Skipperdoodle

The world's sweetest (and arguably, fattest) wiener dog, Skipper, is currently in surgery having a rock removed from his stomach.


Nothing but thoughts of sunshine and ice cream cones going your way, little dude.

The Learning Process

My daughter's evolution from baby to big kid has been nothing if not entertaining. She can count from one to ten, but after that, creativity kicks in.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Thirteen, seventeen, eleventeen..."

Recently, Violet has also started to comment on social behavior. A few weeks ago, on the way back from the zoo,we were walking along the Greenbelt by the Boise River. It was quite warm outside, and Violet stopped in her tracks when she spotted a young man who had taken his shirt off. Aghast, she pointed.

"Mamma, is he naked?" She asked, and then, without waiting for my reply, she proclaimed, "He's naked!"

The man burst out laughing, and I explained to Violet that it's okay for boys to take their shirts off when the weather is warm. She seemed skeptical, but eventually accepted my explanation.

Violet’s language skills have also been expanding at an enormous rate, though she still makes up nonsense words to some of her favorite songs. Many of her more adorable mistakes are grammatical: she uses the pronouns "he" and "she" interchangeably. "I miss my Daddy," she sighs. "I miss her." Expressing her distaste for a variety of things, she often whines, "I can't want it."

Speaking of things she can’t want, we were watching her new Meet the Robinsons DVD the other day. The special features include two music videos. We watched the video for “Little Wonders,” by Rob Thomas, which Violet seemed to enjoy. Morbidly curious, because I’d never heard them before, I then selected the video by the Jonas Brothers.

About 20 seconds in, Violet scrunched up her nose and exclaimed, “I can’t like this.”

I guess a big part of growing up is realizing that most boy bands suck.

Egglesiastical

An explanation of Easter, for Violet: "Jesus rose from the dead, and you get chocolate. It's a win-win situation."

The Trials of Adolescence

This is me, in junior high school, shortly before my theatrical debut in the renowned musical "The Trial of the Big, Bad Wolf."



Despite my peppy poodle skirt, I'm wearing a truly dour expression. I'm pretty sure my grumpiness resulted from the scary clown makeup applied by my sister (she of the fish lips, posing behind me). By today's standard, I'd say I look pretty emo. Which is funny, because I remember being very excited to participate in the production, even though I was only a member of the jury.

On a somewhat related note, it is one of my impossible dreams to be cast as a jury member in ANY variation of "Law & Order." Though I would prefer to be a corpse.

Parked

As much as I would enjoy coming up with some sort of scathing social commentary, time has not been my friend as of late. I constantly make plans to sit down and create, but these fleeting thoughts remain simple and apparently unrealistic ambitions. I know that I need to schedule time to write, every day, especially if I ever hope to finish anything. But it's the schedule part that eludes me. Our days have been simultaneously full and empty, filled with menial tasks that I wish I could put off. In addition, Violet's naps have been few and far between lately, so I've had very little time to myself.

That being said, I need to wash the sheets and sweep/mop the floors. But not before I take Violet to the park. There are many things left to do inside the house, but we definitely need to get out of it...

The Tell-Tale Bangs

After about fifteen years of having long, straight, boring hair, I decided to get a trendy haircut. I started with a bob about a year ago, but my recalcitrant hair thought that such a style required too much maintenance. I couldn't even get both sides to curve inward, even with the liberal use of mousse, a curling iron, and hairspray. So as of late, I've decided to keep the bangs and grow the rest of my hair out.

As much as I love my severe little bangs, they decided to develop their own personality and rebel against me. If I have my wet hair wrapped in a towel for even a few minutes, my bangs think it is their duty to stick straight up for the remainder of the day. If I've been lying down (or, wonder of wonders, sleeping) for any measure of time, my bangs also gravitate toward the ceiling. It's as if they're revolting against the very idea of my being rested. We'd like to point out, lazy ass, they seem to hiss, that you've been sleeping on the job again.

My options are grim, at best. I can continue on, and try to peacefully coexist with my bangs. I can spend an hour a day trying to browbeat them into submission. I can also go through the lovely awkwardness of the growing-out phase, in the hopes that they will eventually rejoin the ranks of the rest of my hair. I have a feeling that I will instead reach the breaking point, shave my head, and just start over.

On that note, I must prepare to trim my daughter's bangs before they take over her face...