Beauty school dropout

I know what you're thinking. But no, I'm not having a Britney moment. And my new vacuum cleaner, even though our romance is tenuous at best, is performing acceptably.

This, dear readers, is what happens when you entrust a four year old with a pair of child-safe scissors during quiet time. Fortunately, the hair is not her own; rather, Bugglegirl sheared it from the mane and tail of the fancy American Girl horse that she got for Christmas. She'd tried to conceal the evidence in her secret stash spot behind her toy basket, but the little tufts of black hair strewn about her beige carpeting betrayed her.

Me: What have you done?
Bugglegirl: Nothing, Mommy.
Me: Did you cut your horse's hair?
Bugglegirl: I made it pretty, see?
Me: Give me the scissors. Where is the hair?
Bugglegirl: Here.
Me: You know this hair will never grow back.
Bugglegirl: I know, Mommy. It will never grow back. It's OK.

Surprisingly, there's still a good deal of hair left on the horse, though now it's styled in an unattractive, asymmetrical blunt cut that might set Kelly Osbourne back a few hundred bucks.

Hmmm. . .beauty school. A double bonus: Not only could I blow the college fund on a downpayment on a Tuscan villa, but I'd have great hair - for free - doing it.

He's definitely Irish

The other day while cleaning my desk I came across this artistic specimen. I'd written on the back and set it aside to upload here back around St. Patrick's Day. Which was, alas, in March.


Bugglegirl: Look, Mom, he's coming down!
Me: Yeah! The leprechaun is sliding down the rainbow.
Bugglegirl: No, that's God.
Me: That's not a leprechaun?
Bugglegirl: No, that's God. And there's the pennies.
Me: God is going to slide into the pennies?
Bugglegirl: No. He's going to jump off right here.
Me: OK.

The end of an era

I should've known it wouldn't last. Maybe I was too demanding. Too unappreciative, too compulsive. Whatever the reason, our relationship is finished - forever. And now I have to kick the dirty, broken bastard to the curb.

'Cause I ain't coughing up two hundred and thirty-five freaking dollars to have the damn thing repaired, AGAIN.

About two weeks ago, my vacuum just died. Right in the middle of a caffeine-inspired fit of housekeeping. Unlike last summer, there were no dramatic pyrotechnics. The spirit of a trusted, humble appliance simply snuffed out in an otherwise uneventful instant.

It wasn't even that old. And it was a Kenmore, for God's sake. Before I made the leap from hip, single-apartment-dwelling owner of a cheap Target upright to mom-bob, raspberry-jam-shirt-stain sporting owner of a pricey canister contraption, I researched back issues of Consumer Reports. I listened to my mother. And where did it get me? Up to my kneecaps in dirt-studded piles of dog hair.

So this afternoon I fired up Stevie. Bugglegirl was ecstatic: Can I touch it, Mommy? Buggledog was indifferent: Check out how much hair I shed just flopping down on the floor! Buggleboy was terrified: [insert crying and outstretched arms waiting to be cuddled here.]

He was fine as long as I was holding him, even giggling a bit when Stevie bonked into a wall or the dining room chairs. After a potty break and his favorite song, he lay down for a nap.

Not ten minutes later, Buggleboy was crying hysterically. Stevie had crashed into his closed door a couple of times. I went in to comfort him, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of:

Me: Did Stevie scare you?
Buggleboy: (nodding)
Me: It's OK, baby. Stevie just bonked into your door.
Buggleboy: Stevie come get me.
Me: No, honey. Stevie can't open your door. He has no hands. He just cleaned outside your room and he probably won't be back.
Buggleboy: (silence)
Me: Are you all right now, honey?
Buggleboy: Hold me.

I think I'm gonna run Stevie every afternoon for, like, ever.