Bonanza Jellybean

Happy Birthday to Me

Abut 11 years ago, newly married, in love with horses, and poor beyond comprehension, we bought our first horse. Her name is Molly, and beyond a few names on her pedigree and a $900 price, we knew NOTHING of what we were doing. In fact, she was atrociously ugly and small and skinny. BUT... I looked at her papers and saw that she and I had the same birthday (May 30- today, in case anyone can make it to the UPS store in time with fabulous gifts that might include an Aston Martin Vanquish. I turned 35, which I see as halfway to 70, and I need something to kick off my mid-life crisis properly. I prefer the green one if available.).

I took it as a sign. We bought her.

Molly grew up and into a beautiful horse. A bit stubborn and a lot bitchy, but wonderful.

She broke her neck a few years ago in a freak accident. The vet told us to put her down, but the best answer I could give was, "She's not ready to die." We took her home and medicated the hell out of her, and she healed. We can't ride her anymore, and moves a little funny, but she's here. Tough as hell, that one.

A year ago, we decided she had healed enough to try and breed her. We had concerns about how she would do, since horses lie down to give birth, and since the accident, she doesn't lie down much.

She did fine.

You know, I've only been here an hour or so, and already they've come out here and squirted stuff on my belly button and stuck something in my behind that made me poop all over and lifted my tail up to see if there is one hole or two, which there is only ONE, thank you very much. I could have TOLD THEM I was a boy if they would have ASKED. DAMN, I'm new, but I'm not STUPID.
I don't think I'm going to like it here much. These people SUCK.

Mom! I'm HUUUUUUNNNNNNGGRRYYYYYY! Feed me. You can be tired LATER. Oh wait, I think I'm on the wrong end. The milk dispenser's back there... Damn, they should have those at BOTH ends.

The vet may have to come out later, because we're waiting on everything to come out like it's supposed to, and OF COURSE, it's not, which has meant a fun morning for me, but all in all, a nice way to start a birthday.
Three of us now, all with the same birthday.

At least I'm not the one who had labor pains for my birthday present.

Edited to Add: Everything that was supposed to come out is now out, so Molly's safe and healthy and all done. Avoidance of another veterinary nightmare is DEFINITELY the best birthday present of all.

If You Promise to Ignore the Obvious Lack of Interior Design Ambition, I'll Let You Freely Ridicule the Southern Accent

This is what passes for entertainment at the Bonanza household.

Sad, yes. Yet compelling.
In a strange, call-child-services-immediately kind of way.

Be sure to listen for Soccer Chick in the background. It's integral to the plot.
And notice the cat deciding to get the hell out of dodge.
Smart cat.

When I Tell You Not to Turn the Car Off and You Do It Anyway, It Immediately Falls Into the Realm of "It's Your Own Damn Fault"

My car.
My perfect Nissan Murano.
My beloved, wonderful, smooth-riding, easy-driving, satellite-radio-playing, leather-seat-ass-cushioning BABY is sick today.
(I'm waiting on the phone call that will tell me the damage. I'm thinking it's only the battery, since each of the three times I had to start it this morning got a little slower, but you never know- it's Japanese, high-end, and overly computerized. BUT... It runs fine once you talk it into waking up. Much like me. A perfect automotive match.)

After the last time that REALLY took some effort to get started, I decided I better get it somewhere quick before I turned it off again and got stranded. So I drove it to the local repair place (Which I won't name because someone might say "Hey! I can meet Bonanza!" and go there and wait and then see me in my white shirt that I spilled coffee all down this morning in a fit of temper about the car situation, and I would MUCH rather make a good first impression. Rather than that of "an overgrown 2 year old in serious need of a bib" impression. Which is actually FAR more common. If I ever actually plan to meet anyone in person, it's going take approximately 4 hours to prepare myself. And a tarp.) and pulled into the "ENTER HERE" opening that is the ONLY entrance (one car wide, by the way).

I left the car running because HELLO, PEOPLE. THE REASON IT'S HERE IS BECAUSE IN THE VERY NEAR FUTURE IT'S NOT GOING TO START. I'M TRYING TO HELP YOU OUT HERE.
The seemingly gratuitous capitalization is because of how many times I actually told the guys at the shop this when they pointed out to me repeatedly that "Hey! You left your car on," and the times I told them repeatedly why. You would think guys who work on cars for a living would be a bit more at-ease with a car that was ON. Maybe they're only used to ones that don't get ON very easily.

And HOORAY!!!! The car place just called, and it is the battery. Well, not exactly HOORAY!!!!, because a new battery for my car is $125. Maybe just a "woo!" Followed by a "shit."

ANYWAY...
So I told them NOT TO TURN THE CAR OFF.
Again, the capitals show repetition.
So guess what they did?

When Work Husband showed up to pick me up and take me to work (Can you get any sweeter? Well, I guess you COULD. He could have brought me coffee to replace what I spilled. And gotten out and opened the door for me.  And given me endless sympathy when I started complaining about feeling trapped at work with no escape since I have no car about 10 minutes ago. I guess considering I called and said pitifully, "Can you come get me? with no prior notice and he showed up in 7 minutes, I have to be happy with what I get. A girl can dream, though.), they were in the process of hauling the battery charger over and trying to put the car in neutral so they could push it.

They actually looked over at me, as if asking for help or guidance. I just smiled and said, "I warned you, didn't I? It's your problem now."

Which might be why they're charging me $125 for a battery.

But my main gripe with this whole thing is that I also got new tires quoted, because mine are going the way of Michael Jordan's hairstyle. I can't really complain, because what's on there is 30K mile tires and I've gotten 76K out of them (Which I always do, because my vehicles LOVE ME. Seriously. My old truck had 200K on it, and I never did any more than oil changes and stuff. Because it loved me and wanted to spare me grief. And probably thought that cash would be better spent on wrinkle cream or something. Can you tell I have a birthday coming up?).

New tires for my car?
NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Because I had to be all fancy and get a car with 18 inch tires. That only 3 companies seem to make replacements for. And only in the top lines.

Did they warn me when I was buying the car that "Hey, you're going to LOVE the car. It drives like a dream and hardly ever needs work. However, when it does, you're probably going to have to call an Indonesian kidney broker to cover it."?
NO.
Did they mention that a mere BATTERY that in other cars costs about $60 would be DOUBLE in mine? And would probably conk out quicker because of all the "luxury" power options the wonderful car has?
NO.

It would have been nice. That's all I'm saying.
I would have bought the car ANYWAY. Because I would have said, "Oh, that's no big deal. It's worth it." or something as equally inane and caught in the new-car-smell moment. Because I severely lack in foresight. Or budgeting ability. Or practicality. The way I look at it is: I'm in the car for a MINIMUM of 100 miles per day 5 days a week. It better be fucking comfortable.
So I wouldn't have cared.
I would just wait until I got to the time that something had to be done and then stomped around all day throwing a tantrum.

Which is totally not what I'm doing now.
NOW I am complaining that I wasn't warned.
Not about how everything costs double.

Though to poor Work Husband who is trapped in an office with me and is getting ready to take me to get my car, I doubt he recognizes the subtle distinctions in the choices.

The Six Thousand Dollar Man, the Shot that Must Not Be Named, and What Happens When You Don't Watch Where You Walk

In other words, an update of the last week. You know, since I have been SO busy and SO stressed and SO wonderfully accommodating to all who need assistance without complaint or question.

You know, because I'm good like that.
Maybe.
Probably not.
I MIGHT have complained once or twice.
Or more.
Whatever.

On Tuesday of last week, Dutch Oven FINALLY had his knee surgery.
I know, everyone's going "Wait! I already read that! He already had knee surgery! She's lost all sense of the space-time continuum!" but NOOOOOO.
This was the SECOND knee surgery. On the OTHER knee.
Because you know, it felt left out.
He received a brand-spanking new ACL (Well, not really NEW, since it came out of a cadaver. Which is a situation that I am currently trying not to contemplate AT ALL, since it kind of makes me squeamish because WHO KNOWS WHERE IN THE HELL THAT ACL HAS BEEN? It could have come out of a homeless crack addict. Or worse, a REPUBLICAN. Also, if I kiss it to make it better, am I cheating on him since it's not his? Would I then be kissing a Republican? Ick. Just ICK.) and a bunch of repair work. He's been on crutches the whole time, drugged off his ass the first day or so, and VERY tired of being unable to shower (Which, let's face it, is something everyone in the house could get tired of. I bought him the sponge-bath wipes and hoped for the best. I then installed a new shower head with the hose thingy so we could bathe him, but it wasn't as easy as I had hoped. But I, ALL BY MYSELF, did home repair. I deserve praise. Whether it worked well or not.).
He's fine now, and beginning the long PT road. They say he'll be even better and stronger than before.
I guess when he named himself after the 6 Million Dollar Man, he chose correctly.

Soccer Chick, on the other hand, remains questionable.
The tonsils flared up AGAIN, and so I called the doctor AGAIN. Apparently, they have powers of medical divination unknown to the general population, because they wouldn't make her an appointment because they were full but were happy to call in some antibiotics for her. I POLITELY questioned their judgment on prescribing medication without actually LOOKING at her, and then I MIGHT have become a bit hostile and condescending and profane.
Just a bit, though. Promise.
So I got her an appointment with a much better doctor (where all the rich kids in town go- hey, I got CONNECTIONS), where he promptly asked me what the results of the other throat swabs they had done were.
I just looked at him. "Ummmm, I don't think they did one. Ever."
So then I got to sit there and feel like a DUMBASS because I didn't know exactly what the doctor was supposed to be doing the whole time we've been dealing with this. Because you know, EVERYONE attends medical school in their spare time on the weekends so they can perform oversight on the people they pay who supposedly also went to medical school and are supposed to know what the hell they're doing.
Turns out, Soccer Chick probably doesn't have anything wrong with her tonsils.
She has, however, probably had strep throat for about 8 months.
Which would explain A LOT (in case anyone remembers the posts where I worried she was "frail" and then we had to descend in eating-disorder internet assvice HELL).
Being a good doctor, he announced, "Well, we're not going to let this go on a second longer."
And decided that she needed a big ol' antibiotic shot in the ass.
Which apparently is the most distressing, humiliating, upsetting, horrible thing known in the world of an 8 year old girl. No explanations from me, including "Honey, they're DOCTORS. They see ass cheek ALL THE TIME." would help.
I thought I was QUITE reassuring, but she wasn't buying it.
I was informed in the car that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED to speak of the shot unless we were in the confines of our home. And that the shot was not in the BUTT, but in the HIP. And WE COULD NOT TALK ABOUT IT. Even for me to ask if it was sore. NO TALKING ABOUT IT. NO. TALKING.
So what do I do? Tell the Internet. Hee hee.
Everything seems MUCH better, but we go back in 2 weeks to decide if the tonsils do need to come out.

And THEN, after I made it through both of these things in the span of four days while working full-time and trying to maintain a house...
OK, I use the term "full time" loosely...

Soccer Chick's new puppy (I use the term LOOSELY, as he weighed in at 65 lbs.) decided Sunday night to look pathetic and lethargic. And to limp. And not eat.
So I checked him, and his leg was swollen and hot (along with the rest of him). Further inspection revealed two puncture marks on his leg.
Snake.
So Dutch Oven called the emergency vet, and after hearing that it probably wasn't life-threatening, he informed them, "Frankly, we've seen enough of you guys. No offense or anything. We'll take him in tomorrow."
Which I did.
Which is A WHOLE OTHER BLOG POST IN ITSELF. (Probably tomorrow, because LOOK! I'M POSTING AGAIN! Also, because I have a picture of the ordeal but can't load it on my work computer, which is where I am typing, because I have done ENOUGH work lately, dammit.)
Have I mentioned that we haven't managed to teach the 65 lb. "puppy" how to walk on a leash yet? Or ride in the car? Or even how to get INTO THE CAR? Or how to go out in public and behave in a presentable manner?
Any OTHER self-respecting dog would have gotten bitten in the face, because you know, he would be INVESTIGATING or ATTACKING or doing some other worthwhile defending-your-family kind of action.
Not Dink.
Our best guess is that he was running full speed through the woods and stepped on the poor creature without ever noticing it. You know, chasing invisible bunnies or something.
After a LONG wait and a fine impression of a 65 lb. canine dust mop (again, tomorrow), he got the medicine he needed and should be fine. He managed to run and jump up on me this morning, leaving a muddy paw print on the front of my white shirt as I was leaving for work, so everything seems to be back to normal.

So that's the update.
Fun, huh?

See, I'm a Gemini, and We Change Our Minds a Lot...

I said I wouldn't post here anymore, didn't I?

But this site still gets twice the traffic as the new one, and most people use it to go to the new one, and I have just been lacking any motivation at all about the new one. I don't think I could ever get into it the right way.

I think I could just never get it to feel like home.

Also, I'm a whore who is missing the traffic. I feel UNLOVED and UNWANTED. Never mind that I've been posting about as often as Laura Bush is giving head, judging from the grumpy disposition of our current administration.

So... I'm going to do SOMETHING with DinkinMess, but I'm coming back to Bonanza. Bonanza I am, I guess. Besides, I miss having "BJ" as my initials.

So all you lazy-asses out there who never updated the link could be labeled as having extreme foresight. Those of you who did... sorry. I suck. I won't do it again.

Multiple Choice

OK, class... Take out your pencils. This is a pop quiz.

1) Dink has been mysteriously absent because
     a) she is trapped under something heavy and no one cares enough to render assistance
     b) she has spent the last three days in another state in a hotel with 16 persons under the age of 12 and their parents
     c) she finally kidnapped Hugh Jackman
     d) her animals finally became literate, read Animal Farm, and staged a coup
     e) all of the above

2) Dink cannot write a real post with thought and wit and all that shit because
     a) a person under the age of 12 kicked her in the head during a hotel pool chicken fight and left her with a temporary case of amnesia
     b) Dunk is receiving a bionic knee tomorrow and much preparation is needed, thus making Dink run around like a chicken with her head cut off
     c) she has decided to actually be productive at work, cutting into her normal writing time
     d) b and c only
     e) all of the above

3) Dink learned this weekend that it is not safe (or smart) to
     a) allow 16 persons under the age of 12 to play soccer in a hotel hallway
     b) teach any person under the age of 12 how to do cheerleading stunts in a hotel pool
     c) allow parents of persons under the age of 12 to bring a blender and fully-stocked bar to a hotel when someone is supposed to be "supervising" said persons under 12
     d) leave anything valuable in a hotel parking lot overnight in Atlanta in a jeep with zippered windows
     e) all of the above

4) Dink feels like a shitty mother when
     a) her child that doesn't swim very well falls into the deep end of the pool while 8 adults are talking less than 10 feet away and no one notices, leaving a teammate to pull her to safety after she swallows so much water she can't breathe or swim
     b) a only

5) Airline personnel in training who have spent the last week jumping out of airplanes and have been away from home for three weeks while staying in a hotel do not like it when
     a) 16 persons under the age of 12 are allowed to play soccer in a hotel hallway
     b) parents of persons under the age of 12 bring a blender and fully-stocked bar to a hotel when someone is supposed to be "supervising" said persons under 12
     c) persons under 12 cannot decide which hotel room is the best one to play in after being told to "Get in a room already" and must check every room for every available activity and occupant
     d) one smart-ass mother begins taking bets in the hallway on how long it will take for hotel security to appear
     e) all of the above

6) Persons under 12 do not understand (no matter how much explanation is given)...
     a) why it is not smart to eat ice cream before competing in a sports activity in 90 degree heat
     b) why it is not wise to swim in an indoor pool connected to an outdoor pool during a lightning storm
     c) that the scalp can indeed be sunburned
     d) that sitting in a hotel hallway in their pajamas telling teenage boys that they're all drinking strawberry daiquiris (leaving the word "virgin" out) and that there's PLENTY more in room 430 and SURE THEY CAN HAVE SOME is not wise
     e) all of the above

7) Dink will return as soon as
     a) Dunk has his "aftermarket" ACL installed tomorrow
     b) the mountainous pile of work on her desk is cleared
     c) she is fired and has plenty of time on her hands
     d) she thinks of something to write
     e) all of the above

More Cushion for the Pushin'

Yesterday, while trapped in our office, doing what could presumably be called work...

Work Husband: (in mock radio announcer, movie trailer style voice with booming excitement) FRIDAY. MAY 18. HERE. I GIVE. YOU. BILL. CLINTON.

Me: (knowing that Bill is his idol and that he treasures the talking Bill Clinton doll I got him above all other worldly possessions) Really? Where?

Work Husband: Let's see... a dinner. Oh. For $1000 a person.

Me: You know, if my husband didn't need a new knee...

Work Husband: Wait! He's speaking at an NAACP thing that night for only $75 a person!

Me: Ummmm, will they let us in there?

Work Husband: They'll let in anyone who pays.

Me: Well, that is a bit more affordable...

Work Husband: DAMN. I want to go.

Me: Well, if your wife can't or won't go with you, I'll go. I'd love to see him.

Work Husband sends over a suspicious look...

Me: And I'll BEHAVE myself. You know I clean up nicely when I want to. Oh wait, Bill likes 'em southern and trashy.

Work Husband: I hate to tell you, but you are WAY too skinny for Bill. He likes his women a bit bigger than you.

Me: I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Wow. Who knew sexual rejection could be a compliment?

Work Husband: I do what I can.

Just Further Securing My Place in Hell If It Turns Out I'm Wrong

Michelle Incanno, you are the biggest fucking idiot I have ever had the displeasure to read or hear about. You are doing ABSOLUTELY nothing to further your cause, and DAMN, do you make Americans look stupid.

I used your name so when this all dies down and you decide to Google yourself one day, you can still feel my wrath. Because even if it's 10 years down the road, I will still have every inclination to tell you to suck it.

I am PRAYING people overseas don't read much of our news. You know, in countries where people are somewhat more WORLDLY.
Because if I EVER travel and someone in Europe comes up to me and says "Wow, you're from that country where people get mad about philosophy on coffee cups and make Paris Hilton famous! You must be an utter moron!" and walk away laughing, I am driving to Ohio just to take flyers from the local Wal-Mart's Sunrise Easter Service (that are still blowing around everywhere, by the way, Wal-Mart and all your "we're so environmental" PR bullshit) and shove them down your throat.
And help you wash them down with some coffee poured from an atheistic coffee cup from Starbucks.

What the fuck, people?
Have we gone so far that differing opinions now require news stories and boycotts? Are we so intolerant of other people that a COFFEE CUP can cause a fit? Are we so uneducated that we don't realize the REAMS of philosophical studies dedicated to the divine and whether it actually exists and how we interpret it?

Apparently, yes.

And SECOND OF ALL, how exactly did this get into the public eye? Did Miss Devout Catholic who swears "she just wanted her coffee without religion" stumble into a waiting news crew hovering behind the barista because they knew in advance that Starbucks was launching its corporate anti-god crusade?
Sure.
I'm sure it's much closer to her getting the cup and thinking "Oh goody. I can call the newspaper and fight for Jesus! I'll definitely get into heaven if I attack the coffee cups! This might even be good enough so that I don't have to tithe all year! Jesus loves me this I know... Oh look! A Pro-Choice bumper sticker! HEATHENS! I wonder if I can get those banned too... Too bad they weren't on the coffee cup."

Now, don't get me wrong.
Religion can be a great way for people to make sense of their lives and find a sense of purpose. If that's what floats your boat, then great, as far as I'm concerned. I know and am friends with many people who are fairly devout, from baptist to catholic, and they're cool with me thinking it's a load of hooey while I'm cool with them placing their fannies in the pews every Sunday. Hell, I'm probably going to send my kid to a religious school one day (with disclaimers about the religion class grade- "Just use it to pump your GPA like I did, baby.").
It's called TOLERANCE. And not the fake TV kind.

The minute you start acting like your system is the only one on the planet and think that all public policy and discourse should be grounded in your system and your system only, though, I mentally move you into the "deluded Bible-thumping asshole" category in the mental Rolodex.

I can't decide if I'm more upset that this woman ever said anything or that the media is dumb enough to publicize her. Hell, I'm offended CONSTANTLY be things I see, but no one puts me on CNN. Which is probably good, because all the beeps over my dialog would probably be distracting.

So here's my little prayer to THEIR god, because mine doesn't give a rat's ass about people actually thinking. Hell, she's probably happy about it.

Dear Lord, I stand before you today as your humble servant, and I ask that you revive the old "burning bush" public appearance policy. See, I think you rocking the whole "hermit" thing for the last 2000 years has left way too much room for interpretation among your followers.

I don't really think you would have gone to the trouble of creating things as wonderful as genitalia and orgasms or people of different colors and inclinations if you wanted your followers to spend 22 hours of the day being afraid of them and decrying their very existences (the other 2 seem to be spent with prostitutes usually). They're seriously trashing some things you obviously put some effort into. And most likely had no problem with when you thought of them.

Please come down soon and take a look at how stupid people have gotten. And fix it, please. Because it's starting to look like only divine intervention will be enough.

Help people to honestly care about the world around them, not just the TV in front of them. Help people to see other people as real. Help people to see more than one side of every issue. Help people to understand that a fish sticker on their car doesn't make them a good, or even nice, person. Help people to choose real leaders, not just the canned ones with good funding.

And give some scientist a brain burst that fixes the whole "burning dead dinosaurs" issue so my kid and her kids can have polar bears to see somewhere besides a zoo. And help people have the sense to accept it when that scientist does. Even Exxon.

I know it sounds like a lot, but you're GOD. Probably take you all of 10 seconds, right?

Swoop down on this country, and send a few lightning bolts straight at the asses of the people using your name as a means to power, control, publicity and money. Because they fucking deserve it.

And make "fuck" not a bad word.

And strike Michelle-whats-her-name mute.

And help me to get off my soapbox, because could I be any more of a self-righteous brat? Really.

OK. Done now. Amen.

The Proud Owner of a Parallel Ass Crack

This morning, being tired and grouchy and irritable, I decided I needed a bit of "me time," which meant a nice, long, hot bath instead of my usual hurried shower.

So I ran the tub, climbed in, and sank back to enjoy the warm overall goodness that is a hot bath.
Relaxation and tranquility poured over me.

Now, in the bathroom with me was our dog Bear, who refuses to leave me alone lest I drown, and the cat Frosty, who probably could give a shit less if I drown.

You've seen them before, but here they are again in a photo I lovingly entitle KNUCKLEHEADS:

So there I was, enjoying my bath, minding my own business. With a dog on the floor outside the tub and the cat perched on the side of the tub.
You see where this is going, don't you?
I wish I had.

I bent forward to make the water a bit hotter (anything less than red-skin-blazing will just not do).
There was a crash of shampoo bottles hitting the floor.
There was the sound of hurried paws on tile.
There was the ripping feeling of my skin giving way.

The cat was in the tub, and he was going to latch those little needles into whatever he could to get out.
Which happened to be my back.

I give good leverage.

And he was apparently HELL BENT to get out, because these aren't normal little kitty scratches. These fuckers are WELTS.
That took TWENTY MINUTES to stop bleeding completely so I could get dressed.
That are, on average, about 10 inches long, running from above my waist to halfway down my right ass cheek.
That really fucking hurt.

I look like I have a parallel ass crack.
Lucky me.

And to add insult to injury, where did the cat go to compose himself? You know, to lick indignantly at the nature of all things wet? To let whatever he could find absorb the water and loose cat hair from his pristine coat?
My side of the bed.

Which sucks, because now the option of going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head to hide from the world is RUINED.

I can't wait to go to the chiropractor and explain that I am all crooked because my cat made a new ass crack on me and it hurts to sit on it so I've been left-cheek inclined for a week. That's going to go over GREAT.

You know it's a BAD FUCKING DAY when you are RELIEVED to get to work.

Anybody want a cat? FREE SHIPPING.

Eight. It's the New Thirteen.

It happened without any notice, any warning. It was sprung upon us like a puma careening down from a cliff to remove the head of an unsuspecting jogger. The shock and trauma it has caused is like icy daggers through both of our parental hearts...

Well, mine at least. I have no idea what he thinks sometimes, but I'm guessing. He did say "HOLY SHIT" when I showed him the pictures.

We got Soccer Chick's school spring pictures back a few days ago. The spring pictures aren't the ones that go in the annual or anything- they're really just an excuse to make more money for the school by preying on mother's desire to get some extra wearing out of the $90 easter dresses they just bought their little princesses, but I digress.
Did my kid get an Easter Dress? Considering we were sitting home on the couch eating easter chocolate and watching English soccer that bright Sunday morning that Christ arose, I'll give you just one guess. She wore jeans and a nice shirt she picked out.

So I got the picture proofs and took one look at them and said, "Who in the HELL is THAT?"
To which Soccer Chick giggled.

She is no longer a little girl.
Gone are the pudgy girlish cheeks, the shorter stature of a child, the overall roundness that goes with a little kid.
She looked like a fucking teenager. Tall, thinner face, stylish hair, mature pose...
My baby is GONE. And it apparently happened sometime three weeks ago when I was busy watching Gene Simmons Family Jewels (Don't say A WORD, Drummer Boy. I mean it. That's my new guilty pleasure favorite show and I feel the need to justify myself to NO ONE.)

So I guess this explains the following statements that have been heard in VASTLY INCREASING QUANTITIES lately...
"I don't want to wear THAT."
"No pink."
"No flowers."
"No yellow."
"No flowy stuff. Yuck."
"Don't they make shoes for me that don't look like BARBIE?"
"No one ELSE wears that."
"I'm not a girly-girl. That's GIRLY."

Followed by me saying in VASTLY INCREASING QUANTITIES...
"Fine. I'll take it back."
"But it looks really good on you."
"I can't HELP IT, for pete's sakes. It's all they have in your size."
"DAMMIT. Shut up and WEAR IT."

Self-image has arrived.
God help us.