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Why do cosmetic companies constantly change the “formula”, if you will, of their lipsticks? This seems to be a continuous battle for me. It goes like this. I find a lipstick color I like. I buy four or five tubes of that color and things are great until I run out of the last tube three years later.

Being a conscientious consumer, I save the last tube, take it with me to the store and go in search of that color. Invariably, by the time I run out of five tubes of lipstick, the manufacturer has discontinued that shade and I have to start the search for a new lipstick color that is a blue-based red that’s not too red and not too pink.

If you’re a man, I’m sure you won’t understand how infuriating this is.

Side note: are there any men reading this? And further, I wonder
if
Drag Queens
get annoyed when
cosmetic companies
tweak the formula/color
of their lipstick.I wonder if Drag Queens get annoyed when cosmetic companies tweak the formula/color of their lipstick. I just saw the Drag Queen episode of Project Runway and that’s what prompts that further question.

The queens I saw on that episode don’t seem like they would get too hung up on finding exactly the right shade of lipstick. I think the glitter and sequins would help get them over the hump of not having the perfect shade of red.

Anyway, Wet n’ Wild just did this to me a couple of months ago. They don’t bother to name their lipsticks, they just go by numbers. I guess 93 cents a tube doesn’t buy you a sexy surname. My color was called 511A. In the search for the missing color I was able to find something called 511B. And as curious as it may seem, there appears to be a noticeable difference between the two.

One more side note: If you click the link and scroll down, you will see the colors of their lipsticks (all named by a number and a letter.) Note that the numbers closest to 511B — 509, 510, 514, 515, 516 — vary wildly from 511B. Those colors are not even in the same family. Hence my difficulty in finding the new 511A. And I shall just remind you that I had a used tube of 511A for comparison. It wasn’t easy, is what I’m saying.

And lastly, check out that cute rabbit logo. Wet n’ Wild is cruelty free. Now that’s my kinda company!

So now, to unlock this question — has 511A just been renamed 511B — I have to invest a dollar. If so, 511B can become my color in 511A’s absence. What? I don’t know why you are continually shocked to hear how cheap I am — I told you a while ago that I’m cheap as a monkey — a catch phrase I am hoping will sweep the nation.

I am not a fan of change; change in the sense of making something different, not monetary change. I’m cool with nickels and dimes.

In fact, I rarely see how changing a process that is working just fine benefits ANYONE!

Okay, enough with the yelling. I grew up in a chaotic environment and I have control issues. At least that’s what my therapist says. Interestingly enough, all of my siblings have control issues to some varying degree. And the best part is that they all think they are self-actualized and low-maintenance.

If you knew them like I do, this would make you laugh and laugh until you could laugh no more. And just when you finished the laughing, a small chuckle would escape.

So after much thought, I took the plunge yesterday and invested 93 cents (99 with tax) in Lipstick Color 511B.

I’m happy to admit 511B did not disappoint, my friend! On closer inspection, it appears 511B shares the same DNA that 511A does. Rite Aid only had one tube, so I will have to troll the other stores to stockpile a collection of my new best buddy, 511B.

I’m just looking for a small thing in this world to remain constant. Is this so much to ask? I’m look at you Wet n’ Wild.

Alright, I spent a significant amount of time at Office Depot yesterday. Thankfully I was alone.

There’s a boring build up to why I found myself at the Depot, but basically I ran out of the house for an early dentist appointment and I forgot my bag that holds my stuff I use when I am out and the babysitter is here. Yes, I have employed an 18-year-old babysitter since June from 11 am until 3 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She is as vital to surviving summer as is the Ativan I now carry on my person at all times.

Side note: There are two schools of thought on this issue — the babysitter not my Ativan usage — in my neighborhood. The prevalent thought is that Cardiogirl is uptight, doesn’t know what it’s like to actually raise her own children and is very wealthy (um, very wealthy in this neighborhood is a relative term, baby, keep that in mind).

The other school of thought is that the neighbors can go eff themselves. It’s not my fault that they stress shop (and stress eat, but let’s not go there) and then find themselves in debt. And I haven’t bought any new clothes in I can’t remember when. And the two T-shirts I recently purchased for $1.86 at the Salvation Army don’t count, in my opinion.

So when I am out and about on Tuesday or Thursday, I pack a protein bar and water, my wallet with library card, pens, cell phone, a book to read and a spiral bound notebook. (Remember that, it’s all going to come together in the end.)

Thanks to JD at I Do Things, I was able to get a free Starbuck’s Java Chip Frappuccino each day until two weeks ago.

How’s this for privileged? Eventually the java chips clogging my straw became cumbersome, so after a few tries I took to ordering the Mocha Frappuccino for the rest of the gift card. Thanks JD!

But I forgot my bag, with my spiral notebook, pen and library card. Those three items are integral to the Freedom Experience on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Side note: For announcing that this is a boring build up as to why I was at Office Depot, this quick explanation sure is dragging out, eh?

Because I forgot my bag, I had to buy a pen and notepad at Office Depot. I’ve been looking for the Bic Soft Feel Stick Ball pen. But for some reason this pen is very elusive. I thought I could buy a pack of two, possibly three. No such luck. This pen is only sold in a box of 12.

And just to make it extra annoying this pen is only sold online. I need instant gratification. I thought Office Max could provide the solution. Don’t they have that “Easy” button they advertise? (A cursory search of the internet tells me it is Staples that has the Easy button. That explains everything.) So I had to settle for the Soft Feel’s second cousin twice removed, the Ultra Round Stic Grip. Meh, but now I have 12.

In the past I have been a college ruled notebook kinda gal. But Mr. C is wide ruled. I know, I was shocked, too. But wide ruled he is. So the only books I’ve been writing in are wide ruled.

Standing in Office Depot I had a college ruled notebook. I came this close to buying it, but then went back. Mr. C has converted me. I have grown accustomed to the wide lines; they give me so much more room, so much more freedom. I chose a perfect bound notebook, however, not a spiral bound.

Big mistake, people. The perfect bound book looks nice until you use it. I am here to tell you, all notebooks are not created equal.

Writing on the first page is great. It’s when you turn the page and you have to write on the left-hand side. Since it’s not spiral bound, the two pages do not sit flat on the table. So now I have to write only on the right-hand pages. Or I have to rip the page out, using the perforated edge that the notebook does supply and then write on the back.

What’s the point of a notebook if I have to rip the pages out and store them elsewhere? Now we’re talking about a folder or staples. I just want to keep all of my stuff in one book. Grrr. But it’s mine now and I shall diligently — yet reluctantly — use each page.

Just let this be a cautionary tale: Watch your back at Office Depot. Or make sure to use the “Easy” button at Staples.

As you know, I am a huge fan of freaky medical stuff and true crime. Two of my favorite shows are “Dr. G.: Medical Examiner” and “Mystery Diagnosis” on the Discovery Health Channel. It’s really interesting if you’re into medical stuff. And I am.

My husband and my kids, strangely enough, do not enjoy these shows. He has dubbed them my “freaky shows.” Too bad they don’t show full-length episodes on the internet.

So like a closet heroin junkie I have to hide behind closed doors, the remote in hand and watch scant minutes of these shows, before the door flies open and one of my kids has a question. It’s always a pressing question, too. “Mom! Why can’t I fly? I jump off the couch and flap my arms like birds do, but I can’t fly.”

In the past I tried to get into the aerodynamics of the reason, as I kept one eye on Dr. G’s scalpel. But I have since learned the quick answer is, “I’m watching my freaky show.” That answer is very effective, I must say — they scatter like cockroaches avoiding light.

Anyway, I have learned many interesting bits of medical trivia from Dr. G. But the one bit that has stuck with me ever since I heard it was this. She was trying to figure out the lifestyle of one the cadavers and she was checking out this woman’s teeth, physical condition and her feet. Dr. G zeroed in on her toenails, in particular.

She said that this woman must not be a drifter because her toenails were well taken care of and painted with polish.

So now, when I trim my toenails after a shower, I think of Dr. G. and wonder ‘Will I die today in a strange accident sans driver’s license which will, in turn, require that my identity is discovered via clues from my lifeless body.’

Mr. C is used to this endless speculation. But I thought it would be fun to see how well you know him. That is why I have created a poll for your voting pleasure.

Just click the answer you think he would give and hit Vote. If you want to see how the polls are going, click on View and you can see how many people voted for each answer. Later this evening I’ll tell you what his real answer is.

For this reason, after each shower, I take special care to trim my toenails and clean out the toe jam, lest the medical examiner think I am a drifter with no interest in keeping up my toenails.

I must admit that I do forgo polish — I’m not that high-brow. I don’t want Dr. G looking for me in the wealthy suburbs of Michigan.

‘Cause then she’d never find me.

But in all honesty, my teeth would give me away. I have so many crowns my mouth should be considered its own sovereignty — complete with rulers and paupers.

I don’t watch much television anymore, but not because I think it’s droll and beneath me. (Those people who drone on about the negative effects of television give me a headache.) I don’t watch much television anymore because the tv is usually hijacked by the kids and duct-taped to Cartoon Network or Nick Jr. I’ve seen all of the episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants and Chowder that my brain can take.

So recently I took back the night, as it were, and changed the channel to something more to my liking: Food Network. I do prefer Discovery Health and TruTV (nee Court TV), as you may or may not know, but when there are youngins in the house I try to find neutral channels like HGTV or Food Network.

I don’t consider myself much of a cook, but I like to watch people who can cook. I like to see how easy preparing dinner could be if I had an unseen staff of 30 prepping my meat and vegetables for me. Anyway, I tuned into The Barefoot Contessa on Food Network. Her real name is Ina Garten and she’s some kind of chef who has written many, many cookbooks. She has a husband named Jeffrey who works “in the city” and sometimes he can be seen on the show after a long day of work in the city.

Every time I watch an episode of The Barefoot Contessa I leave the show feeling a little bit like I was violated. She has a strange way of being seductive while talking to the camera. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. I hate it. And when Jeffrey walks into the kitchen, it’s like I took the violation while quietly napping unaware on the bottom bunk of my jail cell bed.

That little minx Ina is very elusive when it comes to finding a file photo of her. Hey wait just a minute, matey. (I told you I’ve seen too much SpongeBob.) I recently learned from my 8-year-old that once you go to Google’s home page you can click on images on the upper left hand corner and then search for the photo. Oh yeah, baby, I found her.

Now don’t be fooled by the casual denim shirt and the orange pot of home-cooked goodness that she’s holding in her pristine studio kitchen. This picture doesn’t quite capture her come-hither attitude, but her head is cocked to the side, which is reminiscent of how she behaves when she’s espousing the virtues of fresh picked herbs in her low, conspiratorial growling voice. This chick is no uptight, anal-retentive Martha Stewart and she certainly isn’t the girl next door.

I stand corrected, a cursory search of Wikipedia shows me I am wrong. This chick is more like Martha Stewart than I originally surmised.

Originally employed as a low-level government aide, she climbed the political ladder and was assigned the position of budget analyst, which entailed writing the nuclear energy budget and policy papers on nuclear centrifuge plants for then-Presidents Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter.

Strained by the pressures of her work and the serious, high-power setting of Washington, Garten once again turned to cooking and entertaining in her free time, constantly arranging dinner parties and soirées at her home on the weekends.

Meanwhile, she was buying, refurbishing, and reselling homes for profit (”flipping”) in the Dupont Circle and Kalorama neighborhoods. The funds from these sales gave Garten the means to make her next purchase, the Barefoot Contessa specialty food emporium.

So in between a high pressure job working with the nuclear energy budget and creating huge soirées at home on the weekend, she was buying, restoring and selling homes. I guess she is a multi-tasker like Ms. Stewart.

Regardless, I can easily imagine Ina Garten in a red sequin dress with a feather boa crooning into a microphone as she walks between the tables at a nightclub. She drapes her boa around the necks of the men — and the women, because she’s a vamp! — and sort half walks, half trots between the small tables. Maybe that’s a new venue for her, like a hybrid of Emeril Lagasse’s show where he has a live audience has he yells, “Bam” behind the kitchen counter.

Ina’s studio lights would be dimmed though and a baby grand piano would sit in the corner. She would occasionally sit atop that piano when discussing the merits of freshly grown baby carrots. And there’d definitely be a cover charge to get in.

You might wonder why I’ve ever tuned into The Barefoot Contessa if I was so disgusted the first and second time. It seems the time lapse between me watching episodes of her show is just long enough to forget that feeling I had when changing the channel last time. And truth be told, sometimes there’s nothing else on and I want to see if she’s still her old self.

So each time I see her, it’s as if I have been sullied anew. But from this day forward I am making a pact with myself. When I see Ina Garten I shall change the channel. No questions asked.

Friday is The Book of Questions Day around these parts.

Today’s question comes from the aptly titled book “The Book of Questions” by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.

And here it is, Question 169.

How many times during the day do you look at yourself in the mirror?

This question is actually difficult for me, that’s why I chose it. For a very long time — since seventh or eight grade, I think — I have had a hard time looking at myself in the mirror.

Definitely I spend time in the morning, as I am getting ready for the day, looking in the mirror. I look at my teeth as I brush them, I look at my hair as I create my fabulous ponytail (because it is fabulous) and I look for any zits that cropped up over night.

You know, routine maintenance. Then I’m done. I don’t look in the mirror for the rest of the day. Very occasionally I will put on lipstick some time later in the day. Then I will look in the mirror to make sure I colored within the lines.

Yes, I do use the bathroom throughout the day. No, I do not look up at the mirror as I wash my hands — I make sure to only look at my hands and the sink. I never, ever look in the mirror in public. I hate stores and restaurants that have one wall covered in mirrors. I do not look into the mirror in a public rest room, whether I am by myself or with other women.

And that is by design. Even alone I do not look in the mirror after I have gotten ready for the day. It feels narcissistic and it truly feels as if I couldn’t look at my face in the mirror even if I was forced to. I’m positive this has to do with low self esteem.

When a mirror or reflective surface is such that I have to walk toward it (think shiny glass doors at the mall) I keep my head level and lower my eyes so I am looking at the reflection of my shoes. This makes me think of John the Baptist’s claim “But after me will come one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not fit to carry.”

Any psychiatrists or therapists in the house? I’m sure this is rife with psychological meaning.

I found an interesting discussion on a psychology forum at a site called Uncommon Knowledge.

A fear of mirrors is usually a symbolic fear, in that a mirror presents you with the image of yourself, purely as others see you and as others judge you.

The fear can be one of being judged purely on appearance.

It can also be a fear of not meeting the ‘requirements’ you think others expect of you.

It … brings to your conscious self something you were suppressing within your unconscious with regards to a fear of being judged, of not fulfilling your potential.

Well, let’s see here. The mirror presents you with the image of yourself purely as others see you and as others judge you. Check.

The fear can be one of being judged purely on appearance. Check.

It can also be a fear of not meeting the ‘requirements’ you think others expect of you. Check.

A fear of being judged, of not fulfilling your potential. Check and check.

Thanks Dad, you gave me the gift of harsh judgment and low self esteem — the gift that kept on giving all the days of my life.

As John Mayer sings in the song “Daughters:”

Oh, you see that skin?
It’s the same she’s been standing in
Since the day she saw him walking away
Now she’s left
Cleaning up the mess that he made

All you fathers out there, please be good to your daughters.

Now tell me, what do you see when you look in the mirror?

Tomorrow is Trash Day and the amount of trash the neighbor to my right generates never ceases to amaze me. They are a relatively large family. Of course they have diapers, diaper boxes and general trash like most other people have.

But they usually have large items that are not easily broken down and lots of it. They have lived there for roughly five years and when they bought the house they gutted it.

So for about six months the trash they produced was interesting, large and logical. Sometimes their
trash
was even
disguised in opaque
black bags
that looked really
heavy and ominous. Part
of me wondered if they contained human body parts.Sometimes their trash was even disguised in opaque black bags that looked really heavy and ominous. Part of me wondered if they contained human body parts.

But the renovations are done and four years later they still seem to produce large sheets of paneling, huge boxes (the kind refrigerators come in), rolls of discarded carpeting and other large stuff I can’t identify. Just recently, over the span of two weeks an entire jacuzzi was ripped apart and discarded.

The garbage they produce is like that tiny car at the circus full of clowns. Out they file, one after the other and when you are positive nothing more can come out of the car, there’s another clown.

So it is with their trash.

Almost every week, this neighbor’s trash causes the truck to empty its load before moving on to the next house. And let me just add, these particular neighbors are not big on following rules. Our city has some general guidelines that they expect us citizens to follow or they will refuse to take the trash.

One of the rules is that twigs, branches, brush and the like must be bundled in three-foot sections and tied with twine or cord. If not, they will leave it on your lawn til the cows come home. This neighbor left out some woody material for a good four months last spring/summer, during which time our fine city workers refused to acknowledge the mess. Finally she called them for a special pick up and stood there while she forced them to take it away, unwrapped and lying askance.

While I had been silently applauding the Trash Men all those months, they really let me down when they finally succumbed to her pressure.

Why do we have rules if they are not enforced for everyone? Yes, I will admit, I am a strident rule-follower. My bundles of woody material are just under 3 feet and they are bound as tightly as possible — nary a twig will fall out of my bundles. I will go so far as to say you could bounce a quarter off the twine on my bundles, baby.

When you’re home all day with small children, you do notice the comings and goings outside of your house. To make it interesting, sometimes I create a back-story for the Trash Man.

Our usual Trash Man works alone and wears an ipod, a red bandana over his head (kind of like Tim McGraw) and is in really good physical shape — he has really well-defined arms, you know, if you’re the kind who notices rippling muscles and powerful biceps (clears throat). I like to imagine that he is saving up to open his own PowerHouse Gym franchise and that he just works for the city picking up trash to pay the bills.

He works out daily at the gym and has grand ideas of how to really cater to his clientele. He’s a bit of a marketing genius and just lacks the capital to make his dream come true. He was in a committed relationship, Trash Man, but his girlfriend didn’t take his goal of business ownership seriously, so he recently cut her loose.

Lastly, he imagines telling his children and grandchildren how working as a Trash Man made him humble and down-to-earth. He worked for every bit of his success and he expects his family to remember where they came from.

At least, that’s what I imagine is going through his head when he so graciously picks up my week of garbage (and the tight bundles of woody material) that I line up ever so neatly in front of my house.

Whether he is a struggling business owner or not, I do appreciate his willingness to show up each Friday, regardless of the weather, and haul away my rubbish.

And for that I send out the following: Thank you Trash Men of the World. You create order where there was once chaos. For that, I am ever grateful.

I was over at The RollerBlog yesterday and she wanted to know, “Are there any seventies or eighties topics that you’d like to see covered in the RollerBlog?”

Immediately I thought of my favorite show in adolescent, “Hart to Hart.” I absolutely loved that show!

There they are with their patented looks. Jonathan has those raised eyebrows and a closed-lipped mouth. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. All business with a little bit of party behind those wide eyes.

And Jennifer has her come-hither look — eyes rimmed in black eyeliner her mouth open in a half smile as if she was gasping, but then realized the surprise was a sexy surprise. Or was that open mouth smile just a ploy to make her face look longer and thinner? Can’t tell.

And they’re both glamorous as evidenced by the tuxedo and the sparkly 1980s gown complete with plunging neckline and expensive earrings. Oh Jennifer, you high-class tease. Jonathan, I love your over sized bow tie; it’s almost stuck in Jennifer’s feathered hair.

The premise was simple, Jonathan Hart was a self-made millionaire and CEO of his own company, Hart Industries. I was never sure, as a 12-year-old, what his company did. But he had a huge office and a secretary. I was impressed and bought that back story without questioning its validity.

A little trivia learned at Wikipedia, “… the initial choice for the role of Jonathan Hart was Cary Grant. However, Grant (who was 75 years old at the time) had effectively retired from acting some years earlier. They then decided to find a younger actor who might embody the same style and persona that Grant was famous for and offered the role to Robert Wagner.”

Jennifer Hart, his wife, was a freelance journalist (something I had aspired to be. Can you feel the connection I felt to this character and the show?) They never had children, just a small dog named Freeway. Why Freeway? (Fake laughter, ala Jennifer Hart) “Because, darling, we found him wandering on the freeway, of course.”

Oh, right. Both Jonathan and Jennifer always called each other “darling.” As in, “He has a gun, darling, do whatever he says.”

So this extremely wealthy power couple, who drove matching convertible in the opening credits on the show — his was red and hers was pale yellow, I think — frequently found themselves in the midst of intrigue. Sometimes it was just a garden-variety mystery like embezzlement.

But more often than not there was a dead body in that hour long show.

I saw Jonathan wield a gun and throw a punch many a time. Jennifer was good at running away to safety and occasionally throwing her foot out to trip the killer while she was bound to a chair. Whatever the drama, the Harts always won.

I do remember one episode where the Harts were in a car chase on a winding mountain. I don’t remember if they were driving in one car together or if they both had separate cars and a third car, driven by the bad man, was chasing them down.

Whatever the case, they were able to shake the bad man, and the bad man paid the price of chasing down the Harts.

His car went hurtling over the side of the mountain and exploded in a fiery mess while Jennifer and Jonathan hugged and looked on. I think Jennifer murmured something like, “Mm-mmm.” And then with a little spring to her step, she turned away and they got into their car.

I do recall, at the age of 13 or so thinking, ‘What the f- Jennifer. You too, Jonathan. A man just died in a horrific crash. And now you’re just driving away? And you seem non-plussed regarding the craziness you just endured.’

But I always forgave that power couple. Because I loved them.

I loved them so much, that before the show aired on Wednesday nights at 10 pm (a little late for a seventh grader to stay up) I took my shower and dried and styled my hair — feathered just like Jennifer’s — to watch the show. I truly felt I had to get my hair just right before I watched.

It’s not like I wore an evening gown, though. Just pajamas and my wonderfully feathered hair as I imagined life as Jonathan Hart’s wife.

Complete with pale yellow convertible, darling.

We did it, Mr. C and I. Today we celebrate 14 years of marriage.

Looking back I realize I was not a traditional bride. Definitely I wanted to marry Mr. C and I couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him, but I wasn’t up for the whole day of festivities.

I’m a mellow chick — on the outside. You all know inside my head is a different, neurotic story. But if I could have, I would have preferred to blog live during our wedding Mass with just me, Mr. C and the priest. I can see it now.

I just walked down the aisle and saw Mr. C on this, our wedding day. Our eyes met and the expression on his face is radiant; I felt the power of his love emanating from the altar.

The priest greeted us and asked me to set my lap top on the steps, next to my bouquet.

The priest is getting annoyed hearing the tapping of the keys.

We just finished taking our vows, we’re married now!

And the priest’s eyes are filled with … rage. Yeah, I think if looks could kill I’d be lying on the floor right now, my veil lying askew. He doesn’t seem to appreciate my attempt to record all of my innermost thoughts on this very special day — when two lives become one.

You know, he’s kind of uptight for a Roman Catholic priest. I think God would be cool with me blogging about this. “Verily, use the talents I have given you,” He says in the Bible.

Or something like that.

(Panting) Mr. C and I just made it into the car and locked the doors in time. Good thing my new husband grabbed our marriage certificate before the priest went nuts and started chasing us down the aisle. Damn, that was close. I had to leave my bouquet behind in favor of the laptop.

Eh, I don’t mind making sacrifices for my husband. That’s an integral part of our vows to each other.

But I don’t think we’ll ever attend Mass at this church again.

As you might have guessed, I did not blog live at our wedding. I didn’t even have a laptop back in 1994.

And the priest did not chase us down the aisle.

However, I was very nervous as I heard the organ music begin, heralding the bride’s arrival. I felt a tidal wave of anxiety fill my lungs as I picked up my bouquet and stood at the end of the church. I worried about being the center of attention, alone in a metaphorical spotlight.

But as I walked slowly toward Mr. C, a funny thing happened. With every step I felt the anxiety fall away in a heap behind me. Halfway down the aisle I wanted to run to him. The nervousness melted into joy and excitement.

And just like that, I left behind the solitary figure in the spotlight and joined my partner for life. Our two halves became whole and together we basked in the light.

Well, Mr. C and I lasted a good eight years.

For eight years we’ve had a little girl with a full mane of hair. A nice chestnut brown and very thick. It grew fast and furious and as a toddler I employed the waterfall ponytail on top of her head, because this was my very first little girl and she was going to have long hair, no bangs.

As most chicks know it’s hard to grow your bangs out, especially as an adolescent or an adult. There’s the long awkward stage when the bangs are just too long to be considered bangs, yet much too short to be pulled back. Unless you want to look like you’re creating your own fake eye lift. Because then you have to pull those too-long-for-bangs too-short-for-lush-length-hair back taut into a hair fastener of some sort.

But when you’re a baby, you can get away with the waterfall ponytail. It’s cute! It’s sassy! It works on an 18-month old when her mother is intent on growing her hair out.

Okay, so Katie has hair that is all one length. The upside is that she has never had to consciously suffer through peer pressure from others while she grew her bangs out. And now most of her friends at school are stuck exactly in that phase.

The down side is … there is no downside! I joke. There is a downside.

If I want to see her face, I have to make sure she has a barrette, headband, ponytail, pig tails, something to hold that long hair out of her eyes. But she’s getting better at tucking it behind her ears.

Cut to Saturday morning.

I sat down to our twice-weekly ritual of attempting to run a brush through Katie’s hair. Yes it’s a semi-regular occurrence over summer because I just don’t want to deal with the screaming. We’ll have to go through that daily in 16 days when school starts. But hey, who’s counting?

So I settled in with the spray detangler (what a marketing farce) and a wide-tooth hair brush. The child is skittish, one must remember. So when we tackle this endeavor, I must have my legs ready to wrangle around her torso in an attempt to keep her in place. Much squealing, head grabbing and full on screams were heard from our basement that day.

And then, I pulled out the threat that is so old it has dust on it, “I’m going to cut your hair right up to your ears if you don’t sit still!”

This threat evokes much gnashing of teach and protests. I must continue brushing through her hands and arms that are now covering her head as she assumes the nuclear bomb stance taught to the children of the 1950s. You know, sitting, curled in a ball, hands and arms covering one’s head as one sits below a metal desk.

Finally, I had too much. I let her run away and retreated to the ever-present stack of laundry. When I walked upstairs 15 minutes later, I discovered Mr. C had become Mr. Scissorhands. All three girls had a chin-length inverted bob, stacked in the back.

I’m talking under the ears and progressively shorter in the back. Mr. C is not a professional hair dresser. So when I assessed the carnage all three of them looked like street urchins from a Charles Dickens novel minus the ashes on their faces. It was short with long, straggling pieces here and there. I did have to stifle a gasp.

Mr. C explained that he did the best he could by himself, while I was doing laundry in the basement. And now he was looking for the tag-team approach from me: one person to hold the child, the other to cut and shape the fly-aways.

After we were done, I have to say they looked cute, in a 1920s, flapper kind of way. Katie still has no bangs. Her hair resembles a bowl cut, with all of it being ear length and the back slightly shorter. Truth be told her bangs are just too short to tuck behind her ears.

Since it’s not feasible to blow dry Katie’s hair each morning and straighten it with a flat iron after applying tons of product and hairspray, she will not look like Jenny McCarthy, as shown below.

However, the style of Katie’s hair is reminiscent of Jenny McCarthy’s inverted bob. But Katie looks really cute with a barrette or a headband. No worries there.

Allison and Emily are also cute rockin’ the bob with bangs. They both remind me of Catherine Zeta-Jones in the movie, “Chicago.”

So after eight years of girls with long hair, up in pig tails, up in pony tails, barrettes aplenty, we now have three girls with short, short hair. It was bound to happen and brushing their hair is so much easier now. Getting ready for school should be a breeze. And that was the goal.

That and no more blood-curdling, ear piercing screaming. Mission accomplished on both fronts.

As you may know, Friday is The Book of Questions Day.

Today’s question comes from the aptly titled book “The Book of Questions” by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.

And here it is, Question 106.

Do you usually make a special effort to thank someone who does you a favor? How do you react when you aren’t thanked for going out of your way for someone?

Yes, I absolutely go out of my way to thank someone who does me a favor. I bend over backwards because I really am not used to getting help. It seems unusual to me, out of the ordinary, for someone to do something for me to make my life easier.

Of course the exception is Mr. C. He constantly helps me, provides loving, thoughtful gestures and is my solid rock in this crazy environment I have been living in. For that I am ever grateful; truly I have no words to express my gratitude toward him. I am continually amazed that I met and married a man who is nothing like my father. How I broke that cycle is a mystery to me.

Definitely this question makes me think of the favors I have received from a few members of my family of origin (FOO). There aren’t many. My FOO definitely has an every-man-for-himself attitude. They don’t want to get involved in anyone else’s issues.

I cannot count how many times my mother told me she would never babysit any of my children. Long before I ever had children or ever thought of having children.

She told Mr. C this the first time she met him! We had dinner together at a restaurant — Mr. C, me, my mom and dad. I think we were engaged and this was the first meeting between my parents and Mr. C.

So my mother told him at dinner that she never had help with six kids and she was not willing to babysit any child or children that we ever had — she was done with babies and children. I don’t think I even had an engagement ring yet from Mr. C. Somehow he wasn’t mortified and he did not run away.

We were married almost six years before Katie was born.

In the six childless years that led up to Katie’s birth, my mother repeatedly told me she would never babysit my future children.

Note to Mom: I get it! Enough.

And that was a promise she kept. She has never watched any of my children. She has visited with them and I think she actually enjoyed the visits. But she steadfastly reminded me that she was not willing to babysit.

And I never asked her to.

So it’s not something I’m comfortable with — receiving help or favors. I’ve just always been taught to go it alone. Not to rely on anyone else. And it is very difficult for me to ask for help. It makes me feel weak, vulnerable and less-than.

When someone does provide a favor for me and Mr. C, we do go overboard to thank the other person. Sometimes we send flowers, sometimes we send a thank you note. Always we gush, in person, on and on about how thankful we are.

At times I have been moved to tears by the generosity of Mr. C’s mother, sisters and cousins.

In terms of receiving thank yous, the majority of the time I am motivated to help when I can just because I can. I’m not looking for any kind of payback. There have been times when I truly have gone out of my way to help my sister Kate and she has not said more than a disinterested, “Thanks.”

Twice I flew to North Carolina with her, when Katie was a breast-feeding baby, so she could sit in court for her divorce trial. She lived in Michigan, her ex lived in North Carolina and had filed papers there. So she had to fly to North Carolina every time a court date was set.

Kate has dyslexia and finds driving to be a real challenge, unless she is driving on side streets and on a known path. Forget the freeway and forget driving in another state. That’s why I went with her.

Mr. C had to take time off work and had his aunt stay on the second visit. I was gone at least four to five days each time and had to use a hand-held breast pump to keep my supply up, since I was away from the baby.

After each time, Kate casually said, “Thanks.” And that was that.

I am glad that I helped her, because it was something I could do. But it came at a great cost and she has proven that she is not willing or able to help me out when I have asked for her help.

Yes, I am resentful. No, I haven’t confronted her because my gesture was not motivated by what I would get back in return.

I am still glad that I helped her. I just know not to expect a sincere thank you from her.

So what are your thoughts? What motivates you to help another person and do you have any expectations in return?

I was so proud of myself yesterday. For about 15 minutes.

I’ve been trying to figure out the coding for a drop down menu on my archives and categories. I’ve been searching the web. I’ve found some plug-ins for WordPress, but for some reason they don’t always work for me. And I’d rather just find the code so I can copy and paste that betch into my sidebars.

The WordPress
plug-ins,
to me,
are like trying
to get
into the super-secret
illegal club. You have
to know the super-secret knockThe WordPress plug-ins, to me, are like trying to get into the super-secret illegal club. You have to know the super-secret knock — is it two short raps and a pause followed by three knocks. Or was that two knocks. Do you have to wait five minutes to try the knocks again if you get them wrong?

Sometimes I get the knocks right with the plug-ins and then the bouncer slides that rectangular peephole open and glares at me with two dark eyes.

Now I have to know the password.

Sometimes I make it through — like I did with the pull quotes; I love my pull quotes. See that one right there? Over to the right. Isn’t it beautiful? It’s so shiny and professional. Other times I am busted at the password and the bouncer snarls, “Get outta here, kid.”

So I thought I found a work around yesterday. The drop down boxes appeared. Life was good. The heavens opened and the angels sang a special song for me while they did that Churnin’ Butter dance.

Then I sent Mr. C an email at work with the following subject line: “I made that code my bitch.” Oh how good it felt. For about 15 minutes.

He called back to give me the praise I so desired and then his voice went up a bit and there was a pause. I know that pause, it’s the precursor to the pin that pops my bubble of blissful ignorance. He actually tries to be gentle when he has to brandish that sharp point.

“It looks good, it does. They’re working over here … ” is where he paused. And then informed me that in Internet Explorer version 6 and 7 (henceforth referred to as The Evil Twins) everything is FUBAR (thanks for teaching me that term, yankee-chick.)

(Pauses to scream and pull at her hair.)

I just wanted to clean up my sidebar. That’s all I wanted. I was willing to let go of the fact that the font was different in the pull down menu. I wanted it to be Trebuchet which is what I use throughout the site, but I was willing to concede.

I didn’t touch the coding on the BlogHerAds. They are way below, with a heading that indicates they are supposed to be on the right-hand side. But The Evil Twins are making them appear in the center, where my post normally is. And then, because of The Evil Twins, one has to scroll crazily down, down, down to the depths of Hell to get to the actual post.

(Looks up to sky and screams, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”)

So I changed it back. At least I have learned to save every piece of coding in Notepad. I returned, with my tail tucked between my legs, and restored it all. Firefox is cooperating. Thank you Firefox.

The Evil Twins are not.

So if you’re viewing this courtesy of The Evil Twins, I know. I KNOW.

Rest assured, I am feverishly working on it.

The other day I was reminded of my very first frienemy (friend/enemy), Elaine. We met in fourth grade; she must have been the new kid, because I remember her talking about her prior life in Muncie, Indiana.

Anyway, in fourth grade we were introduced to the concept of the book report. We had to read a book that was 300 pages long and then write the report. I don’t remember what book I picked but I vaguely remember the cover because it had no slip jacket. It was a textured cover that had a picture printed in black ink.

So this particular book was about 275 pages long. I thought, since I was close, the teacher would let it slide and allow me to write the book report on that book. No luck. She was a hard ass, that Mrs. Rogers, and she made me read the next book in the series, whatever it was. So I ended up reading over 500 pages for that book report.

I truly felt persecuted at age nine and complained loudly about it — in my head. But I did it. And then when the papers came back graded, Mrs. Rogers, my fourth grade oppressor surprised me by announcing to the class that I was a superstar because I read the most pages that month. And the accolades did not end there, my friend. Oh no.

I was allowed to pick a piece of candy out of the ceramic cookie jar that was shaped like an owl. The owl’s head, of course, had a graduation cap with a tassel because everyone knows owls are wise. And they graduate summa cum laude from prestigious universities.

Anyway, I was riding high and it felt good.

The next month, we again were assigned the 300-page book report. I think I read a book that had 303 pages. I already proved myself and I didn’t feel like reading two books. But Elaine did. If I recall correctly, she surpassed my record of 500+ pages and read something like 600 pages.

And she received the glory that month.

I was
pissed
off, I’m
not gonna lie.
That’s when
she and I
began our competition to
be the best.I was pissed off, I’m not gonna lie. That’s when she and I began our competition to be the best.

We attended the same middle school and high school, so this competition went on for a good five or six years until early high school. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

At the time, I felt Elaine was smarter than I was. She certainly studied harder than I did and had the left-brain advantage. But I had that creative edge that is fueled by the right brain.

For a time — in sixth grade, I think — I produced drawings of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon strip. I did draw the first edition by hand. There was no tracing involved. But when demand is high for the drawings, one must turn to mass production. I did trace the subsequent drawings and then colored them in with markers.

They were bitchin’. And demand was high. And I firmly stand behind the fact that the first edition was drawn freehand.

But Elaine wasn’t buying it. And she was very vocal in her attempt to shut down my quasi-printing production company. I don’t remember how that ended, but if we were cartoon characters, Elaine would have had a black cloud over her head.

In middle school, I struck upon the idea of making molded chocolate to sell out of a shoe box at my locker between classes. I made some serious cash on that investment, probably close to $10 per day. I had suckers, medium sized rabbits, bite-sized bunnies (it must have been near Easter), white chocolate and milk chocolate. Eventually I started coloring the white chocolate to give the faces of the rabbits on the sucker sticks character — a pink nose here, green eyes there.

And guess who started up a chocolate shop out of her locker, cutting into my profits?

Then we entered high school. And Elaine joined the track team. I didn’t have the wherewithal to be on a sports team. But Elaine did. And she started to lose weight. And suddenly, before our eyes, she became anorexic. She became so thin that the skin of her face and arms was stretched taut over her bones. I believe this occurred during our freshman year of high school.

Toward the end of that year Elaine went away for treatment. When she returned in tenth grade she had gained at least an extra ten percent more than her ideal weight. I assume her parents wanted that extra weight as insurance.

After that time, the competition between us seemed to end.

I can see now, as an adult, that both she and I must have suffered from a scarcity of love at home. We felt the intense need to compete for attention and acknowledgment — to control our environment.

I do remember she was the third of four girls and her parents had very high expectations of all four sisters. I’m pretty sure the older two were the class valedictorian. All four of them attended the same high school, so the pressure to compete within her own family was extremely high.

The last I heard (around our ten year high school reunion) Elaine was married with four children.

I wonder how she’s doing today. I suppose I self destructed for a bit back in December, as Elaine did in high school.

I hope she’s found the peace I am so diligently working toward.

I always find it interesting when a diary or journal of a celebrity/writer/poet is found and then auctioned off. I did find Anna Nicole Smith’s diary compelling. I read all that was available on the internet. No, I am not above that.

What I liked most about Smith’s diary was the misspellings and the way she just went stream of consciousness. She was clearly writing for herself, and this excerpt gives a good example of that.

Smith … noted — in a very freeform style — the beginning of her relationship with Paul Marciano, CEO of Guess Inc.

“O my Gosh!! Paul Marsiano called today to see if I got his books also I’m gonna go to San Antonio to do photo shoot,” she wrote on June 23, 1992. “I’m so excited!! I can’t believe this. This could be it.” The entry ends with five hand-drawn smiley faces.

Two days later she details a trip to a Nieman Marcus store where she bought $3,000 worth of clothing.

“I’m so happy they look great,” she wrote. “I hope it empresses Paul Marsiano. … I’m starving!! I’ve been starving myself.”

By August, Smith revealed a disdain for (over)eating … and growing frustration with Marshall, who was 63 years older than Smith. The two married in 1994.

“I’ve been really stressed out lately and depressed and I can’t quit eating. I feel like a pig. Howard has been buying me som jewelry but he calls me 15 or 20 times a day it drives me crazy. I love him but he aggravates me somtimes,” she wrote….

The entry ends with a large underlined “Chow!”

Anna Nicole was just a person, like you and me. She fell into stress eating, like most of us do, when things got crazy. I personally have never ended a journal entry with “Chow!” But I have stood many times in front of an open kitchen cabinet, surveying the contents, looking for my next crunchy bag of stress relievers.

This whole thought began with an article on Comcast’s news page regarding the poet Dylan Thomas and his wife Caitlin’s diary. Apparently they had a “turbulent” marriage and “according to lore, (she) allegedly stormed in and demanded to know if the celebrated Welsh poet — who she described as the “bloody man” — was dead yet.

So this chick Caitlin had a diary — that is now for sale, naturally — and one of the things she wrote, after her husband’s death was: “Oh God, oh Dylan, it must be cold down there; it is cold enough on top, in November: the dirtiest month of the year that killed you on the ninth vile day. If only I could take you a bowl of your bread, and milk, and salt, that you always drank at night, to warm you up.”

Thomas died on November 9, 1953. So his wife must have written that passage soon after that time. I guess we all grieve in our own way. I have to admit, she sounds so prim and proper. However, I think she was English and the Brits do seem to have a stiff upper lip when it comes to all of that.

So all of this brings me to my own journals. Frequently, when I write with pen and paper, I write to a person or an object. I rehash conversations and then insert the witty comeback that took me a week to come up with. I unleash all of the things I would have liked to say, but didn’t. And I do not censor myself like I do in real life.

I analyze why that person might have said what he or she said. Why they might have done the things they have done. And then I let the expletives fly. I write the hurtful things I wanted to say, but didn’t.

A little over ten years ago I bought a new journal to document my pregnancy with Katie. It started with my physical to prepare for the pregnancy. Initially everything was hopeful and I marveled at the idea of being a mother.

And then the path to motherhood took a huge U-turn. I found out I had cancer and my plans for motherhood were put on hold.

I did a lot of swearing in all caps in that journal. And I retired it when the cancer ordeal ended. I haven’t wanted to write in that particular journal since that time. And yet for some reason I keep it in my dresser drawer.

I don’t know if it serves as a reminder or a lesson. And I don’t think it would fetch very much on the open market.

Rants are a dime a dozen these days.

Mr. C and I are fast approaching our 14th wedding anniversary (stops so you can roll eyes, ooh and aah or speed read past this parenthetical phrase). And last night, when I woke up at 1:27 am to his snoring I was reminded of the first month of our marriage.

We never lived together before we were married so sleeping in the same bed was new territory for me. And it was quite an adjustment. As the weeks wore on, I became more and more tired, yet I couldn’t get used to sleeping with another person next to me. So I slept very fitfully and was not refreshed each morning.

And he snores.

Sometimes it’s just heavy breathing akin to a cat purring loudly, albeit in a jagged, disjointed fashion. That’s annoying. More often than not it’s full on, movie-quality guttural snoring.

I’ve read that most snorers do so while lying on their backs. Not so
with
Mr. C.
Like a gifted
gymnast he
is flexible and
can snore on his
left side, his right side and on his back.Not so with Mr. C. Like a gifted gymnast he is flexible and can snore on his left side, his right side and on his back.

So back to our first month of marriage, I was adjusting to sleeping with another person and this snoring issue.

Initially, I would sort of brush his leg with my foot and then play statue, just in case he woke up. You know, the old it wasn’t me, I’ve been sleeping here silently for the last three hours defense. This light kicking and shoving of his arms and legs would solve the snoring for about 30 to 45 seconds. Just enough time for me to enjoy the silence and then the snoring would resume.

So perhaps three weeks into the new marriage, when I was dead tired but could not sleep, the snoring continued. Because I was really tired and frustrated I actually kicked him in the leg with some force behind it.

He was talking in his sleep — he assures me — but he growled, “Goddamn it, what’s your problem!”

I didn’t touch him the rest of that night. Or for the next five years or so.

After about one month of this nightly routine, I finally was so exhausted that I slept the whole night through, able to tune him out. It was heaven. And my issues of co-sleeping disappeared after that one month adjustment period.

But throughout the years I have had my bouts of insomnia and his snoring always comes back to haunt me. And now I am afraid to touch him because he yelled at me once, almost 14 years ago.

And it’s not just me who found his guttural proclamations vexing; the cat did, too.

About seven months into our marriage we acquired our first pet — a super cool, sassy cat named Chloe. I loved that cat. Mr. C and I tended to fall asleep with our backs to each other, our bodies facing away toward the side of the bed. Chloe initially chose Mr. C’s side of the bed to sleep, and would curl into his nook which faced the outer edge of the bed.

She was skittish and needed a quick escape should she feel the need to run. That’s why she never slept in the middle of the bed between us.

But I was the one who lusted after the cat. I wanted the cat. Mr. C went along with the cat ownership (even though he’s a dog person at heart) because his new bride wanted, nay needed, a cat. So imagine my outrage when that ungrateful fur bag chose to sleep and curl up on his side of the bed.

I was crushed, plain and simple.

And I was vocal about it. But Chloe was having none of it. So Mr. C, gentleman that he is, kicked Chloe out of his nook. Wouldn’t allow her to sleep with him anymore. So she chose me as her sloppy seconds, and I was overjoyed.

I think she grew to enjoy my nook, because she stayed there for a good ten years, night after night. But only because her first love, Mr. C, rejected her.

Anyway, I can’t tell you how many times Chloe stood up from my nook, placed her front paws on my hip (since I was lying on my side away from Mr. C) to investigate the noises coming from the other side of the bed.

It was like a silent movie. In the light of the moon, Chloe would perch up on my hip look at him, look back at me and then look back at him again. I swear I could read her mind, “Can’t you do something about that noise?”

I would quietly shrug and pet her back down. But when the snoring got loud she would stand up again to investigate.

Very occasionally she would walk on Mr. C’s body to remedy the situation. Her luck was like mine. That stopped the snoring for about 45 seconds. Enough time to get comfortably back in place and then it started again.

Chloe doesn’t live with us anymore. And Mr. C still snores. But nowadays I can usually tune out noise.

And for the other times, I have Ativan. That stuff works like a charm.

Here we go, Friday is The Book of Questions Day.

As per usual, today’s question comes from “The Book of Questions” by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.

And here it is, Question 69.

If a friend were almost always late, would you resent it or simply allow for it? Can you be counted on to be on time?

Lately I don’t hang out with or meet friends, so the first part of this question doesn’t really apply to my day-to-day life. Also based on life circumstance (having three small children) I don’t like to plan on being anywhere on time (with the kids), because it’s hard to gather them up and get them out the door on time.

Really during the summer months the only time I have to meet someone with the kid is at a doctor’s appointment and then I am Nazi Mother who rules with an iron fist. The pediatrician’s office is roughly one mile from my house. But I make sure all three kids are buckled in their seats in our driveway 15 minutes before the appointment time.

By the time I drive there, get them unbuckled and standing inside the office I have about five minutes to spare. The point is, no one is waiting on me.

Getting them to school is a similar concept. I try to allow 20 minutes of drive time to go one mile in the opposite direction, to make sure each kid makes it to her separate class room on time.

Now when it’s just me going somewhere I allow plenty o’ time. I am always early. My idea of early is walking in with five minutes to spare. I like to have a bit of time to sit and collect my thoughts and then I’m ready to jump in.

As you might expect, these days when I meet someone alone it’s either Paula or the psychiatrist. Paula runs late. Every. Single. Time. I can plan on her being anywhere from six to ten minutes behind schedule.

The funny thing is, it wouldn’t matter if she were 30 minutes late. As long as I am not the hold up, I could wait for days. I will move Heaven and Earth to get there on time, with a couple of minutes to spare.

I do prefer to have a magazine, a book or a notepad and pen with me when waiting for someone who is late. That way I have some down time and something to do, rather than people watch in a small cramped space.

Now the psychiatrist is a totally different story. He has mentally adjusted my appointments because he knows I always get there at least ten minutes early. Somehow the client before me has always left ten minutes ahead of my appointment. So instead waiting for ten minutes and then sitting in my 20 minute appointment, I can have up to 30 minutes to talk with him. And he usually steps into the waiting room 45 seconds after I sit down.

I have to say I appreciate that and have adjusted my expectation accordingly. Just as I expect Paula to run late. She always makes up the time in my 50-minute appointment, but as you would expect, her schedule runs later and later after each appointment and I always feel bad for the last appointment of the day (usually an 8 pm).

So I guess I do allow for the other person to run late.

But I do resent it at the pediatrician’s office when I have all three kids with me. Man that bugs the living shet out of me.

The last two times we saw the pediatrician I had three kids with me and then two kids the second time. Both visits we had to wait 30 minutes in the outer office (yes I got there five minutes ahead of our scheduled appointment). And then we had to wait 25 minutes inside the exam room.

Now when the doctor actually gets inside the exam room the visit is pretty quick barring an unexpected asthma attack/breathing treatment.

That’s what happened last time. Katie needed two back-to-back breathing treatments and it took two hours. In the exam room with an 8-year-old who did really well and a 3-year-old who was climbing the fecking walls. (Pulls hair and screams violently.)

I really needed an Ativan after that visit.

Now on the flip side, my family doctor usually runs late but it’s not a problem if it’s just me waiting.

Waiting with kids is a big problem. I have a high level of patience when I am alone. Patience dwindles rapidly when I am waiting with small children.

I do wonder about Paula, the pediatrician and family doctor in their non-working environments. Do you think they run late when they’re meeting friends? Do you think they care?

I found this link through Violet at SparkSpark. It allows you to release your inner Super Hero.

I was especially pleased to see the ponytail option. In lieu of a ponytail I was going to use Medusa-inspired flames coming off my head, but the flames plus glasses looked sorta nerdy. This is so much better, don’t you think?

Yeah, me too. It’s a shame there wasn’t an option for me to hold my Ativan in my left hand. Because I do clutch the bottle, in my left hand, when I need them.

You know, minus the butterfly wings and the green boots, this is pretty close to my workout look. Maybe I’d get a better workout if I did add the butterfly wings.

So now I feel I must give an example of how I am fighting for justice, since the Super Hero up there is making a mockery of me.

I’ve told you, in the past, the reason why I refuse to gawk. Just the other day, I had the opportunity to explain my motives to my own children.

We were sitting in the living room, which faces the street, at around 7 pm. As is usual, we heard the sound of sirens. I’m telling you, some kind of emergency is going on all the time in this here little town. I have been paying attention for the last month or so and I can guarantee you that I hear police/fire truck/ambulance sirens at least once per day, but usually at least three times throughout the day.

We do live roughly two miles away from a large hospital but I would venture to guess the sound of a siren only carries about one mile.

Anyway, the other day we were sitting in the living room when we heard sirens. And then the sirens got louder. So we looked out the window to see a fire truck and an ambulance rush past our house, lights and sirens blaring.

Katie and Allison wanted to run outside and walk down the street, like all of our surrounding neighbors had, to see what was going on. Whatever it was, it was happening at least ten to twenty houses away. We could not see it from our living room window — which is my point.

So I had to explain to Katie and Allison that there was an emergency going on, down the street. And the fire fighters and the ambulance driver were rushing to get to someone’s house to help that person.

I told them to imagine if we had an emergency and a bunch of people stood in our driveway, trying to watch what was going on. The fire fighters and the paramedics might have to slow down or stop to get around those people — while we were experiencing a crisis, an emergency.

So it’s best to just stay out of the way. There’s nothing we can do to help; we can only hinder the process. And to go outside on the front lawn to watch what is going on is disrespectful and nosy. Period.

It’s not a circus. It’s an emergency.

This message was brought to you by Cardiogirl: Justice Fighter.

Our little town here boasts a population of roughly 60,000 and is comprised of 11.8 square miles (that’s 30.6 km, Guilty). There’s a rocking downtown that fashions itself after the trendiest of upscale, mod cities, something like downtown Atlanta or Memphis or a New York City on training wheels still tugging at a pull up.

So the downtown area (thinks it) rocks it like a hurricane and that is a place I usually avoid. Here’s the complaint.

There is no free parking. And there’s barely parking at all. To go to the public library I already park half a block away at the Farmer’s Market parking lot because it is one of the last places in this town that offers free parking.

That parking lot is usually crowded, apparently I’m not the only cheapskate in town. And in the last month, I had noticed metal posts appearing in between the rows of cars. But it was one of those things that I noted, casually pondered and let go.

Last week I pulled into the Farmer’s Market and was stunned to see about 20 cars instead the standard 200 cars. And then it hit me.

Those innocuous metal posts that had been erected quietly with no fanfare now all sported meters. It now costs 25 cents (13 pence) per hour to park there. As meters go, that’s a pretty good price. Else where in town 25 cents may buy you 30 minutes or less. The point is that it’s really annoying having to pay everywhere you park.

And the parking police patrol crazily. One to two minutes late and you’ve earned yourself a $5 to $10 (2.56 to 5.12 pound) ticket. Hell, these prices don’t seem so bad when converted to pounds and pence for Guilty.

Parking meters are not the only choice. There are parking garages around town. When you drive in you have to push the button to get your ticket, park on the rooftop after navigating the twists and turns and then try to remember where you parked. When you get back in your car, you must turn in your ticket to the person sitting in the toll booth (who has sole access to lifting the gate) so you can pay the fee and leave.

It’s really annoying and it makes me feel like this little city takes itself way too seriously. According to a local paper, the city “has relied on parking revenue to balance its budget in recent years. The city’s parking system brought in $2.2 million in the 2006-07 fiscal year.”

That’s a lot of money.

I think I could trim stuff away from my budget i