something wicked this way comes

Okay. Here's a riddle for you. What has shaggy white hair, looks to weigh about 200 pounds, and roams the Earth at 3am? Don't know? Well, neither do I, but it was cavorting outside my bedroom window last night/this morning at 3:58am.

First, let's be clear...karma is a bitch; a nasty, thieving, sleep f'ing bitch. Wouldn't it stand to reason that after I hopped on my mountain top shouting to all the world (or blog reading internet population - ahem) how I had single-handedly solved all my life's problems by addressing my dear E's own sleep issues that I would have a night such as the one I had last night?

It started out tamely enough: I've had a revisitation by this cold masking as the death flu so I was ready (blessed be to Nyquil) to sleep it off - or attempt to with swollen, clogged nasal passages and pounding sinuses. In bed by 11, asleep (or on the way to...) by 12:30. By 1:00am, however, the Beans thought she'd practice her jiu jitsu with an alarming ferocity. Thinking she had developed superhuman powers and was scaling the walls, I dragged myself (bumping into every table corner, wall edge, door frame I could find on the way) to her hallway. She, like a wild animal, sensed my presence (through the closed door) and begin clapping and saying "dada." I rolled my eyes, muttered some profanity, and bumped my way back into bed.

I had no sooner pulled the covers up to my chin (given E a gratuitous jab in the ribs just to keep him snoozing on the straight and narrow) when that damn matted-hair reject dog started baying at the moon. She was snarling, howling, scuffling around something fierce (the dogs are fenced in outside our bedroom window along the backside of the house). She's about a leash's length from whence she came (the shelter if you must know), but we've been threatening her with abandonment since the first night she was here nine years ago. She has a serious case of the crazy, but we keep her just the same. We need something to amuse ourselves with out here. Anyway, the lab started at it with her (he normally wouldn't bark if a masked man walked right by him and kicked in our door) so I commenced to panic.

I muttered to E to go check it out. He, being deaf to the world in his tight little sleep, did nothing. I decided to just wait it out. She had to stop eventually, right? My mutter, after about 30 minutes of this nonsense, turned into a vicious commandment - also ignored by Sleeping Beauty. At this point, I knocked over half the contents of my nightstand as I huffed to the window. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light (the moon was out and rather bright), I thought I saw a man - or two - crouching outside the perimeter of the fence about twenty feet out. As I continued to stare, I realized it was an ENORMOUS, wooly, white thing. It looked like the snuffleupagus, minus the elephant nose. It was nosing around the fence row, with my psychotic, pound-bound mutt snarling right up in it's unamused face.

I kicked on the floodlights, but by the time I got back to the window, Snuffy was trailing up the drive. I was so pissed at having my sleep shat upon, at having the wits scared out of me by the wayward scrunt, that I decided I'd create such a commotion that E might as well be awake and pissed at 4am right along with me.

So I started thrashing around at the window, pounding against the glass for Maggie (the pound-bound canine) to "shut the F up and go to bed, damnit!"

E jolts out of bed, slurs, "what's wrong?!"

I tell him about the snuffleupagus and that it was "bigger than an F-ing house!"

And, "hey?...WHAT are you laughing at? There IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT THIS .... at ALL!!!"

He crawled back under the covers, gave another chuckle, and was back aboard the sleep train. Leaving me to contemplate just what demonic creature Satan had sent to torment my poor depraved soul. A restful night, to be sure.

Out of morbid curiosity, please speculate. What do you think I saw?

Mr. Sandman

So what's a person to do to get a decent night's sleep around here? Apparently send the man (not The MAN, but E) away for a weekend. For months, literally months, I've been waking with these insane headaches at the back of my head (I've had enough headaches - literal headaches, not metaphorical ones - since The MAN was conceived to know what pain constitutes what headache) which was clearly tension related. Add to that the fact that my jaws felt like I'd been chewing celery all night and my teeth felt like they were thisclose to falling out of my mouth they were so sore. I also just couldn't sleep a constant stretch AT ALL. You know the kind of sleep you have where you don't feel like you've been asleep because it's so light (another aside - each morning it looked like a family of wildebeasts had been doing the nasty all over the sheets because they were such a wreck due to - what I assumed - was my own tossing and turning)? Okay, well that's what I was living on and with two sleeping kids, that's just insane to get NO sleep! Literally, I would log about 8-9 hours a night and be just exhausted. What do I have to be tense about? Who the hell knows?

I should also mention, for those of you who don't recall my last sleep post, dear E is the most ATROCIOUS! bed partner EVER. Truly. The second his head hits the pillow, he's asleep ... literally within three minutes; it's terribly odd and even more terribly annoying for someone who must have sleep foreplay (low lights, no electronics, lavender, no caffeine, and drugs when they're available - allergy meds usually do the trick) to even court the mere idea of sleep. Add to that, he is anything but a sound sleeper. He snorts. He tosses, turns, flips, rolls, frolicks through the volumes of bed linens. He makes bizarre animal sounds and whimpers. He talks about work and talks to colleagues - IN HIS SLEEP.

And yet, he wears earplugs to bed because my tapping on the damn laptop disturbs his precious romps.

*sigh*

This past weekend, he had to go to an overnight work retreat and I spent most of the evening reading and internet-ing. When I finally decided to call it a night, it was close to 3am. I'm usually in bed by midnight anyway, so I knew that 8am with The MAN and Beans was going to come awfully early.

Much to my surprise when I awoke the next morning, I was more rested that I'd been in MONTHS! And what's this?! NO HEADACHE! No muscle aches, no soreness at all, even. And the bed? Well, I was tucked in just the way I was when I went to bed! The sheets hadn't even been moved; I didn't move an inch ALL night. You could bounce a damn quarter off the bed. And you'd better believe that when dear ol' E came happily skipping home that evening, there were a few things I wanted to bounce of his head! Suffice it to say, that a well-rested Heather had an arsenol of anger and threats of bodily harm at her disposal when she laid the blame.

E now sleeps with one eye open, and I'm getting the best sleep of my life.

factory girl

Even prior to having kids of my own, I knew full well that kids are as different as fingerprints. The MAN was such a good baby (i.e. he slept when he should sleep!) that Beansie's impending arrival had us a bit on edge anticipating a personality due west of The MAN: a non-sleeping, loud-crying, ball-of-rage bundle of joy. They do share many similarities such as their appearance (at least The MAN's appearance when he was a wee one with chubby cheeks and little to no hair - in his case); apparently sharing genetic code can do that. She is, ever so thankfully, a sleeper as well (she may even score one up because she has this uncanny ability to chill in her crib like it's the happiest place on Earth ... for hours). And like The MAN, she is a good baby - she's always happy, ALWAYS. Be it known, she does NOT in way, shape, or form inherit this innate sense of happiness from me (my happiness is best summoned by a long night's sleep and a pocket of plastic as I skip merrily from store to store - hers is just because).

However, the similarities end there. After training myself to be the mother of a "non-eater" (and unless you are the parent of a non-eater, you will not understand the insanity that this training induces), I was fully prepared to feed/not feed another non-eater (see endless meals of white: bread, bagels, waffles, bread, milk, more bread). Not this one, though; she eats like she's being served her last meal. The child would have to be pried off her bottle when she was just a tiny little bean. As she's grown, so has her love and adoration of all things consumable. She will eat anything (guacamole, salsa, spaghetti, burritos, any and all vegetables and fruits in any and all consistencies and forms, desserts of all kind, pasta, chicken, soups, chili -- you get the picture. She even screams and bounces out of pure ecstacy when she sees food in her line of sight). Her love of food has brought no end of joy and pride into our lives as we ply her with a bite of this, a nibble of that while dinner guests (the same ones who scorned my poor parenting as I enabled my non-eater's love of white) ooohed and aaahed in delight.

The unfortunate downside to all this eating? The damn pooping. Seriously. Could she poop anymore if she tried? She's a big girl, so all this food is going somewhere besides out her rear and into the diaper, which is in part why I just can't figure out how a little baby can make so much stinking, steaming, vile-smelling poop. The MAN pooped once a day at most - often every other day ... and this worked for me. The Beans, in all her feminine delicacy, drops a load at a minimum of three times a day -- sometimes upwards of FIVE. This just doesn't even seem humanly possible to me. And nevermind the volume, the odor would kill a city sewage worker. She stinks. She stinks BAD. The MAN will even announce in an ever-growing bored tone, "Mama, I smell her. I smell her diaper," as he pinches his nose in our direction. I usually inform him that she's already been changed and then we discuss the meaning of the word "residual."

I do apologize, my attentive internet, for unloading (so to speak); but it just baffles the mind; the poopfest that is my life. Is this even normal?!

Diamonds in the soles of her shoes

and holes eating up her stinking socks. I have one pair of socks that don't have holes in them (to be completely forthcoming, I have probably a dozen pairs all total, but they are barely held together by miscellaneous threads stretched here and there offering little to no actual foot coverage). This isn't really a problem, or at least it hasn't been in the past. I'm a recovering Birkenstock addict - pretty much year 'round and sockless (it's the internal hellfire that I have that causes me to be so damn hot all the time - and not in a good way). So, now I wear real shoes. I've upgraded to those hideously scorned Uggs for two reasons: they abolish the need for socks AND they keep my feet warm.

This is all nice, but for the gym addiction - because I simply cannot wear Uggs or Birkenstocks to the gym (be it known that I HAVE seen it done, but I will NOT do it). So for Christmas I received a spiffy pair of gym shoes .... but no socks. As a result, I have now grown/developed/been cursed with these strange callous-like things that have formed on my feet! Why? Not because I don't wear socks, but because I wear holey socks that rub the hell out of my abused feet slapping down with all the pressure my body can pack onto rotating foot pads for four miles a night. On one blissful night a week (two if I do whites), I get to wear my good socks; and OH! how my feet thank me (the heavens actually split wide open and celestial beings sing).

I am completely aware that socks are cheap as shit. I've looked at them many-o-times at Target. I can get a few pairs for under $5, but I just can't do it. I can happily throw cash to the wind in the name of a new Coach bag. I can feed it into my gluttonous, gas-drunk, "I only drink premium" vehicle at $60 a fill-up. I can even shovel it out for $120 sweaters. But for socks (or really underwear, either, if you'll recall earlier posts about my much needed 'drawer' update)? Oh, h e l l, no. I clearly have issues that are just itching to be exposed. I clearly need some therapy - and not the of the retail variety. Right now, I'd settle for some socks. So, do tell, what's an oddity about you?

the t/pit and the pendulum

Upon entering adulthood, I would like to think that I've become a little less judgemental on surface issues, but apparently not so. There is a woman (?) who absolutely frightens me. She is a walking contradiction of horror. A few years back, she was in my BodyPump (God help us, and, no, it's not nearly as fun as it sounds! The only pumping going on is a bar full of heavy-ass weights) class, and she frightened me then as well.

So last night, I was heading out of the locker room (which I only use to wash my hands because ... ick) and there S.HE was. She has a mullet, which must take an awfully enormous amount of time to maintain with all the clippiness of it. A mullet is not a problem for me as I'm old enough to remember the heyday of Billy Ray Cyrus and Michael Bolton. She wears grubby knits. So what? Me, too!! She snarls when she lifts exceptionally heavy weights. No big thing, most people do ('specially the 'roid guys whose grunts and yelps can be heard throughout the weight room). What is most abominable? She has large breasts (me, too! hee!hee!). Unlike me, most assuredly, she does NOT WEAR A BRA. Ever. Because now that I have noticed this huge oversight, I have made it a nightly mission to do a conspicuous bra check in the wall mirrors. I completely understand the freedom that no bra can provide. BUT IN A GYM? UNDER A THIN SMARMY T-SHIRT? PLEASE.STOP.NOW! I don't understand why she refuses to corral those dudes, but she won't. And there they are taunting me and my charlotte-ness every evening. They're enormous and they almost touch the waistband of her shorts! Purely based on the mechanics alone, they need to be contained. Am I wrong to be so overtly obsessed with wildly hanging old lady boobies. Why yes I am! But what's a girl to do? What would you do? Not looking is not an option; it's like a train wreck.

whaddya wanna be when you grow up?

No doubt, E did not envision himself becoming reader of last rites and rescuer to all animals great and small, but that he has. Last weekend, he had the misfortune of happening upon a dying doe that had managed to drag herself in the direction of our property (people, damn it, drive slowly! You know there are deer all over the place). It is an ending that I do not wish to expound upon, but I'm glad she made her way up here rather in the woods (or the roadside) somewhere.

Tonight, he noticed our springer was having some paw issues. To provide some backstory, we sprung her from doggy jail the first year we were married (and she'll be ten this year) when I saw her featured on the news dressed as batgirl for Halloween. She was a doll; but she's also a crazy heiffer. Bless her. Barking endlessly at her own shadow, annoying the hell out of Solomon (our laidback lab), and causing E to tear his hair at her many antics. When we took her to my parents' house the night we picked her up, she hopped upon their fireplace ledge and laid out a log of her own. On the freaking fireplace. In front of everyone.

When he looked closer, he realized that her dew claw had actually curved over into her paw (or wrist. Don't dogs have wrists?). We loaded up and drove to the happiest place on Earth (no, not Disney ... Target, people) to purchase a set of doggy nail clippers as this was a task that had to be undertaken immediately. My parents happened to be over, so my father acted as a straight-jacket while E got down to business. One set of clippers, a small set of pliars, and some peroxide later and old Maggie was as good as new. Have I mentioned how awesome it is to have a dude around who actually "does" something? He changes lightbulbs, pressure-washes the drive, can throw up some spackle, and even act as a weekend vet; I think I'll keep him.

mending fences

Dude, that's loud. I think I'll just watch.

If I were a carpenter...

" I've been a working man dang near all my life"

Kitted out. Ready to "fence." That would be his beloved John Deere tool set (and he has no idea that plastic is bunk).

dude looks like a lady

Why, please tell me, is there a man working at my Victoria's Secret? This is just so wrong in so many ways (aside from the obvious question about his skills in bra sizing, and I won't even go there). Maybe it's because I'm a closet prude (you know I talk big, but I'm a Victorian at heart). Maybe it's because we're smack in the middle of the bible belt and this sort of thing just doesn't happen 'round these parts. Are there boys manning the bustiers and thongs in the big cities, readers? I'm curious.

I was out with the Beans to purchase some new "items" because (hallelujah!) the girls have stepped it down a notch, and I'm still wearing the ginormous underwear that I bought when I was about eight months pregnant and couldn't stand anything touching me (only now I wake several times a night because they are so huge, they drag off while I toss and turn in my sleep and my jeans drag them down to my knees during my waking hours ... seeeexxxy, huh?). However, my undies aren't so big and droopy that I'm willing to succomb to being measured by some dude in a suit hocking thongs in order to acquire some undergarments that actually fit. Go away boy, we don't want none of your kind selling us bras! Is there nothing sacred anymore?!

girl action

I have often lamented the fact that the Bean's first word was "da-da." In the face of my many valiant attempts to teach her "mama," she chose "da-da." She does love her dad. And The MAN.

I wasn't one of those people who hung all my hopes on having a girl who I could dress up in tutus and buy frou-frou frocks for. Don't misunderstand, I was beyond ecstatic when the ultrasound tech positively told us, "it's a baby girl," but I would've been just as happy had she been a he. After a few years with The MAN, I felt pretty confidently that I was made to raise boys and wasn't quite sure what I'd do with a girl, despite actually being one myself.

Good thing I didn't have such pink ambitions, because the Beans is about as boy as they come at ten months old. She eats like a linebacker, shoveling in anything her pudgy hands can make contact with. She LOVES trains and trucks, snubbing all those dolls the well-intentioned relatives bought her for Christmas. And she growls. A LOT. I've often heard from other mothers of boys that the gutteral sounds are very common in boys - growling, yelling, and wanting smash things. Maybe it's because The MAN is the greatest love of her life and what he enjoys, she enjoys - but either way, it ain't pink and it doesn't say "mama."

She's just one of the boys.

Or so we thought.

The MAN was being acutely helacious this morning, and in an attempt to compete with his son, E was giving it right back. I was folding laundry while listening to the banter when I said "all these boys are making me crazy."

At this point, Beansie started laughing wildly and clapping her hands (which she only just learned to do Friday night) as if to proclaim "ME, too! ME, too!"

The balance has been restored.

let the sun shine in, face it with a grin

Homeownership is NOT fun. Renting isn't either, but that is neither here nor there. We built the house we're living in now about two and a half years ago on some acreage that was partially inherited and partially paid for (we bought E's sister's land as well). To put it plainly, we live in the middle of grassland. And cow dung which is, thankfully, not actually on our property. Now, there are a many splendid things about throwing down stakes in Green Acres: at night, it is so dark that it's near impossible to see even a foot in front of you; the only "noise" I hear at night are crickets, bleeting goats in the distance, and occasionally a laboring (and let me tell you - we humans apparently have it much better during labor - four HOOVES people, coming through there) cow. The MAN can play for miles and miles. We have a gorgeous hillside with a stone-lined trail and the tallest cedar trees ever. Like I said, it's nothing short of beautiful.

Now, that said, there are a fair amount of "issues." The first (and certainly not the least of which) are our neighbors. They aren't just any neighbors; no, no. They're family. The mother and father-in-law variety. The variety who've made it a daily ritual to watch our comings and goings from their bathroom window, who call every SINGLE time they see E's suv here when he would normally be at work, and (oh so thankfully) the kind who have been well-trained not to drop in on us (props to E on that one because it sure saves me time not having to swipe up the kids and hide in the closet for twenty minutes listening to the MIL try to peck our door down). Oh, yeah. Did I mention that E's brother has a house near us as well? And that he and his wife of almost twenty years are in the middle of a bloody divorce? And that she's CRAZY? Trust me when I use the word crazy - it is with all sincerity. Truly unstable which is part and parcel responsible for her unwinding that contributed to the demise of the marriage. Does it get worse on the family front? Why, yes it does! They have two teenaged boys who shoot high powered rifles all over the wilderness and ride their four-wheeler (which is in immense need of a muffler) over hill and valley.

As far as the house proper goes, prior to building we discovered that city water hadn't made the long winding trek out to God's country, so we would be forced to have a well dug/installed. Being a city girl with city fineries (you know? Like drinking water.) I was far from keen on the idea, but ol' E assured me, assured me that it would "just FINE." Well, needless to say, it has been everything but "just fine." In fact, it's been a nightmare. Our first weekend in the house (after having boarded with my parents for three months because our old digs sold before the new one was complete) after all the floors were spotless and everything was packed away, I ran a deep bath. I merrily gathered all my toiletries and glided to the tub only to find that rather than having a bath in clear water, I was to have a MUD bath. Eighteen months of mud. Eighteen months of environmentalists running tests and scans. Eighteen months of fighting with the well folks who installed the pump and lining. Eighteen months of ghetto-ing our water in from a line attached to BIL's well. Eighteen months of listening to my precious MIL chirping about how we were "lucky" to have water at all. And what sweetens the deal? We paid about $7K for the whole mess of "we don't what the problem is." The problem is that our water is perfectly fine unless we have torrential rains. The upside to a season of drought? We had B-e-a-u tiful water for almost a year! Then came the rains this week, and we're back to pumping in the brother-in-law's glowing phosphorescent mineral laden water. But it's water ... and most importantly, it's not brown.

So while I'm soaking in my phosphorescent bath and dreaming of better days with clear water, I'll listen to the silence and be thankful for the darkness at night, and remember that every cloud (even those that rain all over the ground and muddy up my water) has a silver lining.

I'm here for a President, please.

So today is the day I've been dreading for a week because I had fifty million things that all culminated in this one day. I normally keep life very low key through the week with the kidlets because the more I try to do, the more disastrous it inevitably becomes. Today, though, I didn't really have the luxury of procrastination due, in large part, to Super Tuesday. Our state moved up the primary so rather than holding the primary in March as it's been in the past, it is today - so we're grouped with those masses shuttling off to and from polling locations. Today, I loaded up a fidgety (but strangely excited) three-year-old and an I'm-ready-for-a-nap-like-NOW-ten month old and headed to our local polling location. As has always been my experience, I was the youngest person there at that time (and I'm WELL beyond the voting age in this country, but senior citizens are to polling locations like bees are to honey), and - this time - the only one who brought the circus the along. The circus, however, was likely the highlight of many of the volunteers' day. We walked up to the registration booth, and The MAN looked the volunteer (who was a middle-aged lady) square in the eye and informed her, "I'm here for a President, please!" So she decided to occupy him with a pencil and some paper so he could fill out his "ballot" while the Beans and I made our way through the line.

For some reason (maybe I'm extra-cushy hormonal today?) is was really a big deal to me to bring The MAN along today. My mother has always voted, so it's something of which I've always been aware, but I really began to understand the importance of casting that vote once I passed through university. I majored in literature, so there is a goodly part of history in there and when you realize how important (and how this is - in my opinion - one of our most valuable rights as American citizens) voting is, how can you not get out the vote? It is so annoying to listen to certain people complain about and judge the decisions of our lawmakers and yet, do NOTHING, to voice that opinion when it counts.

I understand that the maybe the politicians are a turn-off (and, yeah, you know ... they often are), you feel your vote doesn't count, you don't think it will make a difference, or whatever ... but we owe this to ourselves and our kids and more importantly (particularly if you are a minority - and women this includes you!) to ALL those people who saw fit to fight for a voice in our nation when such a voice didn't exist. If you don't work that voice and grow that voice, then all the fight is in vain. People DIED so that their voice - and yours - could be counted. It's not been 150 years since women weren't allowed this right. I don't care who you vote for, democrat/republican/independent/whatever, but GO vote ... for someone. The ability to elect our leaders is something many nations cannot even imagine, so for all those who cannot - do your part in building our democracy -- speak your mind.

Alrightly, I'm off the soapbox now; love y'all!

what don't you get?

Me:

1. monster truck shows
2. paparazzi
3. soda
4. sick people who don't stay home!
5. designer knock-offs
6. why I need five strollers for 1 kid
7. Sex and the City
8. a vacation 'til May
9.mean (and I mean mean) people
10. people who remain in BAD relationships

Tag!

stepping stones and stumbling blocks

What started out as a helacious day has actually ended somewhat peacefully. Most of the time I manage to keep my exterior (even though my interior tends to rail against this at times) a bitch-free-zone, but today was an exception (likely due to a pretty strong case of baby anger). We had dinner with my parents that I spent the majority of the afternoon brooding over. It's still kind of raw with the events that rounded out the latter days of '07. I'm past all that happened and not harboring any anger or whatever, but I'm not ready to hug-it-out or sing kumbaya either. Now that I'm a couple months out from it, I think I've gained some perspective in that what happened has forced change within me that likely wouldn't have happened otherwise -- and I'm better for it. It would be nice if it didn't come wrapped in drama-drama, but it did. I digress; dinner went much better than I had anticipated.

Afterward, because I was feeling extra cocky tonight, we went to see E's parents for a brief while. His siblings and their families were there, too. We couldn't have been there for more than a half hour, and I felt like I spent the whole time dancing around land mines and booby traps. Insanity. If you could list all the inappropriate things that one should not say, that's sort of how dialogue (on behalf of his family) goes -- no one is malicious or anything, they are just socially retarded (and I mean this with all sincerity). You know like, "you sure like to eat! You're starting to look a little fat!" without any hesitation because they don't realize, in the first place, the inappropriatness of such a comment.

I spend much of the time with my mouth hanging open in sheer shock/horror/disbelief/etc. Allow me the pleasure of an illustration: everyone was admiring Bean's four teeth when E's father asked me if they were "gapped" (?!). I turned my head in his direction and stared at him before finally responding, "yes, and one leg is shorter than the other and we think she may be a hermaphrodite." Okay, I didn't say that, but E thought I should've. Rather, I told him I would imagine she did (though I've never been inclined to study the placement of her brand new pearly whites) as all babies have teeth come in with spaces between them so as to allow growth for permanent teeth. But why, Internets, I am I explaining this to you? E's dad then goes on to tell of his own lifetime perils due to a gap between his two front teeth. I felt like commenting that it was the gap between his two ears with which he should focus his concern. I feel it necessary to mention that his mother delighted in announcing to everyone at lunch when The MAN was about 15 months old that he was going to need braces.

Now, clearly, those objective minds can see this as just ludicrous and move on, but not I. At least not the old "I." But the new me, the post '07 blow-out me? I can move on, and I have.

Up until the debacle with my mother, I felt compelled to force weekly visits with E's parents upon myself. I think the drama was like a drug - I wanted to see how much I could take before I went into convulsions in a dead heap in the floor. But I'm done with that. Our life has been so mellow the past few months since all this happened that I'm not willing to go back.

I realize the importance of my children having solid, close relationships with both sets of grandparents, and I want them to have that. I do not want them to have that at my expense (or the expense of my mental and emotional well-being). I will not subject myself to being disrespected, undermined, and manipulated at every turn by adults who should know better. I would never come between my kids and the grands (by laying my issues with the grands on the kidlets), but I won't be the one responsible for developing the relationship between them either. Does this make sense? It does in my head. I am in an incredibly place of understanding and self-awareness, and that's a good place to be.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

One massage and one fab-u-lous haircut later, I am home and loving it. It was an interesting experience, though. I usually go to an Aveda salon, but the past few months, I've been seeing my mother's stylist who charges a bank-breaking $13 for a cut and dry. The downside to this, aside from a slightly askew bob, is that she only works three days a week for a couple hours each day. And I never need a haircut badly enough to drag The MAN and Beans into a salon popping at the seams with blue-hairs. So, I was commiserating with my friend about my desperate need for a haircut, and she recommended her stylist Amy. She told me Amy was tattooed (my most favorite stylist of all time - who moved - was covered head to toe in tattoos so that's what I expected of Amy. My friend also mentioned I should be sure to see Amy's son's picture at the corner of her station.

I was reading the latest Vanity Fair while waiting for Amy (whom I expected to be a twenty-something standing about 4'11 and weighing in at 160) when this lady who's about eighty hundred feet tall and three pounds walks up and nearly jerks my arm out of its socket as she vigorously shakes my hand and introduces herself as Amy. I was still relishing in the shock of her height and boniness (which was the polar opposite of what I expected) when I noticed she had to be in her late forties at the very least - no problem, just not what I envisioned. Oh, yeah. And she had a MOHAWK. Yes, she did. A PINK one at that. I spent the next forty minutes of my haircut trying to search out this chick's tattoos. She had three; one was behind her ear, one on the back of her neck, and the third on the inside of her wrist. You would think that my friend would've found it more important to mention the hot pink mohawk rather than the three well-placed tattoos. But no, she probably sat at home all morning imagining my shock and delight! Oh, and her son would give Napoleon Dynamite a run for his mojo.

The irony in all of this came when Amy told me she thought I was Asian (?????). I said, "huh?" And she clarified that when she saw my last name (which has been the root of many inquiries as to my relations with a certain rock star of old - but never mistaken for an Asian name) on her books that she thought I was Asian only Heather didn't sound Asian to her, so maybe I wasn't afterall. Then she laughed robustly and mouthed something about how funny preconceptions could be. That, they can. Indeed.

Oh, yeah, that's the spot...

As shocking as it may be to all, I have just completed my first full week of 5 am workouts! I actually started last Wednesday, so technically I've been at it for a week and a half -- and I'm down 2.5 lbs! That's 25% of my goal loss (10 lbs). Holla.

The other not so enjoyable side effect of all this steel pushing and stair stepping sweat fest? I have been barely forunate enough to find two functioning brain cells to rub together, so formulating a complete thought has been, um, difficult to say the least. This, of course, is a relief to E who has been living in fear of the Hulk that was sure to emerge after days with no sleep and excessive sweating. I'm sure it's coming, though, and all have been warned.

In other terribly exciting news, I have an appointment to get my crispy hair cut tomorrow! Can I just say how much I absolutely love going to the salon? LOVE it. L.O.V.E it! I go to an Aveda salon where they are forced to not only bless you with a fabulous cut, but a more glorious "sensory experience" which includes a delightful shoulder/head/neck massage. Short of threatening E with life and limb, I get no where close to getting anything massaged. Ever. Occasionally, if he's frightened just enough, he'll give me a couple quick shoulder squeezes followed up by a robust slap on the back and a rage-inducing, "that good enough?" Snarl.

So, whatever the cost, I will be at the salon tomorrow, with no mini-me's, no E's, no stresses, and a wonderful massage, and the anticipation is just too much! Eee!