Saved By the Kid

Little guy just saved me a whole bunch of money . . . or at least temptation.  This is one of the hottest bags of the year . . . the Celine luggage tote costing four figures.  http://www.bagsnob.com/2012/05/dakota-fanning-totes-celine-for-off-day-chic.html

But when I look at the bag, I only see this:

For those of you unfamiliar, it's the Annoying Orange, star of an annoying iPad/iPhone game and videos that my youngest favors imitating.

Do you see it on the bag? . . . the handle attachments are eyes, the zipper is the mouth and the zipper pull is the tongue.

I showed it to two high-end sales associates who lust after the bag.  I ruined it for them; they'll never look at the bag the same way.  If sales plummet, I guess we know who's to blame.

A Model of Middle Age

Like most girls growing up, I briefly entertained dreams of being a model.  No matter that I was neither a beauty queen nor photogenic, I wanted to be pretty and thin enough to grace the cover of teen magazines.

That long-forgotten fantasy came to mind recently when I was (sort-of) asked to be a model.  A hair model.  Apparently, if my hair is properly colored, highlighted, cut, blown, curled  and extended, then it's perfect. What seemed like an extraordinary effort to me, was utterly normal to  the bi-coastal hair stylist.   My hair is the perfect candidate for perfection.

Unlike my legs.  My gams once were recommended for modeling.   They are the one body part I was raised to believe was ideal, albeit by my mother, from whom they are inherited.  However, others have agreed.  I proudly recall  that in my younger years, these limbs occasionally stopped traffic. Unfortunately, my legs, like me, are a bit too short for modeling.  

Fortunately, though, the legs are the last thing to go in middle age.  And I love wearing shorts, despite the burden of hair removal . . . which ironically brings me back to my locks . . . 

It would be cool to one day tell my grandchildren about my "modeling career" launched in middle age.   I suspect I would enjoy being styled on a regular basis. Extra money (or reduced hair bills) wouldn't hurt.   I just don't know whether those perfect legs could or should spend so much time in a chair. 

UnDrugged

I went for my antibiotic and left wanting an anti-depressant.  Mom & Pop are deserting me again.  As the pharmacy manager handed me my prescription, he told me the store was closing in a couple of days, as part of a multiple store sale to . . . you guessed it, CVS.   Prescriptions were being transferred to the big chain's local branch furthest from my home.

My heart sank.  I didn't know what to say except that I am sorry.  I will miss you.  I valued going to a small local pharmacy, even though the behemoth has two more-convenient locations.  I chose a store, even though it closed in the evenings and on Sundays, because the staff cared, knew my face if not my name and delivered.

Now, I have no choice.  This is the second Mom&Pop to leave.  None are left around here.  I feel like an orphan.

What the Puck?!!!!!

Youth ice hockey is its own religion.  Tryouts are on Good Friday, Passover and Easter.  Non-discriminatory, I guess.

Today's Funny . . . courtesy of you know who

Nine-year-old's inquiry:  Does expired milk come from expired cows?

You really can't make this stuff up!!!

On the Lighter Side . . . Out of the Mouths of Babes . . .

Nine-year-old learned dad was in Texas for the week.  He asked whether his father was going to be in a rodeo.  When I stopped laughing, I said no, but that dad was attending a dog and pony show.  Boy was interested at first.  Then, I  explained corporate finance.

No Magic Blue Pill Here

This is the pillbox of my nine-year-old.  You read that correctly:  my nine-, not ninety-, year-old.   Prescriptions for seven days of the week with am and pm dosing. Specifically, he takes four pills in the morning (although, for full disclosure, three are the same medication since that is the only way to get 30mg) and two in the evening.  None are blue . . . not that that matters.   More importantly and unfortunately, they are not magic.

Faced with a cornucopia of acronym diagnoses from the DSM-IV, medication is the prescribed remedy.  We (or perhaps I should say he) have tried assorted meds from different pharmaceutical categories in varied doses, both short- and long-acting, in assorted combinations . . . without much success.  We just can’t shake the right cocktail.  As a result, my kitchen counter is a virtual pharmacopeia of current and rejected drugs.

I look at my stash and wonder how I got here.  Just ten years ago, I scoffed at the notion of drugging my kids.  My eldest tried sugar pills before Ritalin.  Yes, we did ultimately go pharmaceutical, but not without a fight.  Alas, there was no placebo effect from sugar.  As time and children progressed, my anti-med resolve weakened.  By the time we got to the third kid, I was asking for the narcotics. 

Now, I beg that they work.  With each new prescription, hope rises . . . and fades.   My counter gets more and more crowded.