

Alright, so here’s a story to which every woman in America (maybe every man too) can relate.

I needed a haircut. Badly. I pretty much had not had a haircut since the spring and it’s been a long summer of swimming and outdoor play. The ends of my hair were like straw.

So I started looking around at hairstyles and decided I was going to get an
inverted bob.

Shorter in the back – longer in the front. I was a bit nervous about this, because my 20-year high school reunion (ACK!) is about 3 months away and I didn’t want too drastic of a change. So I figure if I keep the ends to about collarbone length in the front, I can always grow it out by the reunion in November.

I walk into my hair salon and sitting at the reception desk is a young woman with exactly the haircut I am coveting. It’s about mid-neck in the back and sweeps down to grace her shoulders in the front. It’s adorable.

My hairdresser calls me back to his chair and I tell him what I want. He is nodding along in agreement.

“Actually,” I say, “the woman at the front desk? That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Oh!” he says. “I just cut her hair two days ago. No problem.”

So I am thinking, “WOW! Excellent. He knows exactly what to do. I mean, afterall, he just did this exact cut TWO DAYS AGO. And there is a real-life model a mere 15 feet away from us.”

I get washed and return to his chair and he again confirms, mid-neck in the back, just past shoulders in the front.

“Sounds great,” I say.

And he starts to cut. And cut. And cut. And by the time he makes his way to the front of my hair, I realize that the ends in the front are just barely chin length. Barely. If I pull on them a little.

It is about this time, he realizes his mistake.

“Is the length OK in the front?” he asks.

"Hmmm. Let me see. Considering that it’s a full TWO INCHES above what we discussed, what do you think, fuckwit?!? Now start gluing all those individual hairs back onto my head, tootsweet. I don’t have all fucking day."

OK, I didn’t say that. I believe it’s in my best interest not to piss off anyone holding scissors inches from my head. And besides, what’s the point? What’s done is done. At this point, the only choice you really have to is make the best of it.

So yeah. My hairdresser somehow fucked up a haircut he himself performed on another woman—a woman who was seated only a few feet away—48 hours before. HOW???? DOES???? THIS??? HAPPEN???? TO??? ME????

This is especially upsetting because on my round pumpkin face this is just about theeeeee most unflattering length possible. It reminds of Sally Field’s “brown football helmet” hairstyle in Steel Magnolias. Not. Good.

OK. OK. I know. It’s only hair.

It will grow back.

Yes, there is at least a small chance that I’m overreacting to this. Wee. Minute. Teensy. I accept that. But come on? I don't think I know one person who does not have a "my hairdresser completely fucked up my hair" story. If one of my clients asked me for a newsletter and I delivered an intranet, I'd probably get in pretty big trouble here at work. Perhaps he was confused between "chin" and "shoulder?" Maybe next time I go I should bring a diagram of the human body? Sheesh.

And also, hello?? Twenty-year class reunion? Three months from now? People I haven’t see in two decades? Yes, vanity, thy name is Kimberly. I want to walk in there looking and feeling great. It all adds up to shit.

For the next 12 weeks, I’ll be taking lots of vitamins B and E and massaging my scalp and mediating to send energy to my hair in an effort to foster increased growth. Any other tips? Wigs? Extensions? I’m only partly joking here, people. If Britney can get away with it, so can I.



Looking really happy about my new haircut. NOT.



Does this look “shoulder length” to you? Maybe if I shrug my shoulders really high. Like to my ears. UGH.

Morning e-mails with a scowl

Yesterday I was in the office, which means I checked all my e-mail accounts first thing in the morning.

On my personal Yahoo account, I get this e-mail newsletter Ideal Bite. It usually has really great tips for living a healthier, more environmentally conscious lifestyle.

I say usually because yesterday’s tip? Notsohelpful.

Yesterday, those cheerful, supportive folks over at Ideal Bite suggested that I forgo my swimsuit and spend my days at the beach this year in the nude.

Seriously.

According to Ideal Bite, “Swimsuits require energy and transport to produce, while birthday suits require none.”

Really? Well isn’t that great. Now I’m supposed to feel guilty for covering up my nearly 38-year-old, birthed-and-nursed-two-children, ain’t-what-it-used-to-be body. Riiiight.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for saving the planet. We go to the grocery store with our canvas bags and buy EnergyStar appliances and use low energy light bulbs all over our house. We eat organic food as much as we can and recycle and try in general not to be wasteful.

But walking the beach nude? Sorry. Even I have my limits.

In addition to not being willing to expose the world to my cellulite, I’m frankly not looking to see anyone else’s either. And I’m just not convinced that my swimsuit has that great of an environmental impact. I mean, if that’s true, don’t all clothes? Is this the topic of the next Al Gore movie:

The Inconvenient Clothes: Go Nude to Save the Planet

Sheesh. I guess the tip writers at Ideal Bite were a little stretched for topics this week. Though in fairness, the newsletter went on to suggest some swimsuit manufacturers that utilize environmentally friendly processes, as well organic and even recycled materials to produce their swimsuits, which is pretty cool.

So, there I was, already feeling a little cranky when I went back to my inbox to see that Yahoo had sent me a helpful little Anniversary Reminder.

“Aw,” I thought, “someone is having an anniversary. How nice.”

Then I opened it and discovered that the anniversary in the reminder was actually that of my graduation from college, which occurred sixteen years ago today on May 19, 19FUCKING91.

After absorbing that for a moment or two, I threw my laptop onto the floor, stomped on it, and yelled something about how that will teach you to toss the mother-fucking effects of time in my face like that first thing in the morning, you stupid piece of overrated bytes and chips.

OK, I didn’t really do any of that.

But I thought about it. Oh how I thought about it.

If the dress fits . . . or doesn't

Mark and I have a wedding to go on Saturday, and since five years and one size have passed since I last donned a cocktail dress, I had no choice but to buy one.

So off I went at lunch to Loehmann's, which is my most favorite place to find fabulous clothing on the cheap. But, much to my surprise, the pickings were slim and I wasn't having much luck. Finally, I found a cute little Vera Wang dress in the Back Room (where all the really good designer stuff is). It was an adorable champagne colored satin dress with an A-line skirt and empire waist. The tag indicated it was a size 6 and best of all? It was well under $100.

Into the fitting room I went. I don't know if you've ever shopped at Loehmann's, but it has one of those really dreadful communal fitting rooms. In other words, if the pants you're trying on give you huge muffin top? Everyone in the room gets to experience that with you. Can't zip that skirt? The skinny teenage girl in the corner will definitely see that and snicker (bitch). For most of us, it is quite possibly one of the most unhappy places on earth.

So there I was with my small pile of dresses. The first couple fit, but weren't flattering. Then I got to my Vera Wang find, which I was already convinced was The One. I had visions of sipping cocktails and whirling about the dance floor in it, and in let me tell you - I looked fabulous.

I slid the dress up over my hips and slipped my arms through the spaghetti straps. But, instead of seeing the fabulous vision I hoped, the dress looked all wrong. The shoulder straps sat too close to my neck and the empire waist, which was circled by a lovely line of cream ribbon, seemed to cut straight across my nipples.

Huh. This doesn't look right, I thought. I bet it will be fine once I zip it.

I reached back and started pulling on the zipper. It went up to just about the top of my underwear and then wouldn't budge. I pulled the zipper harder, contorting and yanking on the back of the dress, but the zipper wasn't going up another notch. And then I realized with utter horror that this dress, a size 6, a dress that should surely be able to close around my body, wasn't even close to fitting. Not even close. Not in a million years. Not even if I had half my ribs removed.

And that's when the silent swearing started.

Fucking fashion designers and their fucking size double zero models, I thought as I pulled the dress off. What the hell are they trying to prove by cutting these clothes so fucking small? Don't they realize no one wants to buy clothes three sizes bigger than they are? That's why the Gap invented vanity sizing. FUCKERS!

Still cursing, I grabbed the hanger and started re-hanging the dress, all visions of my fabulousness seeping into the room's cheap, industrial carpet. And that's when I saw it. Right there on the label. Three little words that changed everything: Flower. Girl. Dress.

Flower Girl Dress? What the hell? Are you telling me I just embarrassed myself and had my self-esteem knocked down about 48 pegs because I was trying to put a CHILD'S dress on my body?

Well that's just fucking great. What genius sales person at Loehmann's put that dress with the adult clothing? I have no idea, but I bet she's a size double zero with a proportionate number of brain cells to match. Where ever she is, I suggest she keeps that job because any where else will eat her alive.

Oh, and in case you're curious, I did end up finding a very nice black silk dress by Nicole Miller. Also under $100 and an ADULT size six. And I looked fabulous.