Stop, you're encouraging me.

I have to report that Phase One of the Fruit Hair Experiment yielded mixed results.

The bottle said "Plum." And the model on the box was sporting fabulous, dark red hair with glossy purple highlights.

I showed the box to Gary (who, by the way, had earned himself 500 Husband Points for secretly cutting out hair color coupons and slipping them into the weekly coupon stack) and he deemed it sassy. It seemed an excellent "baby step" to the bright Jolly Rancher-ish colors I really want.

Shortly before dinner, I informed everyone I was going to be in the bathroom a while. Gert asked why. I told her I was going to take a bath and make my hair change color.

"Oh!" Gert said. "I like to do that sometimes too!"

We were confused, until it occurred to us that dunking your hair in the water does make it appear darker. We praised Gert for the keen observation and she ran off to play, chatting to herself about how sometimes she makes her hair blue, and sometimes she makes her hair orange… She's been hanging out with me too long.

Something I learned: If Mom is going to try to lock herself in the bathroom at 4:45 on a Sunday, EVERY CHILD IN THE HOUSE WILL NEED HER from 4:46 until 5:32 when she finally throws open the door and says, "What???" Then they will all look confused and shrug, and proceed to play contentedly by themselves for the rest of the night.

What I ended up with is not exactly what I would call "Plum." It's more of a warm chestnut brown with hints of red, and in the right light it might lean more toward burgundy. Oh well. It's nice, in a this-just-might-be-someone's-natural-color kind of way, but not very unusual. I should have expected as much from supermarket color.

But that's okay, it's a start.

It makes me want a piercing.

I have really, seriously got to get over my obsession with punch-colored hair.

I see a girl with hair the color of Grape and I desperately want to be the kind of person who could rock that.

I'm too freaking old to turn my hair into shiny, glossy, awesome strands of purple. Or orange, I could do orange. But no! That's the problem, I can't do orange! I'm the mother of two daughters who would never stop laughing at me. I couldn't go to a parent-teacher conference and talk solemnly about math and social studies with Grape hair.

On the other hand, I'm 99% sure it would keep other parents from trying to make small talk with me in the hall while I waited for my parent-teacher conference.

That's appealing.

I don't like other mothers of fourth-graders. With very, very few exceptions, they are a bunch of old married women who think their husbands are retarded and that swapping canned tuna recipes is a good time. They all smile a little too wide and chat in a voice that's too high-pitched to be authentic.

The worst part is, I turn into them when they talk to me. Because I don't have any other defense. I can't really say, "Are you serious? You actually give a shit about PTA politics?"

I'm taking Matilda to a school-sponsored skating party tonight where I'm going to rock my mental purple hair and knit a lot, which hopefully will make me seem odd and unapproachable.

Hot.

I am so doing this.

And not just because I'm cheap. Only somewhat.

And then I'm making this because garter stitching should be as dirty as it sounds.

I love rainy weather so much it makes my fingertips tingle, and no, I'm not being sarcastic. I love everything about it, from the charge it gives the air, to the sound of it, to the feeling of being warm and dry in your own little spot while everything around you is drenched in a downpour.

When we heard that it was supposed to rain nonstop from yesterday afternoon well into tomorrow, Gary worried about water in the basement. I solemnly voiced concern as well, and then I got a little giddy and rummaged around in my closet looking for my coziest rainy-day sweater that I might hole up with somewhere while rain pounds the roof and threatens its structural integrity.

So many things to be concerned about in a rainstorm. Tree limbs could fall. Yards could flood. Basements could leak. And at this time of year it could all quite possibly freeze, causing all kinds of turmoil.

I'm concerned, I am. But… rain! How can you not want to just curl up and listen to it, or daydream about running out in it and splashing through it barefoot, grinning like an idiot?

Gert sat in her bed last night as I was tucking her in, and I pointed out how lovely the sound of the rain was. She started to whimper. "What if there's thunder?" she asked.

"Then you can just come snuggle in bed with me!"

I knew she'd be sound asleep in five minutes and would never hear any thunder unless it was loud enough to wake me up too. Except now I'm thinking the only thing better than laying in bed listening to the rain would be to have a warm, chubby little girl in your arms who feels safer in the rain because you're there.

In the spirit of the new year, there are a few things I'd like to address. It's important to note that these are not resolutions. These are pinky swears.

I do hereby and in the witness of my peers solemnly resolve to:

1. Eat more fruit.

2. Post more often.

3. Occasionally put down the knitting.

4. Be myself.

5. Pay attention.

6. Let go of things that don't matter.

Not mentioned in the list above is my weight loss goal for this year, because to fret about weight would violate Solemn Resolve #6. But I'll just say we bought a new digital scale and I lost 3.5 pounds during the fifteen minutes it took to calibrate it properly. Shut up, that counts.

My total goal is divided into little goals, and each one is tied to a reward. And when I say reward, I mean:

Reward 1. A new knitting magazine

Reward 2. A new knitting book

Reward 3. Yarn for a new project from elann.com

Reward 4. My own knitting blog

I realized I need to have a blog devoted to knitting as I was making a list of things I want and discovered this surprising trend.

What did I do with myself before knitting? Oh yeah, I took on crazy projects like this.

And speaking of, if you say the words "musical theater" around our house nowadays, a certain oldest daughter breaks into songs from The Pirates of Penzance. Meanwhile, if you say the words "costume check is next Monday" to me, I'll pull out sketches and schematics of dresses and nightgowns I'm planning to complete before costume check.

I am the very model of a modern major gen-er-al…

HYPOTHETICAL QUESTION: If it is true that a) My boss is out of town, and b) All of today's tasks have been completed with grace and flair, is it therefore logical to conclude that I should spend the rest of the afternoon with my door shut knitting a superpunk sweater and listening to Spoozys at a decidedly unprofessional volume?

On my to-do list before the year ends:

Find a way to use up about 2 pounds of frozen pork in my freezer, hopefully in some sort of tasty, low-effort casserole.

Select "Español" when I check out my groceries through the self-service lane at Schnucks.

Finish a project at work that's tied to a bonus. I could be finishing that up right now if I weren't making lists… whatever.

Make peace with the pre-tax reimbursement accounts so all columns end with zero.

Reacquaint myself with the concept of healthful snacking and reasonable portion sizes. Right now my pants are so tight I can't put my hands in my pockets, and that's seriously crimping my ain't-no-big-deal style.

Clean the house so that when people come over they're not tripping over human-sized balls of lint.

Pretend I actually have people coming over so I'll have an excuse to prepare six or seven packages of Little Smokies swimming in barbecue sauce.

Buy toothpicks, because Little Smokies taste ten times better coming off a toothpick. Even if you're standing over the crockpot in your own kitchen, wearing sweatpants and stabbing at them like fish in a barrel.

Santa got a lot of things right this year. A Pixter for Gert and a Gameboy for Matilda, a karaoke machine, a bottle-sucking baby Annabelle, and several of the very loudest board games known to man.

The karaoke machine was cool on Christmas morning, but it didn't really come into its own until later that day when the girls were given a huge set of "play" (a word which here means never-ever-to-be-worn-outside-the-house, or not-even-when-you're-forty) makeup by Grandpa. And Matilda's biodad "gave" (a word meaning to foot the bill for an idea he never would have come up with on his own) her a spot in a musical theater class.

Well, by the time Monday rolled around and Daddy had to go back to that business of being in business, it became clear to me and the girls that it was time to become Pop Stars.

First stop was Wardrobe – rooting through closets for mismatched clothing skirts with some spin, to them.

Then it was time to hit the ProStyle Salon for Hair and Makeup, in which it was announced that I was "the best!" for letting them smear makeup on themselves. Have you ever applied mascara to a 3-year-old? Go ahead and tell me how wrong it is. Both girls got the whole thing – eyeshadow, lips, blush, nails. And then they did the same to me.

As my face began busily breaking out beneath thick layers of Walmart cosmetics, the little brittneys sang and shrieked into the microphone, taking turns calling the other up on stage to perform.

Just as I had them believing I might possibly be the coolest mom ever, I announced my next big idea.

"Okay! Now let's all go wash our faces with Noxema before Mommy realizes what's actually taking place here."

Another successful office party last night, rounded off with competitive alphabet belching. Props to Whitney for her victory, who apparently after we left started cranking her fist in the air and yelling, "I'm a belching machine! BraKK! BraKK!"

Whitney doesn't even work here.

She claimed to be with one of the designers, but I'm not so sure he was willing to admit to that by the end of the night.

Ah, to be young and drunk again.

There's a strange hostile vibe in the toy section of stores these days. You'll notice it kicking in if you find yourself standing in front of a display thinking over a purchase, weighing the price, features, etc, all of the perfectly rationale shopping strategies that you employ the other 11 months of the year. Then another parent walks up beside you and starts eyeing toys on the same display.

Suddenly, it becomes critical that you end your leisurely browsing and make a dive for any particular toy that interests you, because you might be picking up the last one in stock. And the other parent might pick it up first, leaving you frantically grasping for Plan B before that too is snatched up.

Hooray for the holidays.

I'm normally very "whee, it's Christmastime!" but not this year. It came around too fast, and I wasn't prepared. I don't feel organized, and I'm sure I'm forgetting something important that will occur to me on Christmas Eve when it's too late. I haven't baked cookies, I haven't sent cards. Sorry, I don't think they're going out to anyone this year – please don't take me off your list. I'll send you two next time.

I want to be excited about Christmas but I'm afraid I'm failing at the whole thing and therefore should enjoy none of it. I guess I just need to lighten up because no one gets it 100% right, and those who do end up with display-case Christmas scenes where everyone is sitting perfectly still, afraid of upsetting the perfection and sending you into convulsions.

That's not cool. What's cool is sitting in your darkened living room watching the lights blink on the tree, just like you did in when you were a kid and it was magic.

I'm really ashamed of myself (well, not really), but I just told a spammer where to go.

Not one of those who steals your email off your website or a message board and bombards you with offers of cheap Viagra… I'm talking about people who you have one simple exchange with over email, and then you find yourself suddenly added to a list of about 90 "close friends" in her address book. The kind of friends to whom she routinely forwards every joke, urban legend, puppy photo, inspiring Bible passage or Christian preaching that happens to land in her inbox.

I'm normally very nonconfrontational. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. So for five or six months, I simply deleted the 500 or so "FW: FW: this is so cute!!!" subject lines from this individual and assumed she was well-meaning and harmless.

Then I randomly opened one of her emails and was kind of horrified that it was being mindlessly forwarded by people who evidently see the word "God" and think it's a nice sentiment to pass along.

I'm paraphrasing, but it said (in loud, magenta, 36-point, sans-serif type):

You suck if you:

• Are an immigrant, the child of an immigrant, or have ever spoken a language other than English!
  
• Say "Season's Greetings" instead of "Merry Christmas!" Everyone knows Christmas is the "real" holiday this time of year, and if you don't believe in Jesus you're retarded!
  
• Don't want organized prayer in public schools! If you don't like God, you should go find another country to go live in! (Sadly, that last line wasn't paraphrased.)
  
• Are offended by this email! Because that means you're one of THEM!

It went on and on, spewing intolerance and ignorance to the point where it felt like even the other spam in my inbox was kind of staring at its feet and exchanging embarrassed glances.

Feeling that perhaps this had crossed the line from "well-meaning and harmless" to "offensive and unacceptable," I replied to the spammer, expressed my disappointment in her decision to forward such a hate-filled email, and requested that she remove me from her address book.

Five minutes later, I received two more "FW: FW: this is so cute!!!" subject lines.

I drafted a new reply. "Seriously," I said. "Please do not send me any more crap. Please. I really mean it."

"FINE!!!" came her reply. "You're not getting anything else from me!!! Don't reply to this email!!!"

"Reply," I replied. I like that I amuse myself.

Shoes!

I have a very practical approach to shoes. I buy a few pairs and wear them to death, repeat.

I also cannot stand to pay more than ten dollars for a pair of shoes I plan to wear to death. Don't ask me why. I also have an eight-dollar sweater rule. It makes it very painful to shop outside of the off-season, but nevermind.

Yesterday I kicked off my shoes at the end of the day, and later heard them whimpering and licking their wounds in the corner of the closet. When I went to see what was wrong, they flinched and tried to scoot away from me. So since I had just been given a $25 gift certificate to a certain major department store, I went to check out their shoe selection. I was excited to see a rack of shoes 50% off! Less excited to find that the discounted price of every pair exceeded my gift card allowance.

The best option was a very uninspiring pair of black flats for $24. Sure, I could pay $24 for a pair of shoes I don't love, but I'd rather pay $8 for a pair I do.

So on the advice of a fellow cheapskate, I went to check out the store's outlet. I was immediately encouraged by racks of $6.99 sweaters. And they had shoes. Cute, sassy, fun, inspiring shoes! I cautiously approached a pair of black flats and struck up a conversation.

"Hi there," I said. The shoes smiled and looked interested, so I continued.

"I couldn't help but notice you're sitting under a red clearance sign. I'm sure this is a terribly personal question, but I was just wondering how much you are."

"$9.99," said the pair.

"You're kidding! Hey, I hope this isn't some scene where all the cute, affordable shoes are tiny. Do you mind if I ask what size you are?"

"8-1/2M"

"Hmm! Would you be willing to pretend you're a 9?"

The shoes agreed, and three more pairs joined the party. And we all lived happily ever after. And I have a new favorite store. But I'm not giving you any more details because those are MY $6.99 sweaters.

I've always secretly believed that I'm a really, really uninteresting person. If you happen to find anything interesting about me, that's only because some of your own interestingness is reflecting off this big tabula rasa where my personality ought to be.

But never mind. If you're not seeing it, then I'm doing a good job of disguising it. And that's good enough for me. Consider it the gift of optical illusion. Merry Yule.

Of course, the best delusion is self-delusion! If anyone were ever to come along and poke a hole in my thin, reflective veneer… boy, that would be depressing.

Have I shown you my collection of irrational fears lately? It's around here somewhere, probably right behind my stack of unresolved issues and bottles of emotion.

Speaking of depressing, I'm starting it wonder if it was a mistake to get involved in Freecycle. I now find it impossible to drive down any residential street on trash day without thinking, "What??! Why would anyone throw out what appears to be a perfectly serviceable seat cushion from a chair circa 1978?"

Happy birthday to me! Twenty-one years ago I started writing in my first blank book. I still have it, carefully stowed in a safe place along with every other journal that followed it.

Five years ago I moved into my new office as a junior copywriter with the same group I work for now. My own office. I felt like I had arrived.

Three years ago I was frantically breastfeeding my new little Gert and wishing I had decided to buy birth announcements instead of lovingly hand-craft each and every bleeding one.

Twelve years ago I skipped dinner because my friends were taking me out, pulled on size 5 jeans, and went to a party where I apologetically claimed to have already eaten.

Seventeen years ago I got my period for the very first time. It had actually happened earlier in the month but I wrote about it on my birthday with great excitement.

Nine years ago marked my grateful exit from the realm of teenage motherhood.

Twenty-three years ago, my mom brought chocolate cupcakes to my kindergarten class and I sat in the circle next to Melissa. Melissa had the nicest, softest hair of any girl I have ever known, to this day.

Nineteen years ago my mother drove me to the home of a sweet old couple with a litter of kittens and let me pick out my first cat. I named him Princess and then discovered him several days later licking some very non-Princess-like anatomy. I promptly renamed him Fredrick.

This morning, Matilda presented me with this heartfelt poem, sung to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it":

Its your birthday, it's your birthday and you have smelly feet, smelly feet. It's your birthday, it's your birthday and you have smelly feet, smelly feet. But I don't give a care. I love you anyway. It's your birthday and you have smelly feet. Smelly feet!

My little baby Gert entered the 3-5 year demographic over the weekend, and thus let it be known that she no longer has any use for plastic, baby-friendly bowls, nighttime training pants, or toothbrushing assistance.

She cried when her new roller skates wouldn't let her go as fast as her 9-year-old sister, and again when the loops on her tennis shoes wouldn't fold into neat, bunny-eared bows.

After the excitement of her party, after all her favorite cousins and aunts and uncles had gone home and the sugar was wearing off, I caught a glimpse of Gert sitting on her Sit-n-Spin in the living room in front of the TV, gazing up at her new Care Bears DVD and twisting slightly, absentmindedly from side to side. Then suddenly, she looked down on the floor next to her and patted a small pile of blankets. "Aw, it's o-tay honey," she told it, and I realized one of her new dolls was apprehensively watching the video with her.

The only babies in our house anymore are the ones Gert takes care of, and that makes me more than a little sad. I don't necessarily miss the messy, exhausted, nervous parts of parenting a baby. I don't necessarily want another one, or wish that I could relive the entire thing with either of the girls. It's just that I see Gert being such a kid, and she's so beautiful and perfect in each and every moment that it hurts, like looking into a bright light and never wanting to look away.

When people told me that being a parent is hard, I thought they were talking about messy, exhausting, nerve-wracking things. I didn't know it would be so hard to let go of each perfect moment while you're reaching to grasp at the next one. Children shed them like scales and laugh at us for trying to hold each one so close.

Who says two-year-olds don't get politics? Gertrude & I were having our morning chat on the way to Meemee's and I mentioned that tomorrow was election day. Then I found myself struggling to find a way of explaining democracy to a child who refuses to let anything drop until she thinks she understands it.

She wasn't satisfied with the mechanics of voting, "poking holes in a piece of paper." It sounded like a great deal of fun, but she was interested in the larger purpose.

So I went into a bit of detail about "choosing someone to be the leader."

"The leader?" said Gert. She was quiet for a moment. "I will choose my daddy to be the leader."

I stifled a giggle. "Why do you think Daddy should be the leader?" I asked, just out of curiosity.

"Be-tuz I like my daddy. And my daddy takes care of me."

"And because Daddy wouldn't take us to war to satisfy his own interests, or run us into debt to finance tax cuts for the wealthy?"

"Yes," said Gert. "I like my daddy."

I'm definitely looking forward to poking some holes tomorrow, I don't know about you.

I'll be the first to admit I'm the fairest of fairweather fans, but... go Cards! Our bottom-of-the-twelfth, two-out homerun had me shrieking like an inebriated redneck. This morning I went tearing through loads of unfolded laundry to pull out anything red for the girls to wear.

Matilda, being nine, is starting to find her sense of style, and right now she's using me as a guide. That is, whatever I pick out for her to wear is not what she should be wearing. I tossed a red t-shirt at her as she came out of the shower. "Here, support your team!" I said.

She then gave me her requisite list of reasons why she should not wear that particular shirt: too long, too loose, too cold, too red.

"You have to wear that shirt," I told her. "It's your lucky shirt. The Cardinals have never lost a game when you've worn it."

Matilda looked at the shirt in her hand. "I've never worn this when they've played."

"Details," I said. "Look at me, I'm wearing my lucky red sweater.

"Mom, I don't think that sweater was very lucky for the person who started knitting it."

"Details!"

Anyway, not to end on an unrelated downer but this sort of thing ought to make intelligent people ill.

Were you ever a kid plagued by an itchy tag in the back of your shirt? I think we've all been there. Both girls find tags to be a real buzz-kill, but lately little Gert has become intent on hunting down and killing the tags, wherever they are.

Sorry, our debate viewing came this close to turning into a drinking game. Activist judges! Top one percent! Anyway.

If the tag thing is annoying during the day, it's intolerable at night. Every night we put on a fresh pair of pajamas, get Gert nicely tucked into bed, flip off the light, and just when we think she's dosing off, we hear this ear-piercing, horrified scream:

"MOMMM! I HAVE A TAG!"

Usually this means I'm supposed to leap into action and grab the scissors, haul her shirt up by the scruff of her neck, expose the tag, and snip.

But lately the tags have become as predictable a bedtime stall as the third drink of water, the last-minute trip to the bathroom, the shadows that look like monsters or spiders, and the need for that one last kiss goodnight. I'd had enough with the tags.

On schedule last night, we got the call. I remained planted on the sofa. "I'll fix it in the morning," I assured her. "Just try to go to sleep."

Silence. Then I heard the quiet, resigned weeping. Feeling like crap, I got up to get the scissors. I stopped outside her door for a moment and heard that she was talking to herself.

Sob. "It will just be itchy forever and ever." Sob. "Mom never will fix it." Sob. "It will just be too itchy forever."

I think they write about people like me in fairy tales when they need a really terrible villain.

Today I have a serious day of copywriting ahead of me, which leaves no time for my usual routine of skipping around my favorite blogs, checking my email six times, rooting through Freecycle for today's finds, and feeling morose about the fact that I have nothing to blog about, which usually leads to me hugging myself and chanting affirmations about how creativity is a fragile spark and should not be thrown too soon to the harsh winds of scrutiny.

Today I will embrace the I-have-nothing-to-blog-about moroseness for what it truly is: an excuse to get some work done.

And in case you're not quite sold on how boring I am right now, I'll tell you the single most exciting thing happening in my life today. I'm eating dinner at McDonalds. There. Now everyone, please check your pity at the door and thanks for not laughing behind my back.

October marks this blog's 25th month of blog entries, and to celebrate the occasion I've decided to give everyone names.

Husband's name is Gary, as most of you already know.

Taking a cue from his very successful and popular blog, I think I'll stick with his names for the girls. They seem to fit.

Youngest shall hereafter be known as Gertrude.

Oldest is Matilda.

And my name, of course, is Penny Barcelona. Nice to meet you.

Now that the formalities are out of the way, we can proceed. The highlight of our weekend had to be running into Jeff and young MC at the grocery store Sunday afternoon. With our carts pulled up side-by-side, Gert and MC had a nice moment of toddler interaction.

I should add that Gert already has a rich fantasy life surrounding MC – in her mind they have gone to the zoo together, shared a fear of lions, exchanged laughs, and continually hung out. So Gertrude was all, hey man! Good to see ya! Check out my baby doll. Nice bib. I like your shoes. Your pants are sparkley. What are you doing for lunch later? I hope this place has free samples. Stores are cool, yeah? Okay, call me!

The second biggest event of the weekend was that the sound on our TV went out, necessitating an emergency TV purchase. It went down like this.

Me: I've just finished paying the bills. For some reason, we are not behind on the budget. In fact, we seem to be in fairly decent shape for once!

Gary: Shut up! They'll hear you!

Me: Who will hear me? What?

TV: What did you say? Oh! Crapping out now. Pppthbbbpthp.

Gary: Damn it! You can't crap out. You're only 1.5 years old. Your peer in the next room is pushing 20!

TV: Can't talk. Crapping.

TV from next room: Feeling a little iffy also…

So before the threats could continue, we quickly purchased a replacement set and restored the natural order of things. Yes, I realize we are being held hostage by the whims of our electronic media devices. There are worse things.