With Tim, amazingly beautiful child of Nadine/Sweety and FreezeM. And people, he does this thing where he balls up his little hands into ittle wittle fists and throws his arms out behind him and runs off as fast as his itsy little legs will carry him and it is so cute you could literally just lie down and die from it and be quite happy about the whole thing because dude, that was so freaking cute.

Left to right, Me, Mia, Chris, FreezeM, Nadine, Tim and Zandria, yesterday at the zoo. Also, moo. Whatever you do, do not hang out with these people, because they will make anybody look like a cow. Despite that I want to tuck them all into my pocket and make them live in my basement.

(Also hey, I've actually been using my flickr account for a day or two, so if you are one of those freaky people (with impeccable taste) who are dying for more pictures of my kid, check it out.)

First person to name the extra baby in this picture wins a super-duper Chris Cactus mix cd. Contests ends as soon as Chris posts the answer in his weekend recap tomorrow morning.

Oh fine, I suppose you want hints. He's the child of another husband and wife blogging duo, and he didn't understand a word I said to him all day long, for very good reason. And that's all you get, go to it.

We had a make-up class for Mia's Mommy and Me thing this morning, and one of the women there was talking (at considerable length to anyone who would even pretend to listen) about how her three and a half year old daughter was joining a competitive cheerleading team and in order to join had to be able to do a cartwheel and therefore was taking eight weeks of gymnastics classes to learn that particular skill and how the mother made her practice an hour every day because she wasn't raising her girls to be failures.

And she might have had more to say on the subject, but that is the point at which I punched her in the mouth and walked away clutching my child and whispering "no way in hell" into her ear.

First, don't you dare say anything positive or optimistic or encouraging about the statement to follow. The only appropriate responses are things such as "duly noted" and "how interesting" and "thank you for informing me." I am dead serious about this, and you deviate from these instructions at your peril.

Ahem...

Mia has slept through the night, in her own crib, 5 out of the past 6 nights.

That is all.

I'm losing hair by the truckload. Actually, it may just be that it is so damned long it looks like a lot more than it is, but the fact remains that there are tumbleweeds of my hair all over this house, which has the double benefit of being disgusting and distressing.

Also, there are fucking termite swarmers in my fucking house a-fucking-gain despite the loads of money I have paid to make them go away and the fucking termite guys swearing that they cannot find a single termite anywhere in, around or near my house. I think the new deal is that they get to eat every bug I find in my house, that should motivate them to solve this fucking problem once and for fucking all.

Also I've noticed that I sweat considerably more with the right side of my body than the left side of my body, which probably means I have either a tumor or a rare tropical disease and also now you all want me so much you can hardly stand it, so I have to deal with that too.

You can see I have a lot on my mind. I also have a new Mia video here and it plays Van Halen because it was either that or the Pointer Sisters and we own the Van Halen. (We totally own the Pointer Sisters too, I just didn't want to admit it.)

I'll try to be having fewer personal problems tomorrow, but no guarantees.

On Sunday morning, I went running. I haven't gone running in over 5 years, and when I used to run it was on an indoor track with one of those big digital clocks on the wall so I would spend the whole time obsessing about running a nine minute mile and at the end of the mile I would fall down and die. The farthest I ever managed to run at once was a mile and a half, or maybe just maybe and only the once two miles.

So I went running on Sunday, and about five minutes in started thinking about how I should stop. But then I couldn't figure out why I should stop - I could still breathe, nothing really hurt, I was doing ok except for this idea that I should stop. I ended up literally talking myself through it, and I mean it was a total Loser Soliloquy. Things like "you can do it, Beth!" and "you are doing great, Beth!" and "wow, you are totally rocking this running thing!" And oh yes, every bit of this was out loud, because doing it in my head just wasn't cutting it. I was like my own personal cheering section peopled entirely with massive dorks.

However, I ran for 34 minutes, 2.62 miles, and at the end didn't even feel like I needed to lie down and vomit. And yes, that means I was doing 13 minute miles which means that you can probably walk a mile faster than I can run it. I'm slow, and I'm dorky, but I still think I totally rocked the running thing. I even got a blister, of which I am incredibly proud.

And then (although after a shower, of course) we went to dinner at Sarah's and Gabe made us this fabulous pasta that didn't even come out of a box, and I didn't know people actually did that, and Claudia had an entire conversation with me which was the highlight of my week because it is my goal in life to get that kid to like me, and I was still in dork mode and kept right on dorking out. I was all OMG! I love you shoes! And I love your dishes! And I love your forks! And I love your wine! And hey, gimme some more of that wine and I'll probably start gushing about how much I love your dishwasher and your outlet covers! And they were totally nice about how much cooler than us they are and didn't let on at all that they secretly thought they were slumming with the dorks. Oh, and Claudia called Mia "Mia Bean," which is what I call her roughly 99.98% or the time so it's obvious how she picked that up but I thought it was just about the cutest thing ever heard anywhere in the history of time and you have to admit I'm probably pretty close to right about that.

Ok, enough dorkiness. I'm going to go back to admiring my leg muscles. Granted, they are entirely covered by a layer of flab, but if you poke around enough you can find them. Hey, maybe that's how I got all these bruises.

Mia Bean,

You are 21 months old today and steaming along as fast as your little legs can carry you, which most of the time isn't really all that fast. You are enthralled by the world, by every aspect of it, by the rocks and the bugs and the moon and the clouds and the big kids and the babies and most especially by the animals. We went to a little local farm two days ago, and you were so excited that you spent the entire time we were there covering ground at a full-out toddler trot. You loved the sheep and the cows and the goats and the turkeys, but you especially loved the pig. And then there was the peacock. Oh, the peacock. You chased him around his pen for 20 minutes and shared the rocks you had carefully collected from the road and, after hearing the word only once, called him quite clearly "peacock." You called the turkeys "peacock" too, but close enough.

One of your favorite games is to pretend to burp and then to instruct Mama or Dada to pretend to burp (you say "buuuuuuup") and we can all go on like that for quite a while, at your insistence. Well at the farm you discovered that Mama and Dada have been lying to you, cows do now moo and pigs do not oink and sheep do not bleet, they all, according to you, burp. Every animal that made any noise was rewarded by your amazing giggles and your accusation that they had just buuuuuuuped.

You learned to jump this month, and also learned to tell me that you are jumping like a bunny or like a kangaroo or like a cricket or, sometimes, like a duck, but we'll spot you that last one. You learned to identify the letters M and A and learned to put your letter puzzle together. You like to count on your fingers, but only to two. You hold up one finger for one and five fingers for two, leaving you nowhere to go from there.

You discovered fruit this month and eat it like it is going out of style, sometimes three pears a day. You also like grapes, apples, bananas and oranges. You eat vegetarian sausage and bagels and cream cheese and pasta with Parmesan cheese and any piece of junk food you can get your hands on. You eat a lot, constantly some days, and yet you weigh about what you did at nine months old. You just keep getting taller and taller, so tall that you can pull anything you want off the countertops and open every door in the house and give the best leg hugs known to man.

Five times in the past month you have slept straight through the night in your own crib and woken happy and ready to play in the morning, provided you were able to stop first to give Dada and big hug and a kiss. Mama doesn't share in the morning love, but I'm still the only one you want when you are hurt or tired or scared, so I'll spot Dada that one. The last few nights you have been singing yourself to sleep, and I love to sit in the next room after I put you down and listen to you talk and sing and call out for people you think may come to rescue you from your crib. You try Mama for a while, and when you decide I'm not coming back you start calling for Mimi and Nana and Grandpa and Papa. Sometimes you call out for Mia - toddler, save thyself.

You have learned to tell me that you are not tired, how lucky for you that you have never been tired once in your entire life. You refuse to tell me that you are hungry and instead get cranky and whiny until I figure it out and stuff some food in your mouth, which turns you instantly back into my happy and smiling little girl. You like to wear yellow or blue socks only and prefer to wear them with your sandals, no matter the weather. You like to have your hair in pigtails only if you are allowed to watch the process in the mirror. After you have a bath, we have to stop at every mirror between the bathroom and your room so you can kiss the other baby.

We're still waiting for you to decide that talking is the way to go, but in the meantime there isn't anything you don't understand and almost nothing that you can't communicate, one way or another. At dinner the day of our trip to the farm, Dada asked you to tell him what you had shared with the peacock. You started using your feet to bounce your booster seat back and forth. Dada and I kept telling you to stop being silly and answer the question, and then we realized that you were answering the question. You were rocking - you gave the peacock rocks.

Living with you is like watching fireworks - huge, bright, brilliant explosions that light up the whole world, and then a brief pause, a catching of breath while you reload for the next, bigger, brighter, more awesome blast. I am so blessed, so happy, so honored to be able to sit down here on my blanket and watch while you take over the sky.

Love,
Mama

You know how that one time you just run into the grocery store in your stinky yoga pants when you haven't brushed your teeth all day or your hair in three and you had toddler snot caked on your shoulder and that is the time you run into someone you know? Yeah, that always happens to me. Well, this morning I had to run out to the store for wrapping paper and a card for a baby shower I attended today (I'm so well prepared, just like a boy scout) and I ran into one of the VPs I used to work for. But! I was dressed in fancy clothes and had my hair done and was wearing sexy heels and except for having no makeup on I was totally all dolled up, AND I have just recently lost 10 entire pounds. I am more pleased than I likely should be that, should my former VP mention to anyone that he saw me, which he certainly will mention at least to his wife, who I also know, he will probably say "Hey, I ran into Beth and she was looking pretty good."

I mean, not that I care really, but it's better than "Hey, I ran into Beth and goodness but someone has been pounding on her with the ugly stick."

And then, as if that wasn't good enough, I was chatting with the woman hosting the baby shower and we had this conversation:

Her: So, you're married and have kids?
Me: Well, one kid.
Her: You don't look old enough for that.
Me: Thanks.
Her: You must have been a young mom.
Me: Not really, I was 30 when Mia was born.
Her: Huh. Good genes.

(Hey, maybe this week we'll play "How Old Do I Look?" And don't worry, you don't have to tell me I look 17 because I spent all of my 20s looking 17 and it got old. I think I would really like to look my age for once. I mean, maybe not at 50, but I don't see anything so bad about looking 32.)

Finally, since I promised, I did go to the bank on Friday and I did see Hotty McBanktellersons and he was wearing a short sleeved polo shirt and that man does have far and away the sexiest arms to ever exist anywhere in the universe. I mean, my god people, it's a thing of beauty. And big and burly is so entirely nowhere near my type, but I would really like, at some point, the opportunity to just sort of gently squeeze his forearm and possibly lick it just the tiniest bit, because I think that would be an entirely enjoyable experience.

I can't believe you people! Here I am regaling you with the fascinating tale of my bumbling interactions with the Hotty Pediatrician, and you want to know about my kid? Where are your priorities!

The kid, she is fine. In fact, she had improved quite a bit between the time I decided she needed to go to the doctor and the time we actually got to the doctor. She has had a rash on her legs for a while that comes and goes that came back with a vengeance yesterday and she started scratching it for the first time, and she also has a little eczema on her hands that she started scratching for the first time yesterday too. Nothing too serious, but the sad little look on her face as she scratched was enough to convince me that medical intervention was required. Nothing a few quarts of steroid cream won't fix, and she is already considerably better and not itching anymore.

Now honestly, can we go back to talking about the important things? Like whether or not I have accidentally given the Hotty Pediatrician the idea that I am more impressed by him than I should be (but not necessarily more than I actually am)? See overall, I'm not all that thrilled by doctors, mainly due to the tendency towards snobbery and also their habit of calling me Beth while expecting me to address them as Dr. Hotshit, which I'm fine with calling you Dr. Hotshit, but them you had damned well call me Mrs. Bupkis. (Dudes, not my real name, obviously.) The Hotty Pediatrician cleverly avoids that problem by failing to ever address me at all, except for one time as "Amelia's Mom." I doubt the Hotty Pediatrician could tell you my first name if his life depended on it, maybe that's part of the appeal? And oh my god, we weren't going to talk about him anymore. Ok for real this time, starting now.

Anyway, I was going to play this dumb game thing with you people today, but in order to do it I need to fix my comments so that links are underlined so you can see they are links and I am too dumb to figure out how to do it at the moment, so I'll work on that over the weekend and maybe we can play next week. I was also going to let you dress me for my sister-in-law's baby shower tomorrow, but turns out I am too damned lazy to try on all the clothes and take all the pictures. I guess this means I'm on my own. Well, on my own except for Chris, who is basically useless because no matter what I put on he says it looks good for fear that if he says differently I will castrate him with my tweezers. Which I would never do. Well, at least not just for saying a particular outfit wasn't my best choice ever. So I dunno, maybe later if I get inspired during naptime, but probably not.

Seeing as it's 10:15 and Mia and I have yet to even think about getting out of our pajamas, I suppose I had better go see to that. Have frabjous weekends, y'all.

If you missed yesterday's post, where were you? That thing was up for hours! I really think you ought to be more dedicated than that.

The short version is that we ran into the Hotty Pediatrician and his Totally Adorable Wife at lunch on Saturday, and while I did offer a friendly smile when we made eye contact I did not, for various reasons, stop to say hello. I then proceeded to get incredibly embarrassed thinking I had made some terrible social faux pas and would have to leave the state as quickly as possible.

However, because you are wonderful people, you quickly convinced me that I had not in fact done anything all that embarrassing and also gave me the perfect excuse for my behavior, which totally would have been the real excuse for my behavior if I had thought of it ahead of time, so see really I am totally polite and mature, just not very smart.

Anyway! Entirely coincidentally (hand to God, don't even start with me on this one) I had to take Mia to the pediatrician this morning. She went to bed last night as a perfectly normal, if cranky and congested, toddler and woke up this morning as one large, red, angry-looking, incredibly itchy rash. And you know what, I wasn't even nervous. That is how much you people helped me yesterday. Tongue kisses for everybody! Except then I had to take the entry down because I was embarrassed that I had ever been so embarrassed about it, and that second round of embarrassment is really your fault, so maybe only half-tongue kisses.

So, we were most of the way through the appointment and going with the just don't mention it approach when the Hotty Pediatrician said to Mia, "You know, I ran into your mommy at [restaurant] on Saturday." And then...

Well, I don't know exactly what happened then because all I could hear was a voice in my head screaming "This is it! It's GO TIME! Move fast! The future of the universe hangs in the balance!" Or something like that, maybe toned down a bit. I think next he said how much he liked [restaurant] and I said oh really because we hadn't been that impressed and he said oh yeah he really likes whatever and I said oh we had this other thing and I disliked this about it and he said well it must depend what you get and I said oh certainly. And then he told me how he grew up near the original [restaurant]. Or maybe that was earlier, it wasn't all that interesting of a conversation.

And then I said yeah, we weren't sure what the etiquette was there, you probably can't go to lunch without getting swarmed by the parents of your patients (which is what you guys suggested, which is probably true, so good call).

And then he sort of smiled and said "I know how to say hello." Which y'all, was that a burn on me? I mean, it wasn't like "IIIIIIIIIIII know how to say hello" with all sorts of meaningful inflection on the "I" bit, and wasn't rude at all, but still, maybe just a little burn? Probably not I think, but if so I can live with it.

So that's that, the end. I don't have to leave the state and I don't have to go searching for an Unattractive Pediatrician (which is a good thing for all of us, because then what would we talk about?) I think, though, that I have devoted entirely too much mental energy to the Hotty Pediatrician this week, so we are all going to put him totally out of our heads for a while. I mean, after we finish analyzing whether that was a little burn on Beth or not. Oh, and also after I call him this afternoon, but I swear on the ashes of my dead cats (which are no more than five feet away from me as I type this, so I can do that) that I am calling for an entirely legitimate medical reason in the best interests of my poor, itchy, rashy baby.

Oh, and I have to go to the bank tomorrow, which we all know is Casual Friday, which we all know means Hotty McBankTellersons in short sleeves, so that will distract us nicely from the entire Hotty Pediatrician debacle.

She will totally cook your bunny.

The charming and lovely Haley-O went and nominated me for a couple of those damned Blogger's Choice Awards, which was terribly kind of her and you should all go give her kisses with tongue. If you wanna vote, the links are below. If you don't wanna vote, that's cool, I assure you that I do not care. Oh, except in that I would like to get more than one vote, due to the delicate little ego mentioned above.

And also, I recently ran my first ever SQL query to reopen comments on all of my old posts, so if you are one of those odd people who occasionally mention to me that you sat down and read my archives and managed to somehow not expire from boredom, now you can let me know you were there, if so inclined.

4 - hours Mia was up in the middle of the night
4:30 - first time I fell asleep Sunday night/Monday morning
7:30 - time Mia woke up for the day
3 - total hours of sleep for me, for those playing along at home
24 - maximum age at which it is possible to function successfully on three hours of sleep
32 - current age of your dedicated reporter
6 - kinds of ass I felt like all day
2 - rooms I rearranged just to keep myself awake
4 - times I moved the honking big armoire in our bedroom
3 - total inches armoire ended up from original position
524 - times I washed Tigger's hair with pretend hoopoo (shampoo)
1 - hours of Elmo I attempted to bribe my child with
0.2 - hours of peace Elmo actually earned me
2 - exhaustion-inspired fights I had with my husband
0 - number of fights that I won
1.5 - days I estimate remain before I am miserable with my own version of Mia's cold

However...
129 - the number on the scale on Monday morning
29 - months since I've seen anything under 130

We ran into the Hotty Pediatrician at lunch today.

His wife is totally cute. He's never going to leave her for me.

A couple of pictures of Mia and her horrible new habit are here, if you are interested. (Sorry y'all, I can't double post and I've already talked about it over there, so it seemed appropriate to follow up over there.)

And hey, here's a special bonus:

Photo by Sarah. That's the charming and lovely Ian climbing the walls in the background. Not pictured are the also-charming and lovely Claudia (although she didn't deign to speak to me yesterday) and the incredibly patient Klaus (the cat), who spent several minutes wearing the same necklace Mia is modeling, much to her delight. Now she wants to have him over for a tea party.

Hey, speaking of Sarah, go tell her she looks fierce. Also speaking of Sarah, she pointed out that I could have just crimped the hot water hose when I disconnected it from the washing machine to discover that water was still gushing out at an alarming rate, to which I say 1) oh, duh, and 2) WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED YOU, SARAH? ANSWER ME THAT, WHY DON'T YOU?

And hey, you guys are a big bunch of lovable freaks. Entertain me today by telling me about your superstitions. I would go first, but I don't have any. Don't worry, I'm as odd and twisted as anyone else, just have never been bitten by that particular bug. At least, not unless you count my firm belief that the dishwasher has to be loaded correctly (as in my way) or else the world will come crashing to an end, but I don't think that counts.

The thrilling saga of how I fixed our washing machine for $40 and liberal application of the word "fuck" is here, if you care. If you don't care, well you can bite me because we really don't have anything in common right now. Since I fixed the washing machine all I want to do is laundry. It has very nearly supplanted vacuuming as my favorite chore (my favorite chore being the only one that actually gets done).

I will mention, just for your personal edification, that if you have any question in your mind that the wall water cutoff is not actually doing a thing to cutoff the flow of hot water to the washing machine, you should not under any circumstances disconnect the hot water hose from the washing machine. Because holy fuckballs people, I thought I was going to have to start collecting pairs of every animal on earth and set sail in my cooler, and Mount Ararat is a long way to go in a little blue cooler, even without the extreme overcrowding.

Moving on, I very nearly spent my $100 yesterday, to the point that I had the item in hand and was headed toward the register with Mia reluctantly in tow when I chickened out and ditched the box in a canoe display. I was going to buy new, fairly expensive, sneakers. I don't really need new sneakers. Sure, mine are a couple of years old and I got them for $35 at Kohl's, but they are still fine. I just thought I would get nice new ones since I'm going to the gym so much lately and also to have something cool looking to go with the three new pairs of yoga pants I bought yesterday to reward myself for fixing the washing machine and also because I discovered that the one pair of yoga pants I've worn nearly daily for four years has (naturally) a gaping hole in the crotch.

So, what do you think of new sneakers?

I've been going to the gym a lot in the past six weeks, and it's been a little odd. For example, there is usually a basket on the front desk with free samples of various low carb/low calorie/low fat/ god-awful tasting snack bars. One day a few weeks ago, that basket was replaced with a big box of donuts and a sign that said "take one." Yes, thank you dear gym management people for helping to support me in my fitness goals. Then there was the day that one of the front desk staff was sitting behind the desk wearing a full body dog suit. And he was sitting in a garbage can.

The most curious thing though was last night, when I happened to glance over at the basket of towels and industrial-strength cleaning products that conscientious gym-goers use to wipe their sweat off the treadmills when they are finished, and among the cleaners was a bottle of something called Club Aroma. Club Aroma? Ah yes, for those times when you want your surroundings to smell like old sneakers and ass sweat. Especially good for those romantic moments. Scented candles are a fire hazard! Get your bottle of Club Aroma now.

Before moving on to today's regularly-scheduled post, I feel I must mention that Mia jumped yesterday. Actual jumping with empty space under both kissable little toddler feet at the same time. It was very exciting. It was so exciting that she ran over to the oven so she could watch herself do it in the reflection from the oven door and fell flat on her face. We tried not to laugh. Too much.

Moving on, I've been slacking on the diet lately. I know, shut up. Yesterday was going to be the day that I rededicated myself to my diet in order to achieve maximum MILFosity in time for our beach trip in May. But then the washer overflowed and I spent three hours dealing with the flood in the basement and bailing out the washing machine (twice, because I am an idiot and decided to refill it to see if the same thing happened again, which, yes) and moving the huge heavy shelves out of the laundry room so I could mop underneath them and lo, it did sucketh.

After that I spent a few minutes looking at the price of new washing machines, and that's when the stress got to me and I broke down and ate a Cadbury Egg. Or four. And not those stupid mini eggs either, oh no, not for me. So I guess today is the day I rededicate myself to my diet.

However, I hate dieting and have therefore decided that rather than working to make myself skinnier I am instead going to dedicate myself to making the rest of you fatter so that I will seem skinnier by comparison. To that end, I am giving you the best cookie recipe of all time, ever. I already sent this to Swistle, but she's thirty-something weeks pregnant so making her fatter is not much of a challenge. Now, it is your turn. Time to chubby up, people! I have to be seen in public in a bathing suit in less than two months, so you all need to start packing on the pounds pronto.

Grandma Lucille's Monster Cookies

3 eggs
1 stick margarine, softened
1 c sugar
1 c brown sugar
1 1/2 c peanut butter
1 teaspoon Karo
4 1/2 c oatmeal (quick cooking)
2 t baking soda
6 oz chocolate chips
M&Ms

Stir sugars 1 c at a time into softened margarine, add eggs and beat, add peanut butter, Karo, and chocolate chips. Beat well. Add oatmeal a cup at a time, mix well until all oatmeal is added. Batter will be very stiff. Place on cookie sheet by the teaspoonful. Press 2-3 M&Ms on top of each cookie. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes.

None of that pesky flour in this recipe, it's really just a waste of valuable cookie space anyway. The peanut butter is easy to get out of measuring cups if you spray the cup with cooking spray first.

Chris: Are you still dieting?
Me: I've been slacking lately, but planning to go back hardcore on Monday to get ready for the beach.
Chris: Cool. Have you kept the weight off?
Me: Yeah, seven pounds!
Chris: I thought you had lost ten.
Me: Nope [you jackass], just seven [cocksucker].
Chris: Oh.
Me: [Waiting expectantly for "well you look good" or "seven is great" or "nice ass."]
Chris: [Silence.]

So, what? I'm thinking no sex for a week? Two?

Today is Game Day, because I said so and we all know that it is all about me. Today's game is:

Things that Sound Dirty but Aren't

I will go first, and you all will go second. I have two entries:

1) Dongle
2) Crevice tool (Which um, from that site: "Extends and flexes to clean awkward gaps and spaces. Quickly attaches to the hose or wand." That's totally dirty.)

Now you, go!

Two totally unrelated topics, as if that were unusual for me.

First, a while ago I stopped providing a full feed of this blog in favor of excerpts because I found a porn site that was ripping off my content. I don't object to porn, but I do object to finding pictures of my daughter on porn sites. As soon as I went to the excerpt, Adam started harassing me about going back to providing the full feed. I had fun torturing him for a while, but eventually mentioned that he had gotten close to annoying me enough that not only would I never go back to the full feed but I would also break out a can of IP Deny on his ass.

Adam, as it turns out, is really a rather lovable geek, and he wrote me my very own plugin to remove images from my feeds. So, if you read me by feed, you should now be getting full entries again, with the exception that you will have to actually come here to see any pictures I post. Also, you should go make friends with Adam, because he's a nice guy and also because it is very handy to have a friend who can make you your very own fancy code.

Second, I am loving reading all of your ideas for what to do with my hundred dollars, but decided I had to throw in an idea of my own just to see what you thought. I am planning to chop all my hair off at the end of summer and donate it to a worthy cause, and because of that I'm thinking about spending the summer as a blond. I mean really blond. Not like platinum, but the full-on dye job, not just highlights. Now, this would cost more than $100 because I would surely have to have touch-ups between now and Fall and would also have to pay to go back to my usual mousy brown, but I think it might be fun. So tell me, can you see me as a blond?

I have $100 burning a hole in my wallet. My parents gave me a $100 Visa card for my birthday in November, and I still have it. Untouched, pristine. When I got it, I promised myself that I would spend it on something entirely for myself: no clothes for Mia, no date night dinners, and certainly no groceries, even in the really tight months. And so I just haven't spent it.

I have a hard time doing this. Sure, I can spend $5 on myself, or even $20, but $100 is sort of a lot to us these days, and I'm scared to spend it. Scared to buy the wrong thing and regret it and not know where my next totally for me $100 is coming from.

At first, I was going to buy myself new jeans since I was too fat for all my old ones, but then I got my new jeans for $14 (and now I am too thin for them). Then I thought I would buy a hot new bathing suit for our beach trip in May, but I'm the sort that no matter how hot the suit or how thin my thighs I will never be satisfied that I look as hot as I would like to in it, so I ruled that out. New shoes? Sure, but I never wear pretty shoes these days and worry they would just sit in my closet and be forced to revel in their own beauty.

So help me out, dear internets. If you had $100 and had to spend it entirely selfishly, what would you do? Tell me, help me, and I swear that I will decide what to do by this weekend and spend the damned thing before the month is over.

I went to the gynecologist yesterday (I know, lucky me), and we were chatting about the usual general-health things and she said "well, you look like you exercise." On the one hand, I've been working out like a lunatic for the past month, and it is really nice to finally have somebody notice, but on the other hand, I'm extremely curious about what tipped her off, considering her vantage point.

Oh yeah, she's cool.